“Hiiiiiiiii-YAAAAAAAAAA” he yells, as he careens around the corner, pops up onto the back of the couch, and catapults himself into my lap on the living room floor. A tangle of wiry, thin 5 year old limbs collide with mine as I try to catch him, my arms instinctively wrapping around his back to brace his fall.
My voice leaves my body before I can think to stop it. “MAX!” I yell! “Be careful!” He looks up at me with wide eyes, that quickly dissolve into a furrowed brow. “I’m sorry, Mommy.” he mumbles. “I was just trying to….”. And I cut him off. “It’s ok. You’re not in trouble. You just need to warn me before you do that, so that you don’t hurt my body….or yours.” And then, from the other side of the room, I hear it.
“YAAAAAAAAAA!” My 20 month old is running towards us on chubby, wobbly legs. He bounces off the sofa and lands like a final domino on top of his brother, who is still on top of me, who is still on the floor.
It’s only 4pm. We still have an hour before dinner time. 90 minutes before bath time. 120 minutes before we’re snuggling together in Max’s bed, reading books and finally slowing down. I’ve heard it called the witching hour, but in my house, it’s like Boys Gone Wild…
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