Monday, July 13, 2015

Mommy Slumps Now

Grace and coordination have never been my spiritual gifts. In fact, they swim in the same pool as athleticism, patience, and spontaneity. I can remember people's names and obscure movie titles like a boss, but please do not ask me to overhand serve a volleyball. It's horrifying.

When I was 14, I actually played club volleyball. As in, my mom and dad paid money for me to play on this team, go to practice, compete in matches. You know, the usual. Right before one particular match, my coach came up to me and told me that I was more than welcome to keep practicing and coming along to games, but that I wouldn't be seeing much playing time.

As it turns out, we couldn't even PAY HER TO PLAY ME. I was that bad.  

By some miracle, I tried out for the poms squad my senior year and actually made the team. It took me an entire summer to teach myself to do a full split, but that was cake in comparison to having to learn something like a dozen dance routines in about two weeks at a camp. The spinning, the jumping, the high kicking….all on a beat. I worked hard and did my best, but I'm pretty sure I still looked a little like Mary Katherine Gallagher at the end.

At the end of the season, I won the "Most Improved" award. At least it would have been more accurate to just come right out and engrave it with "Fattest Girl on the Team Managed to NOT DIE"

Do not even get me started on the thoughts that race through my head during a Zumba class. Why oh why do gyms insist on putting mirrors on every. Single. Wall?

Now, despite my lack of abilities in this department, I have actually managed to make it this far in my life having only broken one bone - the middle finger on my right hand. Ask me about it some time - I'll be happy to show ya. :)

My sister and I were playing this stupid game where we had to take a running start and then see who could jump highest over a rope. Our fatal mistake was that we set up this game in our living room about two feet from the couch, so when I went high-jumping over the rope, I came crashing down into the leg of the couch, snapping my finger like a twig. To this day, that finger is crooked because I was the 6th grade typing champion at the time and I'll be darned if I was going to let some stupid splint keep me from holding that title in my keyboarding class.

I also remember that the keyboarding teacher's name was Mrs. Seamen and I couldn't help but think that if it were me, I probably would have kept my maiden name. Just my two cents.

Take all this evidence into consideration before I tell you the story of how I managed to break my foot on our very first morning of vacation. (Not the unfortunate reproductive fluid comment, though. That was for free.)

Evan and I were sleeping on an air mattress in the main living area of a cottage, our boys were sleeping in the first bedroom down the hall, two people in the next bedroom, two more people in the far bedroom, and yet another in the room adjacent to us. It was a full house. It was also 5:30 in the morning and we had been up past midnight.

I woke to the sound of an alarm clock, which was strange because the whole definition of vacation in my book is that alarm clocks are not invited. I realized the sound was coming from the boys' room so I climbed out of bed to investigate. Apparently one of my dopey children had been monkeying with the alarm clock in their room the day before and had somehow set an alarm for 5:30 in the flipping morning. Since I was a bit fuzzy and incoherent, what with the not having any coffee in my bloodstream and all, I stumbled into their room to turn the blasted thing off. I slapped at it like a bear pawing at a bee hive until it finally shut off and we all went back to bed.

I shut my eyes and promptly fell back asleep….for 9 minutes.

I had only hit the snooze alarm. The alarm was sounding again.

Our air mattress is awesome - the most comfortable one we have ever slept on. Not a commercial, just a fact. (Yes, that's an affiliate link right there.) It self-inflates and rises to be set pretty high up off the ground. Makes for great sleeping, but it also makes things a little precarious when you are trying to get out of bed quickly because that damn alarm is sounding again, the boys are whining, there still is no coffee in the picture, and husband is not showing any intention of getting involved in this situation.


Springing out of bed, I tried to pivot toward the room and take a step at the same time. It did not work as I had hoped.

Instead, I came down with my full weight on the side of my foot and I just crumpled in pain. Evan fully awoke to the sound of my cries of pain combined with the still-beeping alarm clock, and the boys yelling for someone to hurry the heck up and turn the stupid thing off.

By the time he came back from just unplugging the clock, I was still face-down on the futon and still whimpering in pain.

Long story short, I spent the next couple days hobbling around on a bruised swollen foot only when necessary and having to force myself to sit down for long stretches of time with my foot up and a book in my hands. It was rough, but I had to just sit back and let Evan deal with most of the parenting-related situations and bring me a fresh beer from time to time.  

Ok, fine. It probably forced me to actually enjoy our vacation a bit. Blessings in disguise and what not.

However, it certainly gave the rest of our trip a little different dynamic. When the caravan and I pulled into my friend Sara's driveway a couple days later, I did my best to help unload the van and schlep all our gear upstairs while somewhat resembling Igor from Young Frankenstein but with more hair. As I returned to the kitchen, my friend was having a conversation with my oldest son.

"Yeah, she fell getting out of bed," he explained, "So Mommy slumps now."

I continued to "slump" for the duration of vacation and because I'm stubborn, a few more days after that. It took me until Day 10 after the initial injury to finally suck it up and realize that perhaps my foot wouldn't still be so swollen and painful if it really wasn't a simple sprain like I had hoped.

One urgent care visit and x-ray later, I texted my husband: I BROKE MY DAMN FOOT.

At least my husband thinks slumping is sexy. 

Probably should try to get a pedicure sometime this week. Also, I'm currently accepting submissions for alternative stories to explain how I broke my foot rather than the lame line of truth - "getting out of bed."

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