Becoming a mom has turned me into such a visionary. And by visionary, I mean that I suddenly have a gift where I see dozens of possibilities flash seven seconds prior to Dylan acting a fool. “Gift” might be the wrong word for something that inevitably results in high blood pressure and an early onset of gray hair, but this newfound mommy-vision has saved Dylan’s head from cracking open on more than one occasion, so “gift” it is. But let me tell ya, being a visionary aint all that, it’s freaking stressful!
Trying to determine the likelihood of the multiverses I sneak peak when Dylan tempts fate through acrobatic freak shows is half the torture. I see it all: broken teeth, paralysis, concussions…you name it. The other half of my perception’s torture is trying to figure out when to swoop in and shut that shit down. Sure, I may have come to terms with the fact that keeping Dylan in a bubble is illegal impossible, and I though I want him to experience the slips, trips, and falls of toddlerhood, avoiding the emergency room would be nice.
I’m beginning to think my mommy-vision emerged from a survival instinct because obviously Dylan’s trying to kill me. I mean, why else would he transform seemingly safe things into suicidal instruments? Sure, my expectations for a toddler’s sensibility may be a tad out of touch but really Dylan? Is it really necessary to fall four feet to the ground in order to realize that standing on top of a slide isn’t a good idea? “Look Mom! No hands!” Classic show off.
So should you catch me running to the aid of my perfectly fine baby seconds prior to him stepping off a curb, know that it’s not just helicopter mom activating the chopper, I’m practically psychic! Honestly, I just saved the day in at least a hundred ways. I’m “gifted” like that.
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