Gotta Laugh

I’m not entirely sure what’s going on, but I’m laughing. At this particular moment I’m having a fantastic chuckle. Either I’ve entirely lost my mind or the monster is back in it’s cage. Whatever the case, I’m laughing and I’m not about to begin questioning the origins of my good cheer. Let me recount the past 15 hours and bring you to my happy place…

Tuesday, December 21, 2010. 5:20 p.m.

Stella, the fantastic Jack Russell Terrier who I love so, decided that a light dusting of snow is simply terrifying. So much so, that she laid frozen and cowering in the dark backyard, inches from the open door and the box of treats I was shaking as I called her name. Granted, by the third attempt to get her to walk, my calls probably sounded sickeningly sweet and somewhat like a crazed serial killer trying to flush out her prey.

With dinner in the oven and the kids coloring at the kitchen table, I assessed the length of snowy ground I’d need to cover in my socks and went for it. Scooping Stella off the lawn, I ran back to the patio and WHAM! The ball of my foot connected with a rock at the edge of the patio. A large, unmoving and pointy rock. Stella and I fell to the ground. I realized that my hand landed on Stella’s left foot and we both entered the kitchen limping and whining. She recovered quickly while I sat fighting tears with a pack of frozen peas on my foot trying to judge the extent of my injury. David came home and knelt down to have a look. He lovingly picked up my swollen left foot and marveled at my swelling toes before poking his finger directly into the sweet spot where the rock left its imprint. I saw stars and he said, “I think it’s just a really bad bruise.” Dr. Dave poured me a glass of wine and sent me upstairs to the master bedroom. He kindly put the children to bed and fetched me two more glasses of Pinot Grigio as the night wore on and my pain increased. I managed to knock back 2 and 1/2 glasses before the throbbing was sufficiently dulled and my eyelids grew heavy.

Somewhere right around 10:00 p.m., my body was signing off for the night. I was sliding into a blissful, albeit somewhat buzzed slumber when the bedroom door swung open. Like a monster, Dave was just a silhouetted, hulking form in the doorway with the hallway light shining behind him. Through my sleepy and somewhat buzzed fog, I saw that he was holding something out in front of him that was squeaking and strongly smelled of barf. I sat up and turned the lamp at my bedside on, illuminating the room. His arms jutted out stiffly holding Kate away from his body. Her feet dangled limply and she gave a little whimper. My eyes focused in on the remnants of dinner clinging to the front of her footie pajamas. She squeaked a pathetic “Mama”, and reached for me.

Gingerly, we extricated Kate from her puke-sodden footie’s and changed her into a fresh pair. I snuggled her despite her pungent odor and she happily sidled in to my body while she sucked her fingers. It took about ten minutes before I felt her tummy begin to convulse…and so it went. For the next five hours, we bathed her, held her, changed her and helped her through her sickness. I periodically jumped off the bed to fetch a towel and landed squarely on my injured foot. She slept with us in our beach towel covered king-sized bed, but somehow managed to kick me in the gut for the better part of the night. At one point, her feet were firmly planted on my right cheek. I was too tired to care.

Finally, morning arrived and David insisted that I get out of bed. So with a mere 3 hours of restless sleep, I rose and hobbled downstairs. I sipped a cup of coffee and peppered Joe with instructions on how to put on his snow pants/snow boots/gloves/backpack. Finally dressed, (this is no small feat for the unfocused 6-year-old with ADHD) Joe matter-of-factly announced, “Bye, see you tonight” and walked out the door. Dave and I were too distracted to notice that he was mimicking Dave’s morning “farewell” ritual. As we inspected my swollen, purple foot and pontificated about breaks and bruises, we heard the Saab’s engine roar twice in rapid succession. I screamed and through the window saw the car’s exhaust blowing piles of snow into the driveway. Dave ran like I’ve never seen him run before. I jumped off the window seat and landed on my bruised/maybe broken foot sending pain that felt like knives through my leg.

Thankfully, Kate is napping. Joe, the Saab and the garage are unscathed and I’m sitting with my foot elevated and blogging about the whole ordeal. Where is Gwen? My little Cookie took it upon herself to clean up the house and is now playing outside in the gently falling snow. Life is good. A little crazy…but good. And it looks like we’ll be having a white Christmas.


  1. Slidecutter says:

    I'm laughing with you mainly because sometimes that's all you can do! Happy that Joe didn't manage to drive himself to school (that will come soon enough) and that no one, and nothing was hurt or damaged.

    Heck, when my Jen was small, I left her in our station wagon,not running, parked right outside a shop and ran in to pick something up. She pulled the car out of gear and it rolled….right across the drive-in lane of a bank.

    Had some irate woman get in my face, yelling, "You're not supposed to block that lane in, it's not a parking space!". Then, she looked over to see Jen standing behind the wheel, sucking on a lollipop, looked back at me and stomped-off in the opposite direction.

    It was one of those Kodak moments that we laugh about still…..

  2. I love that! If nothing else, you have reassured me that more parents than just Dave and I experience these wacky scenarios.

  3. I don't know how you managed to get out of bed with a night like that! I imagine I did that when my kids were that small…just can't remember it. I've certainly had my share of those crazy moments.

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