Kicky the Christmas Elf

Bex as Christmas Elf

Bex at age 2...a kinder, gentler Elf.

It’s still a few months before Christmas, but our family has already received an unwanted present in our stocking: a roundhouse kick from our 3 year old, directly to our craniums.

There appears to be a new and more aggressive side to our adorable son’s personality. I call this new side “Kicky” rather than “Punchy,” because Punchy sounds more like Popeye the Sailor Man after spending too much time in a dive bar, or me after a whole day of taking care of said child (punchy in the head).

Our angel has kicked us both whilst on the changing table—he is plum sick of diapers and so are we, but Bex is not quite willing to totally give them up.

It’s a love-hate thing with his Huggies. We’ve all been there.

To be fair, the hardest kick to my skull was when my husband was trying to pick Bex up to take him for an errand in the car, and Bex was struggling because he didn’t want to go.

Nick asked me to come and close the door behind them, which I dutifully came to do in a wifely manner, although I was in the middle of getting dressed and had nothing on but panties.

Is that TMI? Well, we don’t try to pretend that humans don’t have bodies under our clothes around here, believe me, the kid’s gonna find out sooner or later. The chicks are already lining up.

So, I am trying to close the front door behind my two boys and kind of duck and weave so the neighbors and any other innocent passersby don’t see me naked.

Especially the children at the elementary school directly in front of our house. Can you say scarred for life?

I am ducking and weaving, but apparently I didn’t duck fast enough, because my husband swung Kicky’s crazy legs above his shoulder, trying to get a better grip on the squirmer, and my child’s foot connected with considerable force and no malice aforethought smack in the middle of my forehead.

OUCH.

A Mother type person can’t really be mad about this, not at the husband or the child—it was an accident—but she may want to immediately go lie down in the bedroom and have a moment of self pity.

And then she may, later on, find chocolate smeared in her cleavage, and wonder…

How long has that been there?

And then last night, Bex was in the house playing with my husband’s iPhone when I tried to call Nick from where I was working in the converted garage/office outside, to discuss dinner plans.

My precious child very purposefully chose to “decline” my call. Twice.

Hmmm. Mommy Denied.

I may have to go looking for that chocolate in my cleavage again.

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