A Cautionary Tale of Painting and Parenting

We currently have a DIY project, and I have spent the past several days working on that for three hours in the morning and another three after the kids go to bed at night, on top of the day's regularly scheduled programming. Needless to say, it's exhausting. Hopefully we are nearing the completion because a repeat of this evening could prove disastrous.
I should include that I spent the entire day in my painting clothes. I did not bother to change to go to the dentist or to pick up the children from school because I didn't want to waste precious painting time swapping outfits or risk a paint smudge following me into civi clothes. That's not relevant to my tale; it's just amusing because the poor kids were mortified that I was #1 wearing overalls. and #2 said overalls were covered in paint splotches. There's no telling what the dentist thought.
Anyway, this evening I was listening to my first grader read her library book. I laid my head back, propped up my feet, and that was the last thing I remember. What kind of mother falls asleep while her child is counting on her full attention? I should feel totally horrible, but before I could even consider my actions, I awoke thinking I was being scalped. Close. Upon finishing her book and discovering I was no longer conscious, my daughter decided I looked like a good candidate for her beauty salon. My hair was being brushed, hair sprayed, and braided violently by little hands. Once the tangles (or roots) were all sufficiently pulled out, I drifted in and out of light sleep amid her hair stylist chatter. "How many children do you have? Are they a handful. I have four, can you believe it?!" I think I answered appropriately, but it's highly possible she never even paused to wait for a response. Once I was styled, she said, "Girl, you look like you could use a massage." Seconds later I bolted off the sofa because ice cold lotion was being pumped directly down the back of my shirt! "Does that feel good?" she asked. I can't swear to it, but I feel pretty certain I was being punished for falling asleep.
 So as you can see, I must get back to painting so I can get a full night's rest and give my children my undivided, alert attention lest they decide on harsher methods of waking me tomorrow.

Evolution of the Mom Arm

This morning I was driving my son to practice when I had to slam on my brakes to avoid hitting the nice person in front of me who decided rather suddenly to corner on two wheels and to conserve their turn signal life by not using it as a warning to oblivious drivers behind them. In a split second I hit the brake pedal and threw my arm across the car to keep my child from flying forward. Why do we do that? Is it a developmental reaction that has evolved since the invention of the Model T? I can see how the instant arm of protection could be useful at slow speeds back in the old days when no one wore seat belts that glued them firmly in place in a stop short situation. It wouldn't be useful in a collision though, except maybe to keep one's purse from spilling into the floor board. I've noticed that I thrust my arm across the passenger seat even when I'm in the car alone. I usually manage to keep my handbag in place by doing so, but I'm not sure I am actually thinking about that in the moment of reflex. (this makes me sound like a horrible driver, but I would like to think I'm not. I've only been in two accidents in my adult life) Air bag technology should also have made the flying mom arm obsolete. In fact, if we had crashed through the rear of the maroon devil car in front of me this morning, the deploying air bag would have thrust my arm into my son's nose and likely caused broken bones for both of us. Actually, that might have made me look really heroic. When asked what happened to us, I'd be able to say, "I was protecting my son from flying through the windshield. And it's a good thing I did or he would have much worse than a broken nose!"
That does bring up more questions though about why wouldn't his seat belt have stopped him and why was he in the front seat in the first place. He's quite tall and old enough to sit there, but shouldn't my most precious cargo be in the back, which is really the safest place? Oh! I know the answer. He sits up front so he can hold my purse and keep it from flying off the seat when I slam on the brakes.