Battleship sunk

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It’s a direct hit! Baby sunk my battleship.

1. I sit in a restaurant waiting for my breakfast companion. From his highchair, Cliff chucks his toy ambulance, and it hits the only thing on the table (paper-napkin-rolled silverware sets aside): my coffee cup. Direct hit! Complete coffee explosion. Reinforcements have to be called to wipe up the spill.

2. I sit with Lillian and try to help her find a picture in a Marian art book. It’s a painting of the slaughtering of the Holy Innocents. (Yes. I know. I’m stashing money for therapy.) We quietly look at the pages. Then smash, out of no where, baby boy whips a triangular block at me. Direct hit! Right in the nose. Split skin. Blood and everything.

3. In the bathroom, cleaning up the split nose. Viewing damage. Cliffy comes in  blowing booger bubbles from his nose. Sparing the details, it’s disgusting. I grab a tissue, pick him up, his head thrashing to avoid the wipe (he’s had his nose wiped enough for one day). Lickity split. Direct hit! He has a death grip on my glasses. Rips them off my face. I’m dodging his flailing arms for fear one of the temples is going to end up in my eye. Try to save glasses. Nose pad flies off. Spend the rest of the day with a band-aid wrapped around the remnant metal that still gouges a hole into my already wounded nose.

4. Cliff, with all of his excited and apple-cider-full belly pukes on the chenille sofa. Direct hit! No details necessary.

Battle weary, battleship sunk. Never, ever buy chenille furniture, no matter how comfortable it is.

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