UPDATE: This Is Why Doing Things Is Not In My Best Interest. PART TWO.

.... So Angela, just HOW did you break your toe?  Here it goes.

We arrived home from that disastrous trip to the zoo.  Preschooler was placated by the promise of eating popsicles outside and playing in the front yard of our condo (remember mistake #3)?  Again, I shouldn’t have promised anything.  I shouldn’t rely on my ability to DO THINGS.

We walk inside our house only to find ... maintenance workers cleaning our gutters.  Not cleaning the neighbor’s gutters.  Not a note that they will cleaning our gutters tomorrow.  No.  Their ladder is parked outside my kitchen window, all our things are moved off of the patio and onto the lawn, and they are using my patio table to store their tools.

We can’t play outside.

After bombarding Preschooler with more popsicles and lollipops AND finger-paint, I convey the whole story to my sister, who wisely says:

"Please stay home and do nothing but watch tv with your babies... ok?"

But do I listen to her? No. Because I am committed to DOING THINGS, and figure that if I’m stuck inside I might as well clean my filthy house.

This shall be known as mistake number four.

So, I wash my dishes.  I clean my kitchen.  I dust my living room.  I stub my toe on a chair.  My toe turns purple and swells up.

"GAH! That hurt! Oh crap! Jesus Christ!"

One hour later... "Damnit! It hurts even more! What the hell?"

Another hour later.... "Ok, I am in serious pain.  This involves tears.  The last time I was in pain that caused tears, I was giving birth.  Crap!  I'm going to urgent care."

Honest to God, on a scale of one to ten, where one equals "I feel happy!" and ten equals "OMG I'm in labor GET ME AN EPIDURAL RIGHT NOW. WHAT DO YOU MEAN I'M TOO FAR ALONG FOR AN EPIDURAL? GAAAAAAAAAH!" this pain was about a seven.  Please consult this expert pain chart (created by Allie Brosh at Hyperbole and a Half) for a more detailed explanation.


So I head off to urgent care only to find out I broke my toe. But I didn’t just break my toe.  I chipped it.  Now their is a piece of bone fragment floating around in the middle toe on my right foot.

Again, I must ask:

Middle toe on my right foot means I have to hobble around on my heel, and now my heel hurts.

Middle toe on my right foot means I can’t drive, because I can’t put pressure on that foot.

Middle toe on my right foot means I need to be baby-sat, because the vicodin I take for the pain makes me loopy and exhausted, and oh yeah, I can’t walk.

Lesson learned:  NEVER TRY TO DO THINGS AGAIN.

Update:  Seeing as I broke my toe on Tuesday, and it is now Friday, I was tired of going stir-crazy and decided to go for a walk with my girls.  Don't judge - I was barely limping at all.  Actually, judge.  Because naturally Toddler bolted for the street, and I had to run after her.  Now I'm in serious pain again.  Apparently not only am I bad at DOING THINGS, I'm also bad at NOT DOING THINGS.

My Athletic Prowess Reached Its Peak Through The Misuse Of Lawn Darts.

As I mentioned before on this blog, I was on the junior varsity tennis team in high school for two years, and never won a single match. Not one. I was the epitome of, “The important thing is that you all have fun!”

The thing was, I was in it for the fun. I did very well on drills, even the stupid ones that I suspect were created just to kill time. Come on, you can’t tell me that balancing a tennis ball on a racquet while weaving between cones is a worthwhile exercise.

But when it came to games, I really didn’t care whether I won or not. Whatever competitive spirit I had was squelched by an overwhelming instinctual drive to be nice. I didn’t want to beat my opponent, I wanted to play tennis with her.

My other downfall was my serve. When I tossed the ball properly, I had an incredibly accurate serve. Unfortunately, I only tossed the ball properly about 10% of the time. It didn’t really matter that the ability to throw is negligent in a sport where the amount of throwing = toss the ball two or three feet up in the air once in a while. Because basic gross motor activities that my cavewoman ancestors probably did every day without even trying, like running and throwing, were utterly foreign concepts to me.

No one ever taught me to run. Or throw. Or catch. I was twenty before Husband (then Boyfriend) took pity and explained that in order to catch a ball, I had to be looking at it, rather than employ my usual strategy, which was to stand there with my arms hopefully outstretched while squinting away from the object hurtling towards my face.

It wasn’t my parents’ fault. When the annual summer park-and-rec catalogues came out advertising all the different pee-wee leagues, our conversations went something like this:

Mom: Look, honey, T-Ball!! Wouldn’t you like to play t-ball this summer?

5-year-old-me: No!!! I want to take ballet!

Mom: Oooohhhh....look! Soccer! Would you like to try that?

6-year-old-me: No!!! I want to keep dancing ballet.

Mom: Well what do you know? Basketball camp! Doesn’t that sound like fun?

7-year-old-me: When does ballet start?

Finally, with the threat of remedial gym looming over my head, my parents went out and bought every piece of athletic equipment known to man, in hopes that something would stick.

I used the baseball bat, basketball, and some left-over jarts hoops to construct a makeshift mini-golf course.

So it might come as no surprise, that one thing - the tennis racquet - did eventually take hold, and the summer I was 12, I took tennis lessons. These lessons involved exactly eight weeks of drills and zero weeks of games, which was right up my alley. An alley that lead to playing JV tennis for two years, motivated entirely by the love of hitting-the-ball and the privilege of being able to wear the short tennis skirt to school on game day.

