"My baby beat me up ... No, it is not the worst excuse I ever thought up."

Abbie uses a clear sign* when she’s done eating: she throws it. I’m trying to break her of this habit through a strict regimen of telling her to not throw things the first time she does it, and repeating myself after every subsequent toss. My goal is to eventually teach her non-throwing methods to tell me she’s done, ideally with the words “I’m done,” although for now I’ll also accept screaming or just sitting there looking sullen.

She doesn’t throw everything at once, just each course as she finishes. When she finishes her yogurt, the bowl goes on the floor. The spoon follows onto the floor shortly thereafter, and finally the dog hits the floor to clean up the mess.

I was doing the dinner dance yesterday, that’s the maneuver where I scramble about the kitchen cleaning up the boys after eating, keeping Abbie’s plate full, and, when I’m really lucky, spending time preparing my dinner. Abbie threw her juice cup as I two-stepped past her chair. I stooped down to catch it on the first bounce, missed, but corralled it on the second bounce. I then triumphantly stood up, and thwacked my head on the corner of an open cabinet door. It hurt. A lot. I crumpled on the floor writhing in pain, but preserved my dignity by not screaming any foul language, instead I muttered unintelligible grunts.

As I lay there feeling a little blood and possibly brain matter oozing out, I realized this must be how the boys feel. They conk their heads several times every day. Such are the hazards of life when you’re top heavy, lack the muscular system to balance properly, and have a sadistic sister. Sometimes their tumbles have nothing to do with Abbie, like when their walk-behind gets a little ahead of their feet. Far too often, though, Abbie is standing near them as they scream with a grin on her face.

Their ordeals rarely leave a mark, but right now Ian is sporting two wounds on his head, but Abbie-related. Usually she shoves them to the ground when they have something she wants, like a toy or her parents’ attention, but his current wounds were inadvertent.

First is an inch-long gash on the top of his head that he collected several days ago. He got that while innocently playing by the entertainment center. Abbie was climbing on top of the center in direct violation of our house rules. Apparently she felt raiding the sucker stash was worth risking a stern warning about climbing on the entertainment center. As she slinked along the top she knocked a basket off the edge. The basket landed edge first on his head, drawing a little blood, and demanding my comfort while Abbie gleefully enjoyed her suckers.

The second wound came in the bathtub. Abbie likes to keep moving in the tub to make it harder for the soap to catch her. As she rose to stride from one end to the other, she stuck her hands out to help stand. One hand caught the edge of the tub and supported her weight; the other caught Ian’s head, which didn’t support her weight, at least not until his forehead collided with the side of the tub. Again he needed comfort, and Abbie obliviously picked up her targeted bath toy.

Now Ian has a large bruise on his forehead to go with the gash on top of his head. I’m guessing that gash matches the one on top of my head, not that I can see the top of my head. It still hurts today, but it’s healing.

As I lay on the floor, bleeding from a low-level head trauma, Abbie did the only thing she knew how to do: She laughed at that silly daddy curled up on the floor. Then she threw her sippy cup full of milk in my direction, which fortunately missed me. I need to teach her a better way of signaling that she’s done before she develops a better throwing arm.

* I inadvertently typed “sin” at first. Typo, or Freudian slip?