Censored

Years ago, my brother said "Man, that hurts like a mother!"

He said that within earshot of my mother who raised one eyebrow and said "And what, exactly, does a 'mother' hurt like?"

Hey, Mom. I found out.

Yesterday, I tripped on my own feet and shoved my toes, in forceful fashion, into the edge of the closet door. Hobbling out to the couch to nurse my wounded foot, and pride, I was wimpering to myself when Thing 2 came over, in his two year old way, to see what the problem was. He was carrying, of all things, a tennis racquet. Which he, of course, swung right into the injured toes.

I yelped indignantly and yanked my foot away from him, swinging it off the couch and right into the path of Thing 1, who was walking by at that moment.

Howling with pain, I curled my foot towards myself and cast desperate glances at my children and around the room. Danger lurked in every corner--toys waiting to be stepped on. Sharp little shoes to do the stepping. By the end of the day, I would, of course, kick at least two toys, have at least two run-ins with small feet despite my best efforts, and have a thorough understanding of that phrase my brother used to employ.

I get it now. I'm a mother. And it does, indeed, hurt like one.