Taking a beating

So far, only two things have surprised me about motherhood. And they’re not the lofty “I never knew I could experience love like this” kind of revelations. Instead, I have learned these grand lessons: First, the laundry that babies generate is not limited to their own tiny onesies and sleepers. What with the leaking milk, the spit-up, and the diaper blowouts, my clothes got just as filthy as theirs did. Last summer, many’s the morning I woke up crunched into the armchair in Opie’s room, soaked in no less than 4 different bodily fluids…some his, some mine. And haven’t we all experienced the torrent of newborn puke coursing into our only clean bra, seconds after we emerged from the precious shower squeezed in during said newborn’s 20-minute nap?

Worse than that, though, is the second lesson: the physical pain and suffering of motherhood. I’m not talking about pregnancy, labor and delivery—while they can clearly suck, they do, after all, have to come to an end sometime, and they have a higher purpose. I mean the ways that my children, both accidentally and on purpose, injure me on a daily basis. Recently I have endured:

• A meat pounder dropped on my (bare) foot


• A full sippy cup dropped on my ankle


• Falls and jumps onto my legs and torso by both 35- and 20-pound children


• Teeny, razor-sharp fingernails clawing at my skin


• Teeny, razor-sharp teeth biting into my fingers, shoulders, and nipples


• Various and sundry kicks in the gut

I currently have four unexplained bruises on my left lower leg. I’m pretty sure the culprit is one of two small people. Does this get better as they get bigger? Or do I have to worry about whacks in the head from errant soccer balls or being stabbed in the eye by Barbie’s unnaturally pointy feet? Forget helmets for crawling babies. We need full-body armor for moms.