I have four days left in this stinkin' (literally) cast. What cast? The third one I've been in since my ankle surgery a little over five weeks ago. So, you are feeling my joy now that I'm down to a handful of days in this thing. Here's the rundown:
- I hurt my ankle 30 minutes post workout while pushing a loaded triple seater buggy at Target. I felt a "pop", and suddenly I could barely bear weight. Don't think for a minute I abandoned the mission, though. I was NOT leaving that place without bananas and Diet Dr. Pepper.
- After a few days of babying it, I went to see a general doc about it. After a clear X-Ray, over-priced ankle brace (as in $100 outside of my insurance's allowable limits), and totally depressing talk with a PT about how crappy my almost new, scrimped and saved for Nikes were, I hobbled on home and went about my business. Brandon and I even went to Cleveland, OH a couple of weeks later for his annual check up.
- A month later, even with my brace of platinum, pricey orthotics, and icing I'm barely making it.
- Insert Dr. Burrow from MS Sports Med, a couple of weeks, and a hot date with a scalpel. Oh, and drugs and puke. There was plenty of that, too.
- Bam. My completely shredded, detached posterior tibial tendon (the one that holds your arch up) is fixed, and I'm on the mend. Apparently, I'm a bit of a medical mystery. No one at the office had ever seen a 29 year old female tear that tendon before. Folks, I'm just that good.
Stepping off now.
Oh, and what's up with the title? I've actually been scooting and not crutching during my recovery. Whoever invented the roll-a-bout should receive the Nobel Peace Prize because I can't imagine the amount of crazy I'd have in this house if I were on crutches. I just can't even go there. Here I am all psyched because I can actually function pretty well; I go to stores and church, I've taken the kids to the park and children's museum, etc. It ain't pretty, and I roll up to the door a sweaty, bug-eyed mess of a mama, but I get it done. As I was saying, I've been pretty impressed with what I've been able to do on this thing. Apparently, my kids, not so much.
This morning Cade told me I was ruining his summer. I'm a summer ruiner. A ruiner of summers.
Not that I pride myself in being the entertainment goddess or that I think for a minute that it's my job to keep these little darlings engaged and content every moment of the freakin' day, but man. That stung.
Oh, I'm over it now. Don't worry.
On a different, non-ankle surgery sucky note. I actually like Trek now. I've always loved him, but I won't lie. It took 13 months to get to the "like" stage in our relationship. And if you talk to any of my friends or relatives and they say "Oh, that baby hasn't been that bad. She outta be ashamed of herself for talking about that baby like that," you just give me names. They are dead to me.
He has screamed, cried, not slept, clung to momma for dear life, you name it since day one. Not colic. Not separation anxiety. Just pure, unadulterated misery for everyone involved. I don't for one second advocate it, but I now see how desperate, uneducated, or just plain negligent/selfish mommas and daddies slip a lil' booze into their baby's bottle. And yes, joking about giving him/her a Benadryl or a dose of Nyquil counts as being right there with me on this... oh high and mighty (likely self-appointed) parent of the year who is scoffing at that last sentence.
Noooo, my life since my last post has not been all gloom and doom. These rough times have just been the black olives in my life lately. I hate black olives by themselves or in excess. When the pizza companies started allowing the customer to remove toppings from a pizza online, I loved de-selecting the olives and watching them magically disappear from the supreme pizza. Yes, I know I could've always opted to not have them, but there was just something about seeing them removed from the pizza that made my non-olive loving heart leap. "Now that's a perfect pizza," I told myself. You know what, though? It wasn't perfect. I tried ordering supremes without them from different places, but the fact remained. A supreme just isn't a supreme without black olives. I mean, it's ok, and heck yeah I'll eat it. I still would never pop a lone black olive into my mouth, but there's something about those three or four slices of olive that balance the flavor of each piece, and after much contemplation, I always default back to the standard supreme. It's da best. (FYI-that last phrase was in my best/worst Italian accent)
And life just isn't as much fun without a few black olives here and there. Some days my kids say and do so many random, funny, ridiculously entertaining things I can't even recall them all at the end of the day. I need those days to remind me that I live an incredibly blessed, full life. Some days my kids drive me within an inch of the bottle and I don't even want to be bothered with bathing them at the end of the day. I'm just so over them. I need those days to remind me that I live an incredibly blessed, full life with real, live human beings who mess up and need Jesus and grace. That usually compels me to default back to Him, which I've finally accepted as not being weakness. It's simply what's best.
I'm not gonna lie, though. It doesn't always compel me to bathe them.
