Bad furniture, bad!

Right eye

Hard-headed through and through.

The furniture has been unkind to my children.

Two nights ago I slept peacefully. I may have heard the thump, but my subconscious didn't register as quickly as DADable's. He set off the alarms by thumping my side of the bed, in another successful campaign to ensure mommy is on the clock 24/7. With the aid of his gentle touch, I sprang to action, put an ear to the walls and attempted to decipher the cry. I headed to HUGable's room and found her in a clump on the floor.

Six months ago, I had a bed rail new in the box. I sold it after realizing it didn't fit on the crib mattress turned toddler bed. Perhaps D and I were shortsighted in that we now have her in a twin where the rails most certainly would have fit. Instead, we rationalized that we didn't have crib rails as children, so ours would probably be okay, too. Probably.

This is at least her second fall out of the bed. The first fall saw her landing on the wooden ducky step stool located at the side of the bed. After relocating the stool, I thought we'd be golden. Not so. I couldn't have predicted an "unobstructed" fall would result in a shiner, and I'm still musing over the angles and location where she must have hit. I will retaliate against the edges of this bed by padding it with blankets.

That bed is not long for this family. After moving it from purchase place to its current resting place, we decided that we will have someone pay us for their opportunity to haul it away. Long live craigslist, anyway.

The next piece of furniture on the chopping block came to us from DADable in the joining of our households prior to marriage. This little gem dates back to his youth. Along with the ranch oak couch and love seat (in serious need of an upholstery cleansing) came a dresser - the only piece of the collection I won't let go - and a wooden ottoman that has been missing its cushion for who-knows-how-long and now serves as a little shorty table for the kids in KISSable's room.

I was within two arms lengths away from that little shorty table but should seen that the pointy corner coming. No such luck, MOMunable.

HUGable lugged a box of diapers into sister's room. She opened the box, removed the diapers, and used the box as a toy. Score for the kids, right? No, disaster imminent. The first one climbed in, then the second climbed in. The first climbed out and the second claimed the throne. KISSable, like her big sister before her, drove the boxcar for awhile.

She stood up and leaned forward to shift her weight and throw one leg over. She tipped, and I scooped her into my arms before she reacted to the shock of impact. But the cry quickly increased into a loud, uncontrollable wailing shriek. Poor little honey! Upon inspection, I saw a bump on the forehead and a purple point of impact that hadn't decided whether or not it would bleed. I headed for the ice first, but she pushed that away still crying. When I could not find the first-aid supplies or Baby Tylenol, I called D in a panic but could not communicate my message or hear his response over baby girl's sobs. So I toted the baby out to the car and brought the first aid kit back inside. I wiped a few drops of blood that materialized, added ointment, Band-aid and checked again for the Tylenol. Found it, double checked dosing requirements and she gratefully accepted it.

*

The message? Don't call me in a crisis. Slow to think and slower to act. We saved the day and made some beautiful musical shakers, ate lunch at the park. But we were greeted by the "Oh, what happened here?" and I realized my gorgeous girls looked sorrier than the boys from Fight Club. The unkind furniture gives MOMable the appearance of being an unfit mother.