Monday miscellany

• My mother is on her way to Ethiopia for a business trip.  I always feel a bit adrift when she's out of the country.  Every day, after I drop the kids off at school, I call her on my way to work.  We chat, she asks about the children and tells me about how everyone in her office has admired the latest video of Josie walking or the latest picture of Zeke.  It was very strange to drive to work this morning and not be able to call her.
• I had a lovely weekend, including having dinner with two friends from my school in New Delhi on Saturday night.  Yummy food, great weather.  We took a walk through the neighborhood to the new house and Kim gave me some cool design ideas.
• Speaking of, we close this week.  We're moving in about 4 weeks.  I just starting thinking about everything that needs to be done to get organized, and I'm a bit freaked out.  September is going to be a crazy month - possibly going out of town this weekend, going with Kathleen to Atlanta in 3 weeks to visit friends, then moving, then going to Washington for another reunion (the school I went to in Israel from '80 to '84).  Yoiks.
• Zeke's doing pretty well with the potty training.  Yesterday J took him to a big air show and Zeke was grossed out by the port-a-potties (that's my boy), so J just put a diaper on him so he wouldn't have to deal with it.  But he wore big boy pants the rest of the weekend and used the toilet more often than not.  Now if I can only figure out a way to get bed-time under control...

Josie vs. The Burrito

''In the pink corner, at 11 months old and approximately 18 pounds.....Josie....."

"In the green corner, former resident of the freezer section at Whole Foods....The Burrito..."

   "It's a slow, steady business, but I will defeat this creature.  I need to stretch, though."

"Strawberry break.  Cleanses the palate."

"Cheese break.  Just because."

"I'm kind of enjoying this.  Can you tell?"

"VICTORY IS MINE!  BWAHAHAHAHA!  Uh,what's that you say, Mama?  Bathtime?  Oh, all right.  (Jeez, she's such a buzzkill)."

I'm really not such a cynic, but sometimes the American wedding industry sends me over the edge.

The other day when my mom and I were flying home from Ashland (she connected through Denver, so we  were together for the first leg of her trip), a young couple was sitting across the aisle from us.  Young as in, no way were they more than 19 or 20.  At one point I noticed that she had a very elaborate french manicure on her long, squared off acrylics, complete with a splash of gold decorating the tips.

Huh, must have had them done for some big occasion, I thought.

Then I noticed her feet.  Her toes were done up in the same shade of gold to match her nails, with the paint applied to resemble lace.  She was wearing white flip-flops with blue satin over the straps and little double rings attached to the toe thingy in the middle.  Kind of like these, but without such a big bow and with little rings instead of hearts:

Really?  Oy.  Somebody's been spending too much time trolling theknot.com.

Plus I couldn't get over how young she looked.  Later, I heard her telling someone that she still had 3 years of college left.  Jesus.

But the kicker came when we landed and everyone was standing up to deplane -- I noticed that she and her husband were wearing matching shirts that said "Richard and Monique, Just Married!"

"Aw, look at that," my mom said.  "They just got married."

I rolled my eyes.  "That poor fucker," I said, referring to the husband.

"Why?"

"Usually it takes a few years.  But that guy clearly has already lost all access to his balls.  They are now sitting in a frosted glass vase on a shelf, and maybe once a year he'll be allowed to take the vase off the shelf and gaze at at his balls with fond longing."

Mom laughed.  "Oh, Wendy!  You're terrible."

But deep down, I think she knew I was right.

It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life for me. Maybe. Well, probably not yet.

I was chasing Zeke around this morning trying to get him dressed.  I managed to get him out of the way-too-small pajama bottoms that I, for inexplicable reasons, put him in last night, notwithstanding that they only came down to the middle of his calves and barely covered his ass.  I managed to get him out of his night-time diaper.  But when I tried to put him in his pull-ups, he kept kicking them off and trying to "hide" behind the couch cushions.

He still hasn't figured out that just because I'm not making eye contact with him, it doesn't mean I can't see him.

"Zekey, come on.  You need to get dressed.  It's time for you to go to school and for me to go to work."

"Noooooooo!  I don't want to wear a diaper.  I don't want to wear a diaper!"

"You don't?"

"No."

"Do you want to wear big boy underpants?"

"Yes!"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes!"

"Well, only big boys that use the potty get to wear big boy underpants."

He raced off to the bathroom and peed in the toilet.

When he came back to me he had a big smile on his face.  "I peed in the potty, Mama!"

