How come nobody ever puts punching bag, jungle gym, or crash test dummy in with the list of descriptions of what a mother is? Everyday I am climbed on, crashed into, stepped on, pinched, headbutted, thrown at, hit, and occasionally bit or get my hair pulled, while at the same time trying to step cautiously through a mine field of toys though I always manage to step on those little matchbox cars with the sharp edges (the worst is the ones hiding beneath soft looking blankets so conveniently scattered at random on the floor). And not to mention all the elbows, hands, and knees that think my stomach, chest, or hips are convenient anchoring points for them to get more comfortable.
Now that it's warmer weather I look at the kids' legs with clusters of bruises and think, man, what they go through in a day and then I realize that my legs look just as bad, not to mention arms, hips, thighs, feet, well, you get the picture. Anyway, I guess now I know why I try and spend as much time as possible secluded on the couch-- it's pure defense.