So our technological inadequacies are at an all time high at this point, but there's hope on the horizon. The details are unimportant. All you need to know is that I am a very, very angry person.
Here's one for "Yes. We are horrible parents" file. Our dear, and very together Battle Creek friends, the Greenes, brought their very little son, Isaac, for a short visit this weekend. While tending to his every need they witnessed Carolyn try (repeatedly) to kill her sister: Penelope claw at little Isaac's forehead, leaving a nasty little scar: Carolyn bang on her bedroom door for an hour in protest of sleep: Penelope hit her upper lip in a fall and bleed for four, yes four, hours all over my new white shirt I miraculously got red wine stains out of not a week earlier: and a diaper rash that appeared inexplicately on Penelope and disappeared just as quickly the very next day.
Our mad house es su mad house.
The bloody Penelope thing reminded me of a time when Carolyn smacked her face against the floor of a store and bled as if all six of her teeth had been punched out. This very traumatic episode followed a less severe injury the month before when her face scraped up against a concrete sidewalk. That scratch looked bad for at least a week, while the profuse bleeding ended quickly with the slightly fattened lip shrinking the next day.
But at the time, I screamed at Steve to get her to the emergency room, which thankfully we decided against.
These little traumas have numbed us slightly to childhood injury. They've also lessened our fears of germs, rate of growth, eating habits, developmental milestones, other children and the long term effects of too much Caillou. But still, looking at perfect, tiny Isaac, you can't help but feel a tiny bit guilty as both our kids run around the living room in diapers while we nurse hangovers, especially in light of the showered, perky Greenes. I mentioned our kids weren't wearing pants, right?
