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Timeline Illustrating Basic Child Development

Day 1: Gorgeous, teeny bundle of joy emerges forth from your nether-regions.

Two freaking seconds later: Gorgeous, teeny bundle of joy can run, jump, sass you in perfectly intelligible sentences, and is ready to go off to school.

I kid; she’s going to summer camp, not school. But I know this summer will just fly by, and at the end of the summer, she WILL go to pre-school. And then eventually kindergarten, and then she’ll be graduating college about a nanosecond later. I know I sound overly dramatic, but it’s hard not to feel like it’s all happening so fast (I am every parenting cliche right now, and I honestly don’t give a damn). I just want to hold her close to me with my face buried in her hair, enjoying the sweet scent of this beautiful little human being who is all at once so much a part of me and so much her own person.

The truth of the matter is that this new stage in our lives forces me to take stock of how far we’ve come in such a very short time. It makes me question whether I’ve been good enough, done enough, said the right things, prepared her in the right ways, protected her enough, let her explore enough, taught her enough, made her happy, hell, done enough damage in 3 1/2 years to necessitate decades of therapy for all of us. It makes me wonder if the decision to send her to summer camp and then to school in the fall is the right decision for her, for me, for our whole family. Do I know her well enough to know that this is right? Do I know our family well enough to know that this is right? What will I do if I’m wrong? Will I be able to manage it? Will she? What kind of mother will I be if I’m wrong? And how will she respond to these transitions? Will she be scared? Will she be shy? Will her teachers be able to see what a radiant, strong little girl she is? And yet, as strong as she is, will they be able to see how soft and sensitive she is, too?

Aaaaand cue sobbing. Here I thought I wouldn’t cry until she started preschool.

My sweet, sweet baby girl (and you’re still too young to get mad at me for calling you that, although I’m certain some day you will), I adore you. Watching you grow up is the most heartbreaking and beautiful things I will ever have the privilege to witness. With each passing day you make bigger strides towards independence, closing the gap between that helpless infant in whose ear I whispered promises of undying love, and that strong, brave, independent woman whose face I can sometimes see peaking through from behind your gorgeous, impish grins. And as hard as it might be, I love this path that we’re on. I love that you, you are my daughter. I love that I get to be the one to help you navigate this transition and whatever else the future holds for our family. I love that in the few short years you’ve been with us, you have, and you will continue to help me, too. I think we’ve done okay so far, and I promise I’m going to keep trying my damnedest not to screw it up. I can guarantee I won’t always get it right, and when I don’t, I’ll try to show you by example how to be humble, apologize, and make it a little bit better (and sweetie, this is an especially tough one for the women of our family). I can also promise that I’ll get weepy like this every so often, because loving you has turned me into a puddle of mush. So when you go off to your first day of camp, or your first day of kindergarten or middle school, or when you move away to go to graduate school, or head to the hospital to have your own baby, I will hug you a little tighter. I will shower you with extra kisses. I will make a fuss over whether or not you’ve had enough to eat, and I’ll beam proudly as you move on to your next big adventure. And when it’s all said and done, I’ll be ready to listen, to laugh, to cry, to comfort, to hold, to be your Mama no matter how big you yet. I love you.

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I’m going to be celebrating a birthday here soon, and it’s one of the monumental ones. You know, one of the ones with a zero at the end of it. I was joking with Sweet Girl that mama was going to be old on her birthday. Her response? “Oh. Well, then we’ll have to get rid of you.”

Ouch.

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Even though I haven’t been posting much, I’ve been reading a ton. I’m a novel gal at heart and I’ve had the immense pleasure of picking up a number of really amazing novels (and some other not so great books) since I last posted. Be forewarned, this is long, but I’d definitely be interested to hear what you think about any of the books on here that you’ve read yourself.

#3 Spooner by Pete Dexter

As my dear friend Arch Support pointed out while reading the jacket, the subject matter of this book, a white dude with a white dude’s problems, isn’t exactly compelling. And we all know that white dudes are already a very well-represented segment of the literary canon. HOWEVER. Pete Dexter is an amazing story-teller with a dry wit and that was enough to get me hooked. The title character is quirky at best, but despite his obvious character flaws is somehow still quite likable, and the book tells the story of his life. Definitely worth the read.