"Yes, you did!  So I guess you get to wear big boy underpants!"

I went down to his room and got a pair of Diego briefs out of his drawer.  When I put them on him, he looked like he'd won the lotto.  He was so cute.  I don't know what it is -- when adult men wear tighty-whiteys, it's hard for them to look cool.  But little boys in little briefs are so adorable I can barely stand it.

So he got dressed and I got him off to school.  I kept telling him every five minutes, "Now remember, if you have to go potty you need to tell one of your teachers, OK?  OK?"

He yeah-yeah-ed me and ran off to play with his friends.

I called J to tell him.

"Holy shit!" he exclaimed.  "Can you imagine how great it would be if one of the kids were out of diapers??"

"Yeah, but let's not get ahead of ourselves.  I'm sure he'll have an accident.  We're not in the clear yet."

But it's a start.

Home Sweet ... eh

A lovely time was had in Oregon.  I got to hang out with my mom and my brother, Sam, my cousins and my aunt and uncle, who were celebrating 40 years together.  They live on a mountain outside of Ashland, a little town in southern Oregon that reminds me of Boulder, but with 40 times more pretentiousness among its citizenry.  In the middle of a largely rural, poor, conservative part of the state, it's a little enclave of liberal, high-falutin', edu-ma-cated, Shakespeare-watchin' hippiedom.

People walk around wearing red shirts with commie-looking stars on them that say "The People's Republic of Ashland."  Everybody recycles and eats organic everything.  We stayed at a little bed and breakfast close to downtown.  The innkeeper moonlights as a science fiction writer and handed out business cards listing herself first and foremost as a "philosopher."  That should tell you all you need to know.

It's actually kind of annoying.  At one point Sam talked about having the urge to walk into a yoga-ish store and ask where he could buy a gun.

But we had fun.  I got to sleep in, uninterrupted by crying or "Mama, I want to snuggle you," I read my book for hours on end, I exercised.

I thought I was looking forward to being home.  J had a great weekend with the kids, and the house was clean, and dinner was waiting for me.

But the minute I tried to settle down, I was wracked by overwhelming anxiety attacks.  Flushes of panic all night long.  Heart and brain racing and unable to relax.  I finally fell asleep at 6 this morning and slept for an hour.  The only positive was that I had time in the middle of the night to watch my recording of Mad Men, which was phenomenal (as ever).

I'm still feeling fried and anxious and panicky.  But I have no idea why.

Aussie word of the day: injury edition

Once again, I call my husband out on this blog, and I end up feeling like a putz.  Last time it was accusing him of being a pussy, and it turned out he had such a bad case of pneumonia they almost didn't let him leave the hospital because his oxygen levels were so low.  This time, I accuse him of being childish and saddling me with all of the family responsibilities, and it turns out he didn't come home the other night not because he was merely sore, as he told me, but because it turns out he has a cracked rib, a separated shoulder, and a sprained wrist.

"It was a pretty good stack, baby," he told me.

"Stack" is Aussie for "crash on the bike."

I separated my shoulder four years ago when I had a bad stack, and I couldn't really use my shoulder for a month.  At least J has some range of motion and isn't too terribly uncomfortable.

So when I leave for the airport in about 3 minutes to go spend the weekend with my family in Oregon (we're celebrating my aunt and uncle's 40th anniversary), he'll at least have the use of his arm when he's got the kids to himself for the next two days.

Have a nice weekend, honey!

Hindsight is 20/20

I don't often legitimately complain about my husband (at least not outside of the earshot of close friends), but I was doing it yesterday while on the phone with my father.  I was incredibly annoyed by the fact that J had decided that he wasn't going to come home last night, even though he stayed up in Vail the night before and thus should have had plenty of rest by virtue of not having to get up at 4 in the morning to drive 2 hours to go to work.

See, the night before he decided to go mountain biking with a bunch of the guys.  And being the fucking reckless 15-year-old that he is at heart, he was doing stupid shit, taking risks, and ended up tumbling down a steep incline on his bike.  So he was feeling a little beat up.  And decided that "he wouldn't be much use if he came home" because he was really sore and tired.

What-fucking-ever.  I had had a rough morning with the kids, and really needed the help of another adult around.  And I had been telling Zeke that Daddy would be coming home.

But Daddy was sore.

