And the nominees are:
And the winner is:
My usual workout plan requires that I get to bed by 11 pm, get up at 7 am, run, shower and then get the kids up around 8. Working and schooling kids from home has its advantages. 2 of the 5 members of the S house are morning people, the rest of us (the normal ones) consider any time prior to 7 am disgusting and inhumane. Usually, I'm not really much of a schedule person. I never felt the need to put any of my babies on schedules, they slept when they were tired and ate when they were hungry. However, if there is ANY hope of my getting regular exercise, it HAS to be accomplished first thing in the morning, hence the need for a morning schedule. Our days are jam packed with activities, it gets dark too early to go running outside in the evening and, frankly, by 7 pm I am utterly exhausted.
Unfortunately for the brilliant plan outlined above, Isaac had a dreadful time getting to sleep on Thursday night, all due to the lack of a particular blanket to which he is firmly attached. I think I finally fell asleep around 3 am.
People, if I'm going to bed at 3 am there is not a snowball's chance I am getting up at 7. NOT. A. CHANCE.
Because I was not able to work out in the morning, I REALLY wanted to work it into the rest of my day. It was Friday and I had the weekend to catch up on work so I gave myself permission to hit the old treadmill while Anna took her nap. Generally I hesitate to plan activities that take ALL of my attention. I don't take naps when my kids are home, I don't run errands while they are home alone, I don't leave them alone in cars, etc. To be honest, I just don't trust them. Have I ever told you the story about the time I was pregnant with Anna, we had just moved into this house, it was 7 am and Isaac woke up early and emptied an entire tube of toothpaste into the bathtub? No?
I was pregnant with Anna, we had just moved into this house, it was 7 am and Isaac woke up early and emptied an entire tube of toothpaste into the bathtub. As I was working to clean the toothpaste out of the bathtub my doorbell rang. I ignored it. I mean, come on, it was 7 am, I was oh so very pregnant, I was in a robe and my hands smelled of an abnormal about of minty freshness. But the doorbell rang again. And then it rang again. As persistent doorbell ringing at 7 am is NOT typical, I finally decided to answer it. In my robe. Pregnant. Hands covered in minty freshness.
It was my new neighbor. With a little boy. A little boy who happened to belong in my house and who I THOUGHT was sound asleep in his bed.
Neighbor: Hi there! We haven't met yet, I know you are new to the neighborhood, but I found this little guy running around in the street and wondered if he belongs to you.
Me: (as sheepishly as possible) Um, yes, he belongs to me. I thought he was sleeping. Thank you so much!
Nathan: Hi mommy! I can get in the front yard! There's a big hole in the fence!
(The hole in the fence was the open gate. He was able to open the gate at the tender age of three, apparently. It never occurred to me that he could escape the yard on his own.)
Since that oh-so-mortifying experience, I try to avoid any and all activities that might lead to a repeat performance and/or end with a neighbor calling social services.
On Friday I decided that a. I really needed to work out and b. The boys were old enough to be trusted for 45 minutes during which I would not be aware of their every move.
Oh how wrong I was.
In my defense, I DID stand them next to each other, make them look me straight in the eye and recite a list of absolute rules that WOULD be followed while I was on the treadmill. They solemnly informed me that they would NOT go upstairs and wake up their sister, they would NOT answer the door, they would NOT answer the phone, they would NOT ransack the kitchen, they would NOT stare blankly at the TV, etc. To their credit, they followed those rules to the letter.
Unfortunately, I did NOT instruct them that they were not to sneak into my office, creep up behind the treadmill where I could neither see nor hear them and out of nothing but sheer curiosity attempt to stick their fingers into the treadmill's moving parts.
Again I say, SIGH.
Nathan, my curious, impetuous, little daredevil, stuck his left hand under the treadmill. It came to an abrupt stop that sent me flying and apparently caused an ankle injury of some kind. The ankle injury, however, is far less significant than the fact that Nathan degloved (my sister and mom taught me that uber technical medical term) two of the fingers on his left hand.
He does not appear to have any broken bones, thank God, and the wounds are truly not as bad as they could have been. We are SO thankful he is not any more injured than he is, it could have been a LOT worse.
His 5 year old machismo has kicked in and today you would never know anything happened, save for the bandage on his hand.
Nana did suggest that I will at some point need to remove the peeled back skin that still clings to his fingers.
Perhaps a certain nurse-in-training aunt of his might want to earn some student nursing hours (do nurses student nurse the way teachers student teach?)by flying back here with a pair of small, sterilized scissors and go about dealing with his wound. I'm fairly certain his mother is not up to it.
As you can see, I am more than deserving of the honorarium with which I have titled this post. I'm not searching for a bunch of e-mails telling me what a good parent I am, I truly feel just AWFUL that he got hurt because I was not watching him closely enough. I'll not be working out during the day time anymore. If I can't get up early and I can't run in the evening, it's just not going to happen. As a result, you might notice some swelling in the posterior regions of my person. A small price to pay for my kids' safety, in my opinion.
Love to all!
May your kids be safe and your posteriors not swell!
PS At the ripe old age of 33, my very first wisdom tooth has decided to protrude from the upper most part of my jaw. The trouble is, only one corner is exposed, it is REALLY high up in my mouth, literally where my upper and lower jaw meet, the rest of the tooth is firmly embedded in my jaw and that one corner is cutting into my cheek every time I eat or talk.
Readers, dear readers, I HATE the dentist. Not just a typical kind of whiny, not wanting to go but I'll just get it over with sort of hate. This is a real and true seething hatred. whimper