The Bite

Anyone who knows me, knows that I love Zombies. I look for the Zombie escape in every situation. My house has secondary zombie escape routes on every floor, food prep, and I have Smitty the pilot on call for emergency airlift.

Not that I actually think it will happen, but I’m ready. Although I still stand firm on the story that I saw a zombie in West Virginia.

Onward . . .

Like probably everyone who has watched or read a Zombie tale, I have questioned the stupidity of the victims. Wondering at times, how they let themselves get bit. How? Be fast. Be ready . . .

I thought that until yesterday. Then I realized how it happens. I found myself in a simulated zombie attack situation. Not with the undead, of course, but with something just as vicious and mean . . . my 14 month old granddaughter, Violet.

The little girl who at last weigh in, was a whopping 19 pounds, 26 inches, petite . She’s a teenage girl in a pint size body. Except for the fact that her little teeth are too big for her mouth and she has taken to gnawing on her crib to file them down. Don’t know if Teenage girls do that, they may. Her first word was ‘Bieber’ yes, of the famous Justin. She throws tantrums if you touch her Bieber stuff. She sings Baby, Baby, all the time.

Do not be fooled by how sweet and precious this little munchkin sounds and looks. I swear she could go head to head, bite to bite with any zombie.

I know. I experienced it. Baby Frank bit, but not like this.

As any person raising a toddler knows, those child proof latches for cabinets only work on adults. You have to be fast. I thought I was. Violet went under the kitchen sink and grabbed the Murphy’s Oil Soap. I scooted over, gently took her arm, and with a firm, “no’ I grabbed the soap. My bad.

With my only warning being a split second growl, yes, she growled, her little baby jaws of death clenched down on my arm, hard and ferociously. I screamed. Typically you’d expect with my scream, she’d release. No. Grabbing her hair was an option, but I didn’t. I tried to pull her from me . . . useless. With each tug and lift of my arm, she held tighter. In fact, at one point I raised my arm and teeth still clenched, her feet were kicking off the floor.. Finally, the soap dropped from my hand, and she let go. But I was faster, I snatched the soap, tossed it under the sink, shut the cabinet and bodily blocked it.

She peered to me with her hands behind her back as if to say, “What? What did I do?”

I showed her my bleeding arm. “Look, Violet. Look what you did to Great One.” (Yeah, I’m Great One not nana or grandma)

She batted those super long eyelashes, stood on tip toes, peeked at my boo-boo, almost fooling me into thinking she felt bad, and then to show me how she was a force not to mess with, she took her tiny index finger, poked hard to my wound and laughed.

I’m traumatized. Although I am not experiencing a raging virus or desire to eat flesh, I am however listening to Justin Bieber nonstop.