#4 Picking Bones from Ash by Marie Mutsuki Mockett

This book is a little like Memoirs of a Geisha meets The Joy Luck Club with the benefit of being authored by a Japanese-American writer. (Seriously, I could never get over the weirdness of reading about geishas as documented by a white dude.) This book deals with some interesting questions about motherhood and daughterhood, and the what happens when people pursue the things they do the best. An excellent read.

#5 Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese

Oh, this novel was absolutely delicious. It follows the story of conjoined twins born to a nun and a British doctor, both of whom work in an Ethiopian hospital. If that doesn’t get you hooked, the rich prose and complex characters should do the trick. I loved, loved, loved this book. As in couldn’t put it down at night to sleep. Really, I can’t stress how beautiful the language in this story was to me. Can’t wait to read more by this new-to-me author.

#6 The Help by Kathryn Stockett

So I know this book has gotten a lot of positive press. And don’t get me wrong I liked the story and the characters. I didn’t like the way the story was told. If you don’t know anything about the book, it chronicles the process of a white woman writing a book about being a black servant in the South riiiight on the edge of the civil rights movement. She talks to black servants in her town and documents their stories. Fine. But I have a huge problem with this. First, the book itself was written by a white woman. Second, the book within the book is written by a white woman. So we’re reading a story about white oppression of blacks in the U.S. that has been filtered twice by white women’s voices. And I think that that is deeply, deeply problematic. I am not suggesting that white people can’t ever write characters of color. I AM suggesting that white writers who are writing specifically about oppression need to tread VERY carefully and consult with their sources extensively, which I’m not sure the author did. I am also suggesting that there is a temporal aspect to this issue as well. When we’re looking at oppression that is so very recent in our history, I think it is only right and fair to allow the voices of the oppressed to tell their own story without any interference from their oppressors. I can’t possibly imagine that there are NO black servants from the 60s still alive and well today. This book should have been written by them.

#7 The Believers by Zoe Heller

Be forewarned, this book is very dark, but very entertaining. You will not like any of the characters, but their stories will intrigue you, nevertheless. The book documents what happens to the wife and three adult children of a left-wing, atheistic lawyer when he suffers a massive stroke. The family is all manners of dysfunctional, but it’s interesting to see how each of them adjusts and copes when the central figure of the family is suddenly and unexpectedly removed from the equation.

#8 Happens Every Day by Isabel Gillies

Gillies memoir documents the disintegration of her marriage after she and her family migrate to Oberlin, Ohio to allow her husband to pursue a tenure-track faculty position in English. I…honestly didn’t love this book. I found Gillies’ narrative voice a little obnoxious, and I actually wanted very desperately for the book to end. That being said, a lot of people have loved this book, so don’t discount it just because of me. If you enjoy memoirs, this may very well appeal to you.

#9 The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein

This is a dog book a la Marley and Me, but I don’t think it was as well done. Firstly, the book was written in the voice of the dog. Fine. Second, for whatever reason, when I read the title, I assumed it referred to dogs racing (ie. running) through the rain, not people racing cars through the rain. My bad, but that completely disarmed me when I started to read and discovered that the book does talk a lot about racing cars (the narrator’s owner is a race car driver). Also frustrating, the cover of the book features what looks like a golden retriever, but the dog in the book is mixed breed and has some terrier in him. I found that really obnoxious. Overall, the book was…okay. A quick read, definitely one for the animal lovers out there, but it didn’t do it for me the way Marley and Me did.

#10 The Life of Pi by Yann Martel

I know, I know; I am totally late to the game on this one. This was, however, another one that I couldn’t put down. The narrator is an Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Indian son of a zookeeper who winds up stranded on a lifeboat with a 300 lb Bengal tiger, an orangutan, a hyena, and a wounded zebra. Loved the premise, loved the story. It raises all kinds of interesting questions about the reliability of the narrator, as well as questions about spirituality and the act of story telling. A must-read, if you haven’t already.

#11 The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows

Despite the setting (post-WWII England) and some of the subject matter (the aftermