It's bedtime. Things are supposed to be calm now.

Yeah.  Right.

*sigh* Only my children... only my children.

We got home from church just about an hour ago.  Bedtime for the littles and quiet time for us. Woohoo!

Assuming we can actually get them into bed.

Steve: "Hunter, get your shoes off like you were told."
Me: "Heather, I told you to get changed into pajamas."
Me: "No, Hunter, you may NOT have any cake."
Me: "Not a princess dress; your PAJAMAS, Heather!"
Steve: "Sarah, is your homework done yet??"
Me: "Someone feed the cats. They're convinced they're on the brink of starvation again."
Me: "Why don't I hear anyone brushing their teeth?"
Hunter: "Can't we play some more? We're not tired!"
Heather: "Mom! Jack's stealing Snow White again!!"
Steve: "Whose coat is this flung into my recliner??"
Hunter: "I don't want to wear a shirt!"
Sarah: "Mom! What was the public reaction when Truman fired MacArthur?"
Me: *flustered and not really listening* "Who's Truman and what's a MacArthur?"
Sarah: "MacArthur's that guy that went rogue and dropped an A-bomb on Korea."
Steve: "Say that again? What history book are they teaching you out of??"
Heather: "I don't want to take my medicine!"
Hunter: "I'll take it!"

Eventually we got them into bed. Finally, peace and quiet.

Or not.

I heard the ~CRACK~ from the other end of the house.

In the 5 seconds or so it took me to get to them, Hunter had blood running down his face and through his fingers from a wound I couldn't see through the dark spot pooling and matting the hair at his hairline. Heather was sitting on her bed screaming at the top of her lungs that it was an accident, but wouldn't stop declaring her innocence long enough to explain just WHAT had happened.

I knew my panic-free thinking was about to run out and screamed bloody murder for Steve to come take over Hunter's care while I ran downstairs for wet towels, buckets of water, bandages, dry towels, peroxide, cotton balls, medical tape, surgical thread, needles, staple gun... you get the idea.

By the time I got back upstairs, Steve had gotten Hunter's head cleaned up enough to determine that he would not be needing reconstructive surgery despite my preparations.  They were busy trying to clean the blood off of his face, arm, chest, and hands so I inspected the small hole that looked remarkably like someone had stabbed my son in the head with a ballpoint pen.

Heather had stopped yowling and I asked her what had happened.  She informed us that she was trying to get Hunter's light up pillow pet back onto his bed and didn't mean to hit him with it.

Wait.  Did she say a pillow pet?? One of those soft, huggable, plush toys that get folded up into pillows because they're so cuddly??
How in the blazes could she do that much damage with fluff??
Oh right;  these pillow pets light up.

Battery compartment.

Which, upon further investigation, we discovered had been broken over our son's head.  Literally.

We have to buy another pillow pet.

Now MY head hurts.