And The Winner Is...

A smartly-dressed man in a tux (need I describe the tux? Aren't they all the same?) and shiny shoes stands beside a woman in a sparkly dress (need I describe the dress? Oh. Ok. Well then, it is cut very low and cut very high with ruffles that hide a tell-tale bump, OR possibly that the actress has chosen to eat this week, who knows which bump type we're looking at?).  

In 5, 4, (silent) 3, 2, ...

"Thanks for sticking with us tonight! It's been a long evening with even longer speeches, so let's just cut to the chase, here, shall we?  And, the nominees for "Fastest Getaway from a Restaurant" are..." the man gives a toothy smile.

The model-turned-actress continues, shakily, with a high-pitched nervous voice, "Lactose Intolerant Couple Orders Fettuccine Alfredo and Ice Cream (applause), Group of Teens with $200 Worth of Entrées and not a Buck Between Them (applause), and The Sunnen Family After Kiddo #1 Puts Her Front Tooth Through Her Lip."  

And the winner is ... 

I turn off my TV. I know how this awards show ends. And it's not as glamorous as it sounds, either. The thing about parenting is that at some point even the most practiced drama queens and kings become masters of the silent-stomach-turn. 

When I was a kid, I could have played professional soccer. Not in the I-have-any-aptitude-for-soccer sense, but in the I-can-turn-wind-brushing-my-face-into-4th-degree-paralysis-in-front-of-a-crowd way. I didn't take any dives (I didn't actually ever play soccer), but let's just say that living with me for 20 years has turned my family into highly tuned bullshit detectors.  I think, in their next lives, my family members will be parts of like, Navy Seals or Green Berets or High School Teachers. No kidding. 

So, the transformation from: award winning dramatic actress to: able to see a building explode and only feel slightly annoyed that the hot wind ruined my hair, was an incredible thing.  

Something happened to me when Kiddo #1 was about 7 months old. As she was trying to figure out crawling, and generally getting more mobile, she also became incredibly danger prone. I learned quickly that if I reacted dramatically to her bonking her head on the coffee table, she would mirror my reaction, and then add to it 10 times or until absolute hysteria, whichever came first. 

And, now that she's almost four, I'm so desensitized to random acts of extreme personal injury, that I can watch Youtube fail videos without even flinching.

Today I heard thunkthunkthunkthunkthunkthunk Aaaahhh thunkthunkthunk, turned my head toward the sound, and saw Kiddo #1 spread eagle, going head first down the stairs to the basement. Wha what? I don't know how she began falling down the stairs head first, but I was pretty impressed that she'd figured out to spread out her arms and legs and pin herself between the walls. This kid is gonna do ok at her first sorority party. 

But, her crying reaction was lessoned a lot by my, "It's ok, are you hurt?" instead of what was screaming in my head (which, in case you're wondering, was "HOLY FRICKIN' CRIPES! HER FACE! HER LEGS! HOW IN THE?!?").  My stomach started turning just revisiting that scene in my head. Ugh. 

Oh, uh, and I'm so preoccupied with her face and legs because I just bought $150 worth of year-end recital tickets. My little Tap and Ballet dancer CANNOT ruin herself before the recital. Rather, she WILL perform in full body cast if she has to. Momma can add some Velcro to the rainbow tutu, but my baby will perform. lol Stage Moms. Gotta love 'em. 

And tonight, at dinner, I turned to see her head bouncing up and down excitedly, and watched, in silent horror, as she hit her mouth on the chair back.  In slow motion, I watched her front tooth go through her bottom lip and I actually threw up a little in my mouth. My stomach heaved and my uterus contracted (I'm not sure why that last part happened, but I figure it must be the female equivalent to the "Ugh" reaction all men have when they see a guy get hit in the testes.) and all I did was sit there. Husband looked over once he noticed my deadpan expression (the anti-expression is a much bigger alert in our house, than an actual wince) and scooped up Kiddo #1 and began applying ice, water, ice water, and hugs.  Of course, when the pain is real, so are the screams. So I hustled (with Grandma) down to the bathroom and got Kiddo #1 cleaned up and mostly ok.  

Now that the bleeding has stopped, Kiddo #1 is proud of her fat lip and excited that she got to watch a movie before going to bed. I, on the other hand, will probably need serious therapy for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Every time I close my eyes, I see her face hitting the back of the chair. I also hear the sound of a tooth going through her chin, but I'm pretty sure that sound is one I've stolen from an episode of CSI, since there was no way I actually heard her tooth impaling her flesh. It was a pretty crowded, noisy place.

Have I mentioned yet that Kiddo #2 decided this week he'd begin crawling, clapping, babbling and pulling himself up?  I think part of the reason Hollywood is so botox obsessed is because they don't have little kiddos that try to kill themselves on a regular basis. They have to use drugs to make their faces look like mine. Wrinkle and expression free.

Not that I'm wrinkle-free; the ones I have are from laughing, smiling and playing with my family, so I don't count them anyways. And on that note, I'm going to hustle myself upstairs in my cut too low, cut too high pajama pants and tank top and take my Oscar out of the freezer. Those things make great boo-boo healers when they're cold and I need some more snuggles from Kiddo #1 before she goes to bed.