Excuse Me, I Have A Date With A Mud-Puddle

The temperature outside is creeping above freezing, and, per government mandate, the days are growing longer.  Spring is here.

If I can use one word that describe spring for me, it’s "rush."  And "mud."  Ok, two words.

I have nothing against Spring, but I’m always in a hurry for it to be over.  Growing up in Wisconsin, we weren’t really free-and-clear of any late season snowstorms until April.  Imposing the Easter Bunny on the land when there’s still a noticeable amount of snow on the ground, strains the very elements of logic.

 Rebirth, my ass.

So, the quicker we blast through spring, the quicker we’re safely in the realm of summer, and the quicker we’re out of winter’s long reach.

If you just moved to Florida, you’d have nothing more to bitch about.  

Also, Disney World.  Hooray!

In addition, Spring always seems to engulf me in copious amounts of mud. This is probably because I’m in such a damn hurry to rid myself of winter, that I engage in springtime activities ridiculously early.  I’d be the one trying to ride my bike in March with ice still on the ground.  Needless to say, I’d fall in the mud.

It doesn’t stop there.  In college, a friend and I attempted to fly kites in April. The ground was still rock hard, but we didn’t let that deter us.  We walked downtown, purchased some kites, and ran back and forth over the playing field in front of our dorm trying to launch our kites skyward.  I don’t think I had flown a kite for 10 years, so it took a few tries to get the kite in the air.

There were three notable events surrounding this victory.  One was that a kind but misguided young man bum-rushed us, proclaiming his joy at finding other kite-fliers.

Him: Oh my God!  There are other kite enthusiasts here!  Oh, man!  What kind of kites are you flying?

Us: Er...um...they came from the store?

Him: blink.  blink, blink.

Us:  Sorry.  We don’t really fly kites that much.  We just wanted to get outside now that the weather is nicer.

Him: Oh....ok.  Well, if you ever want to fly kites, let me know.

The second notable event was that we both got sunburned.  Badly.  Apparently having skin that can only kindly be described as “alabaster” is no match for April sunshine capable of warming the earth to a whopping forty degrees.

The third notable event was that was that, despite the ground being completely frozen, I still managed to find the sole mud-puddle, and inadvertently sink my right foot ankle-deep in it.  It was a portent of things to come.

The mild temperatures continued for the next few days, and I was emboldened to take a long walk on campus.  I walked to the top of one of the highest hills, and looked over one of the lakes forming the isthmus that my college-town sat on.  The vastness of the sky and water makes it look like you’re standing in a big blue sphere.  I felt a wave of calm wash over me. 

Full of joy, I took one step further and thought, “Wow, the ground is kind of squishy.”  And with that, I slipped and fell down the length of the hill, only to end up in yet another mud puddle. 

I trudged back to my dorm, covered head to toe in mud, garnering the concern of my fellow dorm-mates.

Them:  Oh my god, what happened?

Me:  I fell down a hill.

Them:  Are you hurt?  Do you need to go to the health clinic?

Me: Uhh...No.  No I do not.

I got to repeat this exchange about ten more times.  Unfortunately, there’s no cure for klutziness.

Long story short, I have nothing against spring, only that it’s too wet.  Bring it on!

Falling Up

Yesterday I fell down an up escalator at the mall.

Now before I explain about this escalator, you should know that I often take my kids to the playground inside the mall to burn off energy. I know, fresh air and all, but all the playgrounds in town are covered in wood chips, which Baby eats.

Unfortunately, every visit reveals what a spazzy mess I am.

We wander into the mall slightly disoriented, squinting as our eyes adjust to the bright fluorescent light. Before playtime begins, we meander to the Starbucks, where I purchase coffee.

No matter how full or empty the diaper bag is, I can never find my wallet. It has hitched a ride to the Big City, and will never be seen in this Podunk town again.

After finally locating my wallet, we head to the playground.

Toddler is always dirty. I think she manages to bet dirty while bathing. It’s just the way she rolls. Baby is always missing a sock. She leaves the house with two. She arrives at the destination with one. I think she eats them.

I’ve managed to make myself nominally accepted to be viewing public, but have unfortunately messy hair. No matter what I do with it, it always look like I rode in on a tornado.

Now regarding this escalator.

I was holding Baby and the stroller and my diaper bag. Toddler was holding my hand. Three-quarters of the way up, my pant leg snagged on something (probably the stroller). I shook it loose and fell backwards.

The stroller and Baby fell on top of me. Toddler rode the escalator to the top, and I was aided by some patrons and employees who pressed the emergency stop for the escalator, and called 911. A ride in the ambulance is not as fun as it looks.

All I could think of as I was falling was protecting Baby, who came out of the situation with nothing more than a scratch.

I did not fair so well. Lots of scrapes, bumps, and bruises. A stress fractures on my hip and and another on my tailbone. Mr. Hydrocodone and Ms. Naproxen are my friends. It could’ve been so much worse.

Lesson learned: DO NOT TRY TO DO TOO MUCH AT ONE TIME. ALWAYS ERR ON THE SIDE OF SAFETY.

Also, it’s a good thing I’m moving soon. I don’t think I can ever show my face at Elder-Beerman again.