Dancing with Scars

           
           “Open.”  Yasmine clamped her mouth as I balanced her on the counter, trying to force the medicine filled syringe into the 18-month old twin. 
              Laken sat wailing on the kitchen floor, desiring my attentions, but not the icky medicine that came with it.
              There was something to be said about sharing when it came to sickness, but so far, gumming of every toy and slurping each other’s drinks at every opportunity made prevention almost impossible. 
              Each time I came in the proximity of her gaping, screaming mouth, Yasmine clamped it shut.  I squeezed past her gums and pushed the plunger in. 
              At the same time she pressed her tongue against it.
             She looked triumphant as a tiny dribble bubbled down her chin.  The rest had exploded onto my shirt, face and arms in a splatter of pink, sticky goo.    
             I grit my teeth in a manic, sleep-deprived smile that came across somewhat like The Joker.  “Come on, it tastes yummy!”  My voice rose into that falsetto sing-song adults used for small children and those they fear a bit addled.  “Like bubblegum.”    
             Laken had fallen silent.  Not good.
            I snuck a peek. She was reaching for the dog dish. “Laken, no!” 
           This, of course, only expedited her progress toward the food and water dish combo, strangely prohibited despite closely resembling tasty cereal.
             I scooped Yasmine up and hustled across the kitchen floor. 
             I almost made it.
             Laken grabbed the dish and flipped it, spilling dog food and water across the kitchen floor in a flood of marble-like kernels that sought my feet.
            Unable to stop the momentum I’d built up, I shuffled around with one arm flailing for balance as the other clutched Yasmine to my hip.  She protested as we skated around in a manic dance.
            Laken looked on with interest while Bummy glared.   Ticked off that in addition to endless torture by twin terrors his dinner was now being utilized for entertainment.
            As my feet surrendered to the inevitable and flew out from under me, spraying dog food to all corners of the kitchen, maternal instinct kicked in.  I pulled Yasmine to my front, protecting her from being crushed…but leaving me with nothing to break my fall.
           The finale to the macabre dance ended abruptly as I landed on my back with a thump.  Wet mushy dog food soaked into my hair and slimy, dog-tongued water seeped into my every crevice.       
            Yasmine continued screeching.  She hadn’t foreseen our jerky, sporadic jig ending so rudely.  Laken wailed as the fun had concluded and she remembered I was holding her sister. Leaving her sitting on the floor with an irritated dog looking everything like a toy except for the sharp teeth, rotten breath and slightly crazed expression.
          Motionless for the first time today, I was unsure whether I wanted to get up.  My body protested any movement after the painful landing. 
          I pondered…perhaps this was what was meant about not sweating the small stuff when you’re lying in a pile of wet stuff.