A Box, Tarzan and Blood... Oh So Much Blood

So my parenting hit an all-time low once again.  I know what you are thinking- How could her parenting get any more low? Well, it can. And this is what happened...

So my sweet Chase discovered a new toy.  It isn't one of the 1,900 dinosaur toys or Pokemon cards that I have spent my 401K on.  It was a box.  And not even a box that he found at our house.  It was a box found at someone else's house that was more appealing than any toy he owns.  (Can you tell I'm a little bitter about spending so much money on toys that never get played with?)

Any-who, this fantastic box isn't just any old box.  It is tall and skinny and Chase likes to wear it.  Now only if we had a box in the shape of underwear, might I actually get him to put some on. Well, this box goes from his shoulders down to his ankles.  But it reaches the top of his shoulders so his arms stay tucked inside the box and it forces him to waddle like a penguin.  It was all fun and games until I hear a shriek coming from my tiny box-troll. I dash into the dining room.

I look around and all I see is my 6 year old, wearing a box the size of his body, laying face down in his own pool of blood.  He must have tripped and he was unable to brace his fall.  You know, due to his hands being stuck inside the box.  There are only two ways to get him out of the box to assess his injuries.  1. I can wrap my hands around his neck (tempting), pull and hope he slides out OR  2. I can rip the box.   

I chose option 2 (only because his face and neck are all bloody and I wasn't in the mood to shower).  So here I am using all of my strength like a modern-day lady-Tarzan trying to frantically free my child, laying in his own pool of blood, by ripping this box apart one small cardboard section at a time (because frankly, I'm not Tarzan strong).

And the only thing I can think of is.... I went to college for this to be my life? I am well educated.  How is this my offspring?

About 5 minute into this fiasco, Cory slowly trots up the stairs and asks what all of the commotion was all about- because it disturbed his pooping.

Chase did take a few chunks out of his lip and had to miss his school's talent show due to his injury.

Oh also, shortly after Chase's injury and having to miss his talent show, we had to break the news to him that his dog died.  Not Chase's best day.

Christmas Cooking, Puke and Misery

So this year for Christmas, I decided to do something different.  I created a homemade dessert. (I am well aware that this doesn’t sound that spectacular for most people, but let's be honest; I am the person who brought cut up McDonald’s cheeseburgers to last year’s Christmas in a crockpot.  And I didn’t even prepare it ahead of time.  I cut up the cheeseburgers in the car with a toddler knife on the way to the celebration.)  Don’t get too excited though, I used a recipe.  But it did have more than 5 ingredients, which is something that was new to me.  I know 5 ingredients may not sound like a lot.  But it is when you don’t have normal cooking and baking items in your house like normal grown-ups do.  It is always questionable if I have unexpired milk in my house. 

So here I am at 6am using my mixer (that we got as a wedding gift 8 years ago and just opened this year) feeling pretty good about myself when my toddler walked in the room, followed by the 6-year-old. 

Ryder takes one look at the dessert I am preparing and asks, “Puke?”

To which I grumpily reply, “Ryder, not everything I make is puke.”  (Can you sense that he asks this a lot about my cooking?)

Then Chase chimes in, “Tell that to your cooking.”

They both then grabbed a bag of crackers and trotted into the living room to enjoy their morning.  Meanwhile, I stood there, completely defeated and trying to figure out what the hell it means to fold whipped cream into the mixing bowl, that is now covered in the sour smell of misery.  I never did find out what it means.

Story. Of. My. Life