I woke up feeling like I had been through WW III during the night. It’s Monday, and I’m groggy, sore, and facing a day’s worth of tasks that right now seem impossible to even attempt to complete.
On Labor Day, we were at a park and Eliza was going down a tornado slide sitting on my lap. The slide was surprisingly fast, and I was wearing jeans and flip-flops with very little traction. Eliza was wearing her little pink rubber-toed tennis shoes. The tip of her left toe caught on the obviously stationary slide, while Lindy and Eliza (with Linus behind) kept moving down at a rapid rate. You can imagine the effect this had on Eliza’s ankle. I could see it happening, but could absolutely do nothing to stop our momentum, no matter how hard I tried. At the bottom, I was pretty certain that I had broken her leg. It was a mess. Eliza was screaming, and I was crying because I felt (and still do feel) terrible about it. We took her to the ER, and they did x-rays, which showed no breaks. I’m told, however, that a sprain is actually worse than a break, takes longer to heal, hurts more, etc…
It has been three weeks now, and Eliza is not getting better. I have been trying to keep her foot wrapped in an ace bandage, but how do you tell a one year old not to walk? One year olds are prone to trips and falls anyway, and she keeps re-injuring her ankle, it seems. As was the case last night before bed. You know it’s bad when she wakes up grabbing at her ankle, screaming for “Medcin!” (She hates taking medicine.) It was not a restful night. She is sleeping peacefully now, and I’m praying that her ankle will heal well and quickly. She is getting too heavy to carry all the time. And I have a laundry basket full of apples that I was going to turn into apple butter and can today. (Why do I do this to myself?)
We had our church picnic yesterday afternoon. It was a potluck. David, who is on the stewardship committee (which is in charge of the picnic), was one of many against it being a potluck, but some lady insisted, which in turn guaranteed a poor turnout. Call me lazy, but I’m far more likely to go to a function if food is being provided. (As I think all moms of young children are.) Let’s see, let’s go to a function where my kids won’t eat anyway, where I won’t be able to sit down to eat b/c my youngest won’t sit down with me or allow anyone else to take her, where not only will I have to get them ready to go, as well as myself, but I’ll have to bring food on top of it: No, thanks. And yes, I’m in a sour mood this morning.
I realize that my grandmothers would read this and cringe. I will be the first to admit that the women of that generation were apparently part machine. I know that they would have probably woken up before church on Sunday morning, went out and killed the chicken, butchered it, and had it all fried up to take before the four-course breakfast they prepared. Then, they would have brought all fourteen kids to church, including the baby, and sat in a perfect, still, quiet row, until it was time to go to the picnic, when all of the kids would again sit in a perfect, still, quiet row and eat each and every item on their plates. During this time, the mother would eat and carry on a complete conversation with the woman across the table. They probably talked about how many quarts of pickles they had canned yesterday during nap time.
No, I am not of that calibur. I am pathetic. Some days I have a hard time making myself breakfast, let alone the kids’. I’ve said before, I have the desire for thrift and utility (like my grandmother) but the complete inability to turn that desire into reality. And to think what all they did on a day-to-day basis, probably nine months pregnant most of the time! Holy cow! How did they get anything done having a kid every year?
It makes me so glad that I’m one of those weirdos who ecologically breastfeeds (look it up), which saves me from this fate. If anyone tells you that breastfeeding is not a good spacer of babies, they’re doing it wrong.
Yes, I’m in a sour mood today. Grrrr. I’m a pathetic excuse for a woman. And I’m kind of happy about it.