“Be careful, guys!”
This is one of the more common phrases I say in a day. Not that anyone pays attention. When Buzz is practicing his Evil Knievel moves off a chair or Abby toddles onto the couch. I sigh and wince, urging them down once more.
I’m not a super hero, but my power is looking into the future. I can witness accidents before they happen. The boys run around in circles and I envision one of their little heads conking a table. Buzz takes off down the steps and I see skinned knees. They chase each other through the house and I think of Abby getting trampled.
“For the love of… Guys!”
There are sharp corners on our furniture that I’m terrified of. Obviously, we weren’t thinking baby proof when we made the purchases. It’s great that the kids want to play together, however rough they are, but I’m a nervous wreck the entire time. Can’t they just sit nicely and read a book? I’ve always been a worrier, but motherhood has soared it to an all-time high.
I know I can’t keep them safe forever. There are going to be bruises and cuts and scrapes and even gashes that I can’t control. When I can, though, I’d like to keep the blood and broken bones to a minimum. My super power, much like Spiderman’s, is a gift and a burden.
“Guys! Didn’t I just tell you to be careful?”
It’s almost like they want to get hurt.