I have three identical scars on my arms. Two on my left arm and one on my right. Just three straight lines, all on my forearms. It kind of looks like a wrestled a tiger. Or maybe I saved several children from a burning bus by punching out a window. Yeah, either of those sound good. You know what DOESN’T sound interesting or heroic? That I burned myself, three separate times, on the racks in my oven. Nope. That is not at all what happened. Because that would be DUMB.
Okay. So yeah. That IS what happened. And I can’t even say it was when I was a young whippersnapper, just transitioning off my Easy Bake Oven. All three times have been in the last year. So I’m giving my oven the evil eye the other day, thinking “What the hell is our problem Mr. Oven?” and then Kate comes crashing into the kitchen screaming about something or another and Beckett trips in after her ranting in his half real words/half toddler gibberish and they start wrestling over some toy like oversized obnoxious puppies and I’m all, “Ohhhhh. Yeah. Sure, thats it.”
Like, ALL the time.
It is fairly common for Ben to ask me what is up with our friends when I come home from a play date. It is also fairly common for me to stare blankly at him for about 30 seconds and then report something like, “I have no idea, but Beckett pooped whole blueberries and Kate got in a fight with a little girl with pigtails. Oh, and the kids both hate the color green now.”
Because I haven’t had a full, uninterrupted adult conversation since 2009. I’ve also decided it’s a miracle I am alive at this very moment despite all the distractions in that tiny metal hell hole on wheels we call a car. Demands for dropped toys, drinks of water, fights, screaming, singing, repeating a single word over, and over (and OVER), all coming at you in rapid fire. So yes, I may have swerved into your lane sir, but I was just reaching for the Buzz Lightyear in the floorboards of the car because OH MY GOD HE WONT SHUT UP UNTIL BUZZ IS IN HIS SWEATY TODDLER HANDS I’M GOING TO LOSE MY MIND GAAAHHHHH.
… uh, where was I going with this?
Oh, yeah. So if you see me out and about and I ignore you, or if I forget a birthday or text you my grocery list, please give me a pass. At least for another sixteen years or so.