Miss three was strutting her stuff all over the lounge room, performing a series of elaborate dance moves, one of which involved giant windmill arms.
It was a fantastic collaboration, made only better by the music, which was also preformed by miss three, an original number, combining the most irritating segments from both The ABC's and row row row your boat.
So there she was, row, row, rowing her fabulous windmill arms around the place when I left the room to put on a load of washing, and mere seconds later, I heard an almighty crack.
Now once you birth your young, there is always a short pause that follows every unexpected loud noise, parents all over the world stop mid task, like a mir cat, ears straining, listening for wailing, muscles tensed at the ready to run in and save the day.
Being a rather tense sort of parent anyway, my parenting pause often involves a thought process that inevitably involves a disastrous out come.
The TV or something equally heavy has fallen on a small child, perhaps there has been a fall from the kitchen bench, the ceiling has caved in, the fireplace has exploded.... something like that.
I have also been in the parenting game long enough to know that I'm really just an up tight weirdo, rarely is the out come as my mind would have me believe, and try as I might to over react, my body never cooperates, and moves at a slow and calm pace to go and inspect the latest disaster, and although every fibre in my body is screaming RUN!! THE END OF THE WORLD IS NIGH!! I am pretty good at keeping that shit in check on the out side.
Now, this particular crack was followed by a rather forced whine.. You know the kind that usually stirs little alarm, rarely are the children committed to the cry whole heatedly and it is usually just noise.
often the protest does not even have enough gusto to alter facial expression nor the activity they are currently involved in.
After inspecting the latest noise, and from what I could decipher from the broken English of small children, and lack of smoldering fireplace or ceiling debris, one of Miss threes giant windmill arms had come into contact with the underside of the dining room table, requiring nothing more than a swift kiss, a brisk rub and a cautionary word to be more careful next time.
All was quickly forgotten.
About an hour later Miss three came waddling over to me, arm outstretched, "Look" she said. I looked down and saw a large round red and purple bruise on her wrist, I was sure it was her other arm I had rubbed and kissed better, had she windmilled into the table with both arms?
I inspected the bruise, putting pressure on it, asking the usual questions, "where does it hurt?" "wiggle your fingers"and so on....
Miss three was insisting that it was not hurting, but the large angry, oddly circular bruise insisting it was.
Feeling like Neglectorino's Mother of the year, I called cabbage, and the doctor to make an appointment, surely a bruise of that nature, painful or not required further investigation.
As soon as I hung up from the doctors office I looked over at Miss three now laying upside down on the lounge watching Dinosaur Train chucking a massive leggy as they do before any shred of dignity has developed, when I saw it.
She had balled her little fist and was contentedly sucking on her wrist, still missing the comfort of her dummy we turfed months ago.
The bruise was nothing more than a giant hickey.
I called the doctor back to explain that I doubted a love bite required an X-ray and cancelled the appointment, and made myself a strong cup of coffee, muttering something along the lines of ...You children will be the death of me, as is protocol and myself and Sucky McHickey wrist carried on with our day as usual.