Motherhood Might Be Deadly

(A friend on Facebook suggested we stop focusing on the bad things that can kill us like cancer, heart problems, environmental hazards, and take a look at the fact our children might do us in...I concur. This is an older column.)

I always had this sneaking suspicion that my children were trying to kill me.　 There have been plenty of incidents in my nearly 16 years of parenting to back up this theory, too. In retrospect, they’ve been at it all along.

The first inkling was pregnancy and childbirth.　　The nausea and heartburn, plus over 24 hours of natural childbirth (compounded with back labor, and my friend Pitocin to speed things along the second time), was enough to make me wish for the relief that death would bring. I wasn’t sure I would survive bringing them into this world. That should have been the first clue.

Then they started doing things like playing in the dog's water, creating a small lake on the kitchen floor, to see if they could mangle, dismember, spindle, and mutilate me when I careened across the floor.　 They’ve spilled shampoo in the bathtub that left me slipping and taking down the shower curtain when I grabbed something to hold onto.

There was the assault by a toddler with a frozen 2 1/2 lb.　chocolate Easter bunny that left a bruise on my shoulder that turned every color of a jellybean before it dissipated.　I've had my feet ran over, and　skin peeled from　my heels　with shopping carts to the point that I've hobbled out of the grocery when they were just trying to help me out by pushing the cart.　

Speaking of feet, I've had a broken toe from being stomped.　 The last time my youngest stepped on my toe, which felt more like he was prying off my toenail with a pair of vice grips, it was suggested I give up wearing flip-flops and wear "real" shoes.　
　
I've been hit in the head by footballs, baseballs, matchbox cars, shoes (while I was driving, nonetheless), and dirty underwear.　 I've been ran into by a child on a four-wheeler.　 I've gone for the ride of my life in a go-kart being driven by a child.

Every time I open the freezer after one of them has rummaged around looking for something to eat, which is no less than 17 times a day, I have to be ready to duck or catch things.　 It reminds a bit of my high school days when my locker got stacked.　 I was seeing stars one day after being attacked by a　very large package of frozen chicken breasts. 　A rump roast has also assaulted me.

I've had bruises, burns, knots, and scratches.　 That's only the physical stuff, too.　 They've taken years off my life, no doubt, and caused all sorts of mental anguish worrying about them.　 I guess it could be considered physical, too,　because undoubtedly the white hairs that continue to crop up are probably caused from excessive worry and concern.　

It's a mission they continue to this very day.　 The proof being when I opened the fridge this morning, and before I could even react, a bottle of Louisiana hot sauce took flight.　 An uncapped bottle, might I add.　 The moment couldn't have been choreographed better if special effects were used.　

The bottle landed on the top of my foot, the impact causing hot sauce to shoot geyser-like, which landed on my face and in my eye.　 Oh, and down my leg and all over my foot, too.　 Let me share a fact that most probably would never give much thought to...hot sauce, eyeballs, and contact lenses do not mix.　 Also, skin that is allowed to have prolonged contact with hot sauce (say five minutes or so while one is madly flushing her eye with water and cleaning off a contact) tends to get a little inflamed and red.　 A bit reminiscent of a chemical burn.　

I don't know what happened to the lid to the hot sauce.　 No idea, but when I can see again, I might look for it.　 For now, it remains a mystery, much like why my children have the urge to off their mother.　 Maybe next year for Mother's Day, I'll ask for　some goggles, steel-toed boots, knee and shin guards, and a helmet.