What were the gods thinking, giving me a child? Don't they know I can't walk down a hallway without bruising my arm on that damn doorknob every single time. We call it a perma-bruise. I have many. I know children are resilient because there is a doorjam I bump baby's head on at least once daily. She never cries, such a brave girl. She knows she got a crappy deal on this graceful mommy bit, so she keeps a stiff upperlip (now there is a saying I never understood).
In the last week I have managed to cut not one, but two fingers opening cans (corn and beans respectfully), then last night I burned my nose cooking dinner. That's right, my nose. Instead of using a spoon to dip into the sauce, I used my finger. The finger I cut rather nicely the other week on a can of corn. In went the finger, out came the finger on fire! Hot sauce comin' atchya. And so, I did what any human does when confronted with heat. I screeched and waved my hand around like an idiot. All the while screaming "hot..hot...HOT" And wouldn't you know, some sauce flung itself onto my nose, creating an instant-blister. Great. I'm taking it in stride though. Just add it to my growing file of "bone-head things Christina has done to herself." The file is getting a little large.
How will my daughter survive me? With a helmet and kneepads? That just might not be that bad of an idea.