At this point, I consider my job to be that of raising our three children. I stay at home with them rather than leaving the house to work. For the most part, I love my job.
Obviously, there are parts that I don't like quite so much. Earlier this week, I was lying on the floor, building a giant block tower with Atticus. Caedmon was toddling around, idly swinging a plastic golf club. I became a little too immersed in the construction of the tower, and just caught a glimpse of Caedmon swinging the club back and forth a little too close to me before he whacked me in the head, square on the temple. I saw stars, immediately experienced some severe nausea, and obviously, a killer headache.
All I really wanted to do was take some ibuprofen and lie down. Atticus and Caedmon did not care.
Yesterday, Atticus took a mighty swing with that same freaking plastic club, and although he was aiming for a practice ball, he hit me on the elbow, and magically managed to hit my funny bone.
The plastic golf clubs have since been banned.
That didn't stop my boys, though. They seem to have a hardwired need to swing stick-like tools at balls, and they don't care if I have laid down a no-golf-in-the-house rule, or how many injuries I have sustained. I may have confiscated all the toys that I think could possibly be used to hurt me, but they make do with what they can find.
I found Caedmon hitting a baseball around the house with the toilet brush this morning. Honestly, I'm just lucky he didn't find his other favorite forbidden toy: the plunger.
Disgusting childhood habits aside, I know I'm very fortunate. This morning at 8 am, after readying Adelaide for school, Atticus, Caedmon, and I were still in our pajamas, reading books together on the couch. I get to spend all day with our children, and even get a nice break every afternoon during naptime.
Speaking of naptime, now that it's here, I need to go disinfect our house.