If I don't sound sympathetic, it's because I'm not.  I don't have the option of not coming home because I'm tired or sore or not in the mood.  And I was pissed that in addition to having another night of full-time kid duty, I had to disappoint Zeke by telling him that Daddy wouldn't be home after all.

All because Daddy is too stupid to show some regard for his own safety.

So I was complaining to my dad.  "Why do I have to be the grown-up all the goddamned time?  Why are boys so fucking stupid?"

"I don't know, honey.  But your mother's the same way.  She's the only one that's a grown-up in our house!"

"Hmph."

"Hell, I don't know why you women marry us.  I wouldn't marry one of us."

Well, shit.  It would have been nice if someone had warned me beforehand.

Yelling is the new spanking*

I am generally very measured in my interactions with my children.  Well, in my disciplinary interactions.  When I'm greeting them or playing with them or just talking to them, I tend to be affectionate and effusive. But when I'm being serious, I don't like to yell because I want my children to behave not because they're afraid of me, but because they want to engage in good behaviors that please me and bring them positive responses.

Sometimes it's hard, though.

I was talking to a friend of mine a few weeks ago.  She has a daughter Zeke's age, who is also exhibiting  the same whine-y, test-the-limits-of-your-patience behaviors that Zeke is demonstrating these days.

"I can see where you could get to that line, and very easily cross it.  Where you get to the point of being so angry, so tired, so at the end of your rope, that it would be very easy to just snap and start hitting."

She doesn't, of course.  And neither do I.  But I know exactly what she means.

I woke up early this morning and got up to do the dishes, make myself some breakfast, and enjoy a cup of coffee while reading the news before the kids woke up.

I heard Zeke coming up the stairs, and he scampered over to me with a big smile on his face.  He's awesome first thing in the morning -- happy, affectionate, giving me hugs and kisses.  We chatted for a little while, then went downstairs when we heard Josie stirring.

She is also incredibly happy when she first wakes up (and all the time, really).  So the three of us had a little love fest, saying good morning, giving kisses, and getting ready for the day.

I got the children upstairs, and Zeke settled in to watch Dora.  Normally I'll let him watch TV in the morning because it keeps him anchored and focused while I get him dressed.  But this morning he kept running off to hide when I was trying to put clothes on him, whining that he didn't want to wear this shirt or those shorts or to have his diaper changed.

The whining, the whining, the constant whining.   "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeehhhh...."

I could feel my blood pressure start to rise.

"Zeke!  Stop!  You need to get dressed.  You need to put on shoes to go to school!  We have to go soon!"

"I don't waaaaaaaannnnaaaa goooooooo........I don't waaaaaaaaaaaaaannnnnaaaaaaaa wear shoooooooooooooooessssss......"

I went to the kitchen at one point to replenish my coffee cup, and I heard, "look at me, Mama!"

I turned around and saw that he had taken my favorite bottle of nail polish out of the bathroom, gotten it open, painted his legs all over, and spilled it on the couch.

"GODDAMMIT, ZEKE!"


I fumed as I found some acetone, started cleaning off the couch, and then scrubbed off his legs.  "Why can't you just behave?  Why do you have to always make such a mess??"

He started to cry.  I scrubbed at his legs, probably a little more harshly than I needed to.  He sobbed.

Finally I got him cleaned up.  He climbed back on the couch to watch the rest of his show.  I went to the trash can to throw away the paper towels.

When I got back he was taking his shirt off.

I snapped.

"NO!"  I yelled as loud as I could.

"I don't waaaaannnnnnaaaa wear this shiiiiiiirt....."

I put my face about two inches from his and screamed at him, "I DON'T CARE!  I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU WANT!  PUT YOUR SHIRT BACK ON AND WE'RE LEAVING!"

Even as I was doing it, I knew that my motivation was to make him feel awful.  There was no positive, disciplinary purpose to my behavior -- I was simply furious and I wanted him to feel afraid of me, to feel the power of my anger, to understand that I was bigger and stronger and that I held all the cards.

Well, it worked.  He completely lost his mind and collapsed into tears.  Like, hysterical, unable to catch his breath, uncontrollable crying.

And I felt like dogshit.  Like an evil, mean, heartless bitch, unworthy of my children's love and affection.  Unworthy of my children, period.

I took a breath and stepped back.  I went and sat on a chair.  Zeke walked over to me, his shoulders heaving.  He hung his head and walked into my arms.

I pulled him into my lap and rocked him and kissed his face and wiped his tears.

