My lovely husband took over the kids this afternoon so I could take a nap. I am still recovering from an accident that took place about 7 months ago, so days where I can rest are amazing.
I decided to head downstairs at about 5:00 to help him get the day wrapped up and feed the monsters dinner.
As I entered the playroom, both kids launched themselves at me with shrill shrieks of "Momma".
And sitting in the middle of the floor, looking beaten and bedraggled and thoroughly demoralized was my poor, sweet hubby. His hair was all disheveled, his shirt was askew, and he gazed dazedly off into the distance like a shell shocked battle survivor.
Which is interesting, because usually when John has the kids, they are on their good behavior and he revels in his superior parenting abilities.
Today though? Not so much.
I sat down to play with the little beasts, and Bennett immediately commenced to whacking my back with a club while Sterling bit my knees. I guess they had missed me?
Once the abuse was over, they both came back for hugs and love. Which was sweet and all, but they interspersed it with brief fits of violence.
Daddy finally shook himself out of his stupor and announced that it was dinner time... about 30 minutes early.
We all tromped upstairs for a cascading series of tantrums over what to eat, where to sit, and which spoon to use.
It was a lovely, lovely meal.
As we tucked the little monsters into bed, I literally watched the life come back to John.
And being intimately familiar with the huge relief that comes when both babies are tucked into their rooms behind shut doors, I felt for him.
It's not that I don't love them, or that I'm not incredibly grateful to have them. Because I am both of those things. But it's that they know how to pluck (and whack, and bite, and...) every last nerve, and it takes an incredible amount of self control not to run away most afternoons.
And I think today may have been my husband's first real experience walking in my shoes. Welcome to the big leagues, daddy :-)
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