I feel like I haven’t fully introduced you to me, I mean, my boys.  This, however, will probably give you more insight than you’d ever wanted.

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I’m nothing if not completely aware of the dangers of stereotypes and the duty we have as AMERICANS to end their dirty cycles of ignorance. However, in some situations…in MY situation–the situation of mothering BOYS–sometimes such stereotypes are self-serving, somewhat accurate, and therefore totally worth perpetuating. In other words, my two boys are crazy, hardcore, badass little em-effers.

But I’m still not completely sure if THEY will be the death of ME or if I/THEM.

Because, people, I am That Neurotic Mother. I know. But before you get all SIGH and ::rolls eyes::, I’ll let you know that I am in therapy. I am also quite familiar with the red wine section of my local liquor store. This helps. (The wine.)

But REALLY. I’ll offer an example from just the other morning. My youngest, T9, is almost 11 months old. He was pulling himself up to stand at our living room coffee table when I saw his hand slip and his face land on the bottom shelf. I CRINGED, grunted, and hoped at least one tooth remained intact. Like, dude head-butted the table with his mouth! When I opened my eyes, I heard a little whimper, so I scurried over to pick him up BEFORE I called 911. But by the time I had lifted him to see the blood trickle from his lips, the boy was SMILING. My infant son had karate chopped a piece of furniture with his face and thought the blood stained wood was amusing. I spent the next hour trying to ascertain the size of the puncture wound his tooth had made in his lip, and whether it needed stitches. He laid there, fighting for freedom by attempting to bite my fingers off.

I will not survive this, people.

Then there’s my eldest, Plus One, who’s nearly three. Luckily, he’s a actually a bit milder than his young protege. However, the FATES are INTERVENING, and so he still manages to invite trouble. Perhaps you would like an example? The three of us were in Target the other day, doing a great job of not being THAT family as we strolled through the aisles (I only busted out the hand sanitizer ONCE! CLAP FOR MOMMY!).

Plus One was in the cart area, eating a muffin while I made bank in the safety and disinfection sections. Suddenly, I saw his muffin lunge up from the cart and onto the floor. Before I could scold, I heard him shriek and simultaneously try to climb over his brother and into my arms. By the time I got around to pull him out, I saw THE BEE. People, we were 20 minutes into our shopping trip, INSIDE the store in effing OCTOBER. Have I SINNED? WHAT ARE THE ODDS OF THIS CRAP?!

(Related: As I was nursing Plus One’s throbbing hand, T9 attempted to hurl himself out of the shopping cart. He was very nearly successful. A rubber-necker came to the rescue. T9 thanked him with a head-butt.)

Come ON!

So there. Those are my boys. And they are badass, with all their bloody grins and ballooning limbs. But while I’d like to blame my neurosis on all this, this nonstop CATASTROPHE, the truth of the matter is that I’m pretty sure I’m just, well, crazy? This isn’t the correct term, I’m sure, but it’s similar to what resonates from my husband’s “Oh, Wife” after I tell him these THINGS.

Later that night, after I’d put the kids to bed, checked T9’s pulse, and re-sealed Plus One’s plastic bubble, I headed back to my bedroom where I found my husband. He appeared to be, well, nursing his tenders, if I might borrow a line from Kung-Fu Panda.

Me: YOU TOO?! What’s wrong? Did the kid jump on you again?

Him: Nah, I just did too much walking downtown this afternoon. It was hot. You know…sweaty?

Me: Ah. Hang on a sec…[I quickly skipped down the hall and emerged again with a small tube.] Try this.

Him: Desitin?!

Me: What? It’s the unscented kind! And while I’m sure the kids won’t notice if you borrow some, I must draw the line at application.

Him: Oh, Wife.

Perhaps my husband won’t survive this either.