Broken Down Breakdown

One of the unforeseen side effects of being "rickety" after my accident is that it makes it a little hard to keep up with my two hurricane hellions.

OK, not exactly a shocker there.

But one of the lovely lasting impacts of that little escapade is that we have been a whole lot less active the last two weeks than we would be otherwise. John went back on the road this week, I can't drive with my pain killer/muscle relaxer cocktail and walking is still pretty painful, so our getting out options are fairly slim.

Which means the inmates are getting restless. And destructive. And button pushy.

For instance, there is a well known rule in this house that no matter how poorly secured the kiddie gate, Sterling is not allowed to go up the stairs alone. She knows it. I know it. Hell, even Bennett probably knows it.

Yesterday, she was jacking around with the kiddie gate and discovered that she could get it to swing open. She looked over at me, waggled her eyebrows, and put her foot on the first step.

I gave her the "eye", reminded her about time out, and asked her to shut the gate so Bennett couldn't climb the stairs.

She looked at me, and gave me that devilish smile, then walked away.

Patting myself on the back for my exemplary parenting skills, I went back to preparing lunch but I watched her out of the corner of my eye the whole time. This isn't my first time at the rodeo folks.

She appeared to be playing with Ben.

They were doing this odd little game where she would hold a toy out to him, then move a step back just as he would get to it. It wasn't until they got to the gate, she opened it, threw the toy up the steps, and said "Ben Ben, get toy" under her breath that I realized what the little turkey was up to. Naughty fetch, awesome.

Today she asked for milk, then proceeded to climb up behind me in my chair at the table. I thought she was giving me a hug as she wrapped her little arms around my back... up until she did her best human sprinkler impression and spewed milk into the back of my head.

It was dripping from my hair, down my back, and poured all over the seat I had been sitting in.

I looked at her with what I was certain was a menacing glare of fury. She looked at me, smiled angelically, and said in the sweetest voice ever "more milk pweeze, Momma".

Not a chance in hell.

And because I am moving a bit more slowly than usual, one of her favorite tricks right now is to grab something naughty and run away with it while giggling like a loon. Because "gimp keep-away" makes you popular with the people who control things like bed time and access to cookies.

Not exactly.

*as an aside, that last piece is an empty threat in a household where grandparents are more likely to hook a kid up with a cookie than mom ever was*

So yeah, no one is taking it easy on momma just because she isn't feeling so great. Not even a little bit. And because alcohol is off limits with the pain killers I am on, looks like I'm on my own...