Amazing

My children are amazing.  I don't mean that in a delusional sort of way, where I hold onto the believe that my own offspring are far more superior than everyone else's.  The fact that my youngest stuck a toy car into his bare buttocks today proves otherwise.  Being their mother, however, I get the chance to observe them far more frequently than most other kids, so it would follow that they are the ones who constantly amaze me, although my observations, I'm pretty sure, can be transferred to most children.  Because this is my blog, however, I am going to discuss why my children are amazing, and you can relax  knowing that most of what is said about the amazingness of my children can be applied to yours as well (with the exception of the car/butt incident.  Nothing amazing about that).

Why my children are amazing #1:  They are made out of rubber. 
This is the only reason I can figure as to why my children aren't in full body casts.  The things they do to their little frames is truly frightening: sliding down the stairs face first--on purpose (I had to clarify because if I ever did such a thing it certainly would be an accident, a very terrible accident), racing across a field full throttle in a bent over position while pushing a toy dump truck and not breaking a sweat (how can that not be painful, let alone fun?), playing tornado on a daily basis (directions:  spin around as fast as you can for as long as you can until you are impossibly dizzy.  Fall.  Repeat.), and other activities that attempt to defeat the laws of physics.  Sure, we go through a fair number of bandages (one of the items, along with batteries and diapers, I wish I would have bought stock in prior to having children).  But these cuts and scrapes heal.  The fact is that children just don't pull their groins or their hips or whatever impossibly dumb injury I have.  Because, like Tigger, their tops are made out of rubber, and their bottoms are made out of springs.  (It just dawned on me that A.A. Milne must have had children of his own.

Why my children are amazing #2:  Their youthfulness.
"You can only by young once.  But you can always be immature."  How right you are, Dave Barry, but I'd trade that immaturity in a heartbeat to have the perfect, smooth, blemish-free skin that my boys have, to eat a cupcake without worrying how many calories you are going to be sending to your rear end (we all know kids metabolize food differently than adults, sending any calories that enter their bodies directly to their legs, arms, and mouths, turning them into little energizer bunnies that talk), to have a face that expresses "innocence" rather than "haggardness."  There was a time when I wasn't getting injured every other month, where I could almost get away with going makeupless and not scaring people, where I could eat pretty much what I wanted, when I wanted.  It was in my twenties.  And it has definitely expired, leaving me to spend more time looking less attractive, to eat less and have to exercise more and still not lose weight, and to work at temporarily displacing the look of exasperation that has become a permanent feature of my face.  I should probably stop here, I'm depressing myself even further.  Which is another amazing thing about my kids:  they don't get depressed.

Why my children are amazing #:  They can surprise you in the most wonderful ways.
Having dealt with my upper limit of temper tantrums today, I was mildly peeved (read: about to lose my mind) when my oldest started crying AGAIN, this time after he had gone to bed, because HE wanted to sleep with the train book, not the rascally little brother who had thought of it first.  It being well past the hour where I mentally punch out on the parenting clock, I hoped I could just ignore the intermittent cries until he just gave it up and went to sleep.  45 minutes later and the cries continued.  Desperate for some quiet, I marched upstairs with the resolve to end the crying--just resolve, no plan.  Duct tape?  Smothering with a pillow?  I was gonna wing it.  "WHAT DO YOU WANT???"  I stupidly asked, fully prepared to hear something about train books and little brothers and the unfairness of the world.  "I just want to give you a hug," came the quiet and teary response.  Well, what do you say to that, except to snuggle with the little guy, who quietly told me he loved me (even though at that point I was just about as unlovable as you can get), and to thank God for this quiet and beautiful gift to close out  my day.

My children are amazing.