Put simply, babies are experts in attacking their parents from day dot. Mums in particular seem to bear the brunt of their aggression, having their appetites, energy levels, bladders and stomach muscles used and abused before we’ve even met them. But, like vampires, we invited them in so really can’t complain. They were just doing their thing and we were generally, pretty happy to accommodate.
As newborns, the attacks may become less direct, but are still at large. Their marks can be clearly evidenced under and around the eyes of all new parents – again, Mums especially.
Hair, another previously nameless victim of the baby attack sits uselessly in shower drains and the palm of our hands, a sad sign of the carnage that baby carrying has left behind. Battle scars of the stomach, skin and pelvic floor prove that the attacking baby shows no mercy and will never let you forget your bonded history. Lastly, I would speak, if I could of the most tragic attack – that of the boobs; but quite frankly, the fact that they are now but a shadow of their former, perky selves is depressing enough without reliving the gruesome details of their destruction.
As the baby grows, gains weight, strength and character, the attacks intensify in both their frequency and levels of physical violence. As parents, where do we stand with this, and how do we combat? Do these perpetrators babies have the right to abuse us on a daily basis? Are their killer smiles and delighted squeals compensation for their actions or a mere masquerade of their true colours?
My charming baby fools me every time, tricking me into seeing ‘Beat up Mummy time’ as a fun and affectionate activity, and my body and spirit are beginning to pay the price. Who knew childbirth was the least of it in the pain department? Prior to having children, I thought I’d be getting the autonomy over my body back at this stage, not losing further rights and the ability to ever wear a necklace again (an easy and dangerous weapon to those darn babies). Regardless of precautions taken though, where there’s a will there’s a way with these wily creatures… They will take whatever they have, and they will hurt you with it.
Baby Weapons of choice:
- The hard side of a dummy, banged forcefully and repeatedly over your head
- Weird super baby strength, usually applied to your stomach or bladder by way of a forceful kick
- Headbutts and hair pulls disguised as affection
- Several teeth, firm gums and a shark like grab around your cheek, nose and stomach. Jaws ain’t got nothing on these kids and yes, they will leave bite marks
And don’t even get me started on their little, perfectly placed hands, stinging my cheek like a bee when used quickly and repeatedly in the morning while I am still waking. Defence reflexes down, I have even less chance of protecting myself from the tiny opportunist bully.
I have tried saying no, I have tried ignoring and I have tried distraction. The only thing that occasionally works is turning the assault into a massive tickle session, which although results in some collateral damage (baby finger in the eye usually), at least provides some respite from the PURE PAIN I must otherwise endure. The flaw in this plan however is him now remembering that violence precedes his much loved tickle time and instigating with increased frequency, the whole caboodle. He appears to see it all as some sort of game. Really, he’s just so childish.
So try as I might to hold on to my thinned out precious hair, or enjoy a face free of baby slobber and teeth marks, it seems these sufferings are inevitable until our baby gets old enough to find more inventive ways of hurting me. In the meantime, I will enjoy the silver linings which all boringly and predictably centre round the warm feeling and happiness bubble his joyous squeaks, belly laughs and pride in his work and abuse leave me with.
I am aware that if anyone else were to pull my hair, scratch my face, wipe their nose on my shoulder and punch me repeatedly on the head, I would have taken action long before now, irrespective of how gleeful they were about it; and I would most certainly be ending the friendship. It’s somehow a bit different with babies though… Well at least, this baby. So ok, the next baby who attacks me, who isn’t my own, will face repercussions. No messing. What exactly I plan to do I’m not quite sure. It might be no more than running away as quickly as possible, but at least it’s a choice that I don’t have with my own offspring (he follows, scarily quickly).
Yes, I feel a bit more assertive now and slightly in control. Better there is only one mini human that has me quivering in my boots. I can live with that, right? Even if it is under a daily cloud of dark, cold fear.
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