I don't know about you, but sometimes I wonder how my heart keeps on beating after all it's been put through.
I can't count how many mini-heart attacks I've had since the day Jonz became mobile. Since Al and Goose started moving on their own, I think the average number of mini-heart attacks per day is up to 12.
Everything seems to scare the tick right outta my ticker.
Every trip seems to be right toward a sharp corner or at the top of the stairs.
Every arm pulled back is going to send a toy flying into the head of a brother.
Every single time they pause going up or down the stairs I'm sure they're going to fall down them.
Every stumble flashes horrible thoughts through my head- head injury. Broken bones. Brain damage. Death.
And let's not mention this weekend when I brought all the boys into the open garage, turned to lift something out of the garage, thought "Lindsey, you can't not be looking at the boys for as long as it will take to get this out. That's asking for trouble. Put them back in the house, move this, THEN they can come out," turned back around to shepherd the boys inside only to see Al and Goose running feet from the street to pet a dog on the other side and a car coming far too fast for a family neighborhood. I think that one was worth fifty heart attacks right there. Not only did my heart suffer, my insides disappear, and my body become this super-human thing jumping, tripping, and flying over obstacles (how'd they get out here so fast?!?!?!) to get there in time, but my poor neighbor across the street about had a heart attack, too.
Seriously, how does this heart keep on beating when it has been forced to stop so many times?
Am I alone? Or is medical miracle something every mother is blessed with?