Softening the blow

Monkey Boy decided he needed a cuddle. So, at bedtime, and in order to obtain me purely for himself, he asked for a cuddle in my bed, away from the frivolity and jumpiness of his youngest brother.

I relented and we were snuggled under the doona, having very important discussions like What Would You Do If The Droids From Star Wars Invaded Earth? I’m pretty sure I asked how school was going, but obviously not.

Then, he farted.

I called him on it.

“Noooo,” he says innocently. “It wasn’t me.”

Then, to prove it, he grabbed the doona and pulled it up hard.

I was Dutch Ovened by my eleven-year-old!

In the process he also managed to punch me in the face. Equally as hard as he pulled the doona up, and square on the nose. This forced my jaw to snap shut and smash my teeth against each other.

I tired very hard not to cry, as the experts tell you not to do stuff like that in front of your kids. I’m not sure why I put so much effort into it, as he was giggling hysterically and probably wouldn’t have noticed.

Not long after, he climbed out of bed, leaving me there to die, and walked out the door. He stopped, looked over his shoulder and said “I love you, Mum. You’re a good mum.”

I’m not sure if he meant it, or if he was just feeling really, really guilty and had to make up for it.

Or maybe he considered me a good mum because I didn’t attempt to suffocate him with a pillow or kick him in the kneecaps.

Just so we’re clear, I would have, but I was incapacitated.

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