"I'm so, so sorry, Zekey.  I shouldn't have yelled at you."

"Were you very angry, Mama?"

"I was angry, honey, but it's not nice to yell and I shouldn't have yelled at you.  I'm sorry."

We sat like that for a minute or two.  He calmed down and stopped crying.

"May I have a cup of milk, please, Mama?"

"Of course, sweetheart."

"With chocolate?"

"Yep."

"I love you, Mama."

"I love you, too, honey.  So, so much."

Later, after I dropped the kids off at school, my mother assured me that Zeke would not be scarred by this one incident.  And I know she's right.  But my heart still feels heavy.  I feel guilty and small.

This parenting thing is a bitch, sometimes.

___________
*Hat tip to my friend Jen for introducing me to this expression.

At least we made it a little further down Colfax...

Saturday was our monthly date night, courtesy of parents' night out at the daycare.

Again we dropped the kids off and walked up to Colfax, this time electing for steak at a local restaurant that seems to long for the days of the Rat Pack, as if, by keeping the doors open, Frank and Dino and Sammy will miraculously show up and ask for a drink.

But it was a lovely evening, so we sat on the patio and enjoyed our meals and shared a bottle of wine.  Of course, after spending a day at 10,000 feet, two glasses later we were ready to stumble over to City Park and cuddle up under a tree for a nap.

We managed to stay upright by grabbing coffee at Starbucks before heading up the street.  We sat in front of the fountain in the Esplanade in front of East High School, where our children will some day matriculate.

Colfax Avenue on a balmy, clear Saturday night

Sitting by the fountain clearly provided too much stimulation, so we decided to go across the street to the Tattered Cover and look at home renovation magazines for ideas on how to fix up our new house.

Whee!

We walked back through the neighborhood to get the kids, stopping to look at our new house and to peek in the windows of our neighbors along the way.  "Oooh, look at their cabinets!  Those are nice!"  "I like the way they did their ceilings."  "I'd love to do our porch like that."  "Those little sculptures they have in front of the house look like ass."

We picked up our children, went home, and went to bed.

All of you out there that knew me in my wild and crazy days in high school and college -- hard to believe, isn't it?  Who is this boring person, and what have you done with Wendy?

How to effect a seamless transition in conversation

I read Lisa's blog post about having her IUD removed, and have been thinking about doing the same thing.    Having hormones coursing through my body, which is already full of chemical malingerers that trigger my depressive cycles, is unnecessary when I'm done having kids and there are other methods of keeping the rabbit from dying.

Immediately following a discussion of the thousands of dollars of repair required for one of our cars, I said, "on an unrelated topic, how would you feel about getting a vasectomy?"

J instinctively winced and drew his knees together.  "What made you think of that?"

"Well, we're done having kids, right?  So I'd just as soon get rid of the IUD and not have to deal with additional hormones that can mess with my depression meds."

"Sure, baby, if it'll help you feel better, I'll do it."

Later we were in the car with the kids, on the way to Target to pick up groceries and other supplies for our picnic in the mountains the next day.  J continued the conversation we had left off earlier.

"I'll get to recuperate by vegging on the couch and eating ice cream."

"I think you're thinking of a tonsilectomy."

"Huh.  Well, at least I can chill at home for a few days."

"Is it that long of a recovery?  I thought it was a fairly simple procedure that wasn't terribly intrusive or painful."

"S says he was home resting for a couple of days."  S is J's brother.

Zeke's ears perked up, and he chirped from the back seat, "Simon says!  Simon says clap your hands!!"

J and I immediately started clapping.

I'm not sure if it should be considered advice or a warning, but in any event, I'm honored

I received an email letting me know that this blog has been featured on a counseling website in an article about the 50 best blogs for marriage advice.

I don't know what it means for the state of your relationship if you're looking to me for advice, but at least I'm quirky and honest!  In any event, I'm gratified if I can provide any insight, information, or even just comfort for anyone looking for it.

Whiplash

I will never get used to how mercurial toddlers can be.

Though at this point, there is nothing toddle-y about the way Zeke gets around.  The other night he sprinted around the block and J - who is an astounding athlete with the lung capacity of Lance Armstrong (seriously, his resting heart rate is 45 or something ridiculous like that) - could barely keep up with him.

Anyway.

He's going through a whiney cry-y phase.  Which I guess is normal for two-year-olds, but it annoys the shit out of me.  He can't ask for a glass of chocolate milk without it being all, "Mamaaaaa....I want choooocolaaaate miiiiilk.. eeeh eeeeh ... I waaaaant..."

