The Lessons Of The Sleeves

I never imagined how hard it would be to be a mother. The way these kidlets are central to my heart was something I had expected--what I am constantly surprised by is the way that I am so fiercely protective. It causes me a literal physical pain when I see my darling, my wonderful, my so painfully fragile little ones confront the hard things in life.

When the Pony was a tiny little baby--about four months old--there was nothing she hated more than sleeves. She'd lie on the changing table, smiling and happy, until it was time to put her arms into sleeves, and then she would cry and cry and CRY.

I was rather proud of myself for persisting. I was even able to say to her "Honey, if sleeves are the worst thing that happens to you, you are one lucky girl." I'm sure she understood me, right?

But still! Every hard lesson comes at a price--paid by me! I want to keep them safe, even more than I want it for myself. But you can't.

I mean that. Literally. You can't.

The other day, the Bunny was taking a shower. I was in the very! next! room! when I heard a blood curdling scream. The shrieking! The decibles! It was unbelievable! It was the kind of sound you'd expect to hear when a knife wielding hocky mask wearing psycho rips aside the shower curtain. The sound when a face pushes its way out of the wall and intones the warnings of an oncoming hell.

It was, in fact, the sound of shampoo in the eye.

I guess, if life is safe, the little things feel as invasive as the truly horrible things feel to the average person. This, my chickadees, is the lesson of the sleeves.