I know how I will die.
It's bound to be Austin.
I know, it seems every few months I announce that a different child "will be the death of me." But this time I'm sure of it.
He's two. I don't know if we'll both make it to his third birthday. It's not me that is going to try and take him out. It's him. He's got more zeal than brains and is constantly doing things that end up disfiguing himself in some way. Take the last 8 days for example, Austin has: run through a window, landing on the concrete of the front porch. Busted his eyebrow on a piece of playground equipment, walked right in front of a fast swing (my friend scooped him up and saved his life), intentionally ejected from a swing while still going at full speed (same friend caught him before he hit the ground). Caught a stomach bug, sliced the end of his thum with Mike's razor, fell off the edge of the couch and sliced his bottom lip --talk about a lot of blood. It was a deep cut! We won't even try to count the times he whacked his head on the coffee table or ran into chairs or tripped over rugs...
I can't keep up with any of my other jobs for trying to keep this child alive! (at least that's what I'm blaming my dirty floor on).
Then there's the flooding of the bathroom that happened yesterday. The child locks himself (intentionally) in the bathroom, stops up the drain, turns the water on and sits on the counter and plays. I'm not sure how long he was in there before I broke through and grabbed every towel in sight to try and save the walls and floors...
Then there's Brady. Lord help that boy. If I turn my back, Austin will be on Brady's head, or will be riding him like a horse or his favorite jumping over him, pretending to trip and landing on the poor child.
Brady may not make it to Austin's third birthday either.
I pity the woman who has to raise this child's babies. Remind me to send her flowers and bandaid coupons often.