I try to resist the urge to throw him out the window and I say, "Zeke.  Please.  Stop whining.  Stop crying.  There is nothing to fuss about.  If you want some chocolate milk, just ask nicely.  'May I please have some chocolate milk?'  And I'll be happy to get it for you."

"Eeeeeh...eeeeeh...chocolate miiiiiiiilk..."

"I can't understand you when you fuss like that.  Stop crying and just talk."

He immediately stops whining, gets the tortured look off his face, and asks, clear as a bell, "may I have some chocolate milk please?"

"Of course."

Fer fuck's sake...

I go through this scenario multiple times a day.

Last night we went for a walk around the neighborhood after dinner.  We got home at about 10 after 8, at which point Josie was practically nodding off in her stroller.  Plus, it was starting to get dark.

Zeke lost his shit.

"I want to go outside...I waaant to go outsiiiiiiide!  Aaaaaaaaaah!  WAAAAAAAAAAH!"

"No, honey.  It's time to come inside and chill out and get ready for bed."

"AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!  OOUUUUUUTSIIIIIIIIIIIDE!"

"No."

He kept trying to get at the door to open it.  I stood in front of it.

"Get away from the door.  GET AWAY FROM THE DOOR!  MAAMAAAA!  GET AWAY FROM THE DOOR.  AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

"No."

This went on for 10 minutes.  We finally distracted him with an episode of Dora the Explorer.

A little while later, he lost his shit again when he had to go to bed.

"I WANT TO WATCH DORAAAAAAAAAAAA!  I WANT CHOCOLATE MIIIIIIILK!"

"No, honey.  No chocolate milk before bed.  It's time to go to sleep."

It seriously took me 15 minutes to calm him down.  He was completely despondent, crying his little eyes out.  He sobbed and sobbed, immune to my efforts to comfort him.

I brought him into bed with me, hoping I could calm him down by hugging him and letting him rest his head on my shoulder.

I was trying everything -- shushing him, holding him, rubbing his hair and his back, rocking him, trying to distract him with efforts at conversation.

Then, abruptly, he stopped crying all of a sudden and wanted to talk.

"Let's talk, Mama."  He's all chirpy and sweet.

"OK, honey."

"I want to go to the mountains."

"We're going to go to the mountains on Saturday.  Not tomorrow, but the day after.  We're going to go see a bike race.  Isn't that cool?"

"Yeah!"

"Yeah."

"I want to go to the river."

"We can go see a river and throw rocks in it."

"Is it very far away?"

"No, honey, it's not too far away.  We can drive to the mountains, it's not too far."

"Mimi and Papa live very far away."

"Yes, they do."

"We have to fly on an airplane to see them."

"Yes."

"I want to see them.  I want to see Papa first and Mimi next."

"Well, we're going to go see them in a couple of months."

"I want to go to the river."

"We're going to go the day after tomorrow."

"When it's morning?"

"Yes.  Not tomorrow morning, but the next morning."

"Then we should go to sleep so that it's morning soon."

"Ok, sweetie.  Let's go to sleep."

"Shh!  Stop talking, Mama, it's time to go to sleep!"

Good idea, son.  If only I had thought of that.....

Monday miscellany

Things have been crazy.  In no particular order:

• The house is pretty much a done deal, pending the appraisal coming back like it should, and then closing at the end of the month.  It's happened so fast that I am having a hard time digesting it.  The inspection was done, the seller agreed to our request for repairs, the radon test showed no problems, and it looks like I'm going to be the proud owner of a quaint little Victorian in Congress Park.  Woot!  And also, holy shit there's much work to be done.  I've already started entering in HGTV's Great Fall Fix-up Sweepstakes.
• Josie is teething again.  Meaning Mama's not sleeping much.  But check out these hilarious chompers:

• Living in Colorado definitely has its advantages.  Even when it's a bit toasty in Denver, we can drive 45 minutes to the mountains and hang out here:

Zeke spent his day standing in the shallow part of the river throwing rocks.  And mud.  And sand.

• I'm starting my second week of Insanity.  All I can say is, holy fucking shit.  These are seriously the hardest workouts I've ever done in my life, and when it comes to video/DVD workouts, I've pretty much done them all.  If I get the results I want, maybe in two months I'll post "before and after" pictures.  Or maybe just "after" pictures.

