I am not a tackle dummy, I am not a tackle dummy, I am not a... and, I'm on the ground, shoulder behind me, mouth against the carpet while the 4 year old does a pretty good imitation of a flying Wallenda as he lands right on my head. I have not even begun to appropriately describe the intensity with which my boys come at me nor have I even scratched the surface of how much it physically hurts to be treated like a wide receiver who is getting pummeled repeatedly by a lineman who is heavier, stronger and much, much younger. I close my mouth so as not to hit my teeth on the hardwood floor while I wait for the 13 year old to show some mercy and let me live. He decides that he's going to torture me a bit longer and then laugh hysterically about my predicament. Insult to injury, of course, what more could a teenage boy ask for. Injuries aside, raising 3 boys is very much like a football game only lately, I have been the ball.
They like to come at me when I least expect it and usually from the side where they think I can't see them as well with my peripheral vision. And when I DO realize that a body is flying at me, you guessed it, it's too late to do anything about it and all I can do is brace myself for the certain impact that I know is coming. Most of the time I get my hands out or I try to bend a knee, but I swear, it still hurts, every time. And, to Tim's chagrin and to my obvious continued pain, I go right back at them until I don't have any left to throw. Why you ask? Well, it's fun, it's challenging and it's just the way that boys are. They are disgustingly physical and it is an incessant need that they have to grab, push, touch, slap, punch (insert aggressive verb here) and that need must be satisfied. I mean, I can completely appreciate an elbow to the head or a charley horse delivered in an exact manner or a "big elbow" dropped in just the right spot if the recipient deserved said punishment, but what irks me is the notion that I can be just sitting here or there or watching television or reading and all of a sudden, I'm tumbling forward or falling off the bed while a kid comes at me, no regard for my safety or my body. But, that's just the way that boys are. I keep telling myself that and hoping that pretty soon, they'll just take pity on me and go after each other or someone else who, every once in awhile will beat the shit out of them so that they know what it feels like. I really hate it when they laugh; that's just downright insulting.
And so, as in a variety of situations, I try to hold my own until the day that I no longer can and then I will, well, I don't know what I'll do to tell the truth and maybe I'll miss the constant question, "Hey mom, want some?" or the endless "Wanta go?" No boys, I don't want to go, I don't want some and if you continue to pester me, I will do everything I can to kick your ass frontways and back. I get it, I really do, but for those of you who don't have boys or if you have some kind of stepford child who does not engage in this reckless behavior, then try to be patient with those of us who have many who do. Incidentally, while I type this, Ty just grabbed my left breast and growled before flopping back down on the bed. I didn't even flinch. It's just par for the course, or so I'm told.
Could somebody please grab me a tourniquet; I think I'm hemorraghing...
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