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This past Tuesday night Brian was working late which meant I was tasked with performing the bed time routine on my own. It's always an adventure in patience. "Okay, time to get jammies on. Time to brush teeth" are repeated so often the words are rendered meaningless.

We got home from dinner at my girlfriend's house and the boys were still coming down from their ice cream sandwich high. I let them bounce on Charlie's bed for a good 5 minutes with the hopes that it would tire them out. Oh naive Mommy, that just got them even more riled up.

I gave the 'Let's settle down' warning which was promptly ignored. The bouncing and giggling both continued elevating. Finally Charlie took a giant leap about 4 feet in the air, coming down square on top of Gregory's head with his jaw, then proceeded to sweep his legs out from under him as he rolled off the bed. Gregory flew like a Russian gymnast. Spiraling through the air, he landed on his head in such an awkward position, I was certain he had broken his neck.

To date I've been a pretty cool customer when faced with an injured child. I act calmly and rationally, applying pressure, Neosporin, or the Heimlich Maneuver when appropriate. But this was the first time one of the injuries could have been life altering. It looked so bad and I did not handle it well. Let me preface this next part by saying that I am not proud of my behavior.

Charlie is holding his mouth, screaming in pain. Gregory is making howling noises like an injured dog. As I go to straighten him out (he looks not unlike an accordion), I trip over Charlie's guitar; the one that was supposed to be put away prior to jumping on the bed. I stub my toe so hard it's probably broken and almost fall on top of Gregory. It's official, I have been pushed over the edge. I grab the guitar and smash it on the ground like I'm Jimi Hendrix reincarnated and let out the most primal scream, "Ahhhh! Charlie, move this stupid, flipping guitar."

Gregory is in my arms hysterical as I feel every bone in his body, frantically yelling, "What hurts? Tell Mommy what hurts?" Charlie is crying, "I'm hurt, too. I'm hurt, too." I grab him and hug him, checking his teeth and jaw. Everything is in tact and there is no sign of blood.
"You're fine", I say and get back to Gregory, who is at least moving but looking a little dazed as an enormous black and blue egg forms on his head.
Charlie starts crying even harder, "You broke my guitar. You broke my guitar. Waaaaahhhh."

For the record, I did feel bad about losing control, but not about smashing that guitar. Charlie had broken it the week after Christmas when he decided to jump on top of it like a trampoline. It also spent the better part of the month at the top of the linen closet in a permanent state of time out. Gregory wanted to see if he could make music by cracking the guitar against the back of his brother's head. Then Charlie and his buddy cut all of the strings off, rendering it unplayable. The guitar was living on borrowed time. I simply helped it along to it's grave, and probably in a more dignified manner.

Things inevitably quieted down. No trip to the ER, thankfully. I apologized for yelling and breaking the guitar, but explained that I was really scared that Gregory had gotten hurt. None of us made the best choices that evening, and we discussed how we could do things differently.

The next morning I overheard Charlie say to Brian, "Daddy, Mommy broke my guitar. Can I bring it to school for share?" I did a full sprint from the kitchen into the living room, "Honey, that guitar has lots of sharp pieces, I don't think it's safe to take it to school. And for the record, it was already broken."