So that's me in a nutshell.  

Dear Humankind

We've been having a good run lately.  While there is the occasional annoying interaction with the odd asshat here and there, I have been amazed and gratified by your general benevolence and exemplary behavior, at least towards me.

To wit:

• The past two times I've traveled by plane, getting through the security line with a baby and a curious toddler, dealing with strollers that have to be collapsed, shoes that have to be removed, bottles of formula and medicine that have to be declared, etc., has been a bit challenging.  Both times, I forgot about a more than 3 oz. bottle of hand lotion that I had sitting in the diaper bag.  Both times, the TSA agent could not have been nicer.  "This is obviously lotion that you need for treating a baby's diaper rash, right?  Right?"  He winked at me.  "Oooooh, right!  Of course!  Diaper rash!  Thank you!"
• In trying to negotiate a deal for a 110-year-old house, everyone has been incredible, from the real estate agents to the mortgage broker to the inspection people to the seller himself.  I'm nervous about moving into a house so old, with all of the work that comes with it, but I think we'll get some needed repairs prior to closing, and the rest of the renovations we'll just take as it comes.
• Last week I bought an exercise program on eBay.  It consists of 10 different DVDs.  When I tested the discs, 5 of them did not play at all.  I contacted the seller, who had indicated in the listing that he did not offer any refunds or exchanges, and asked if he could send me replacement discs.  He responded that he did not have replacements, but that he would give me a refund.  I said I would be happy to return the discs if he just sent me an address.  He said, not necessary, they're defective, don't worry about it.  And the money is now back in my PayPal account.  Easy-peasy, lemon squeezy.

And of course, there is the unfailing and overwhelming sweetness and generosity of my family and friends.  My parents, who could not be more loving and supportive.  My siblings (both natural and in-law).  My cousins.  My nieces and nephews.  My husband.  My vast network of friends, of both the real-life and cyber variety.

I know many of your ranks perpetrate great evil and destruction and corruption in the world.  But lately, I'm definitely feeling the love.

Keep it up.

Best wishes and happy Friday,

Wendy

Dig it, Ima!

For J's birthday, Rich gave him a subscription to a really cool mountain biking magazine.

But given that the default age of maturity for most men tops out at 13 or so, of course the name on the subscription had to be a joke.

Given that my age of maturity also topped out at 13, I found it hilarious.

Aussie word of the day: Chip off the old block edition

As I've noted many times, J has very little regard for his own personal safety when it comes to sports.  Every time he goes mountain biking, he comes back all scraped or cut up (or worse).  And it started at an early age.  He tells me these hilarious stories about the crazy shenanigans he and his brothers got into as kids, like when they would careen down huge hills on a skateboard dragging a board studded with nails behind them so that they would make sparks in the road.

So I've been bracing myself, waiting for Zeke to show similar levels of craziness.

We started the vacation by heading to my parents' house in DC for a couple of days.  J really wanted to take Zeke to the Natural History Museum, so we flew in on Friday, went to the museum on Saturday, and then drove down to the Outer Banks on Sunday.

In one of my parents' bedrooms, they still have the bunk beds that Josh and Sam slept in as kids.  Zeke was quite taken with these -- oh, the opportunities to climb up and down ladders!  to sit way up high in the room!

J and I were sitting in my parents' bedroom, chatting with them as Josie played on the bed.  Zeke was in the room with the bunk beds.  J decided to go in and check on him.

Thirty seconds later I heard a "Whoa! Wait!" then a *thunk-thunk-thunk*, then Zeke crying.

I went down the hall to see what happened.  Zeke had a scrape and a bump forming on his forehead.  He was a little shaken up, but otherwise fine.  In typical Aussie form, J said, "she'll be right!"

Apparently, Zeke had decided that it would be a good idea to jump off the top bunk into J's arms.  Except that he forgot to tell J he would be doing this.  And he also forgot about the ceiling fan, which was on, and which turned out to be just level with his forehead.

Oops.

The next day we were talking about how hard it is to try to protect your kids from harm, and the balance that has to be struck between keeping them safe and letting them out into the world to make mistakes.  We talked about Emma (who is doing super-great - more on that in another post), and how scary it would be to be hit by a car, or to see your kid be hit by a car.

J piped up, "I've been hit by a car."

"Really?" my parents said.

"Six times, actually.  While riding my bike.  Well, technically, one was a bus, so five times."

It explains a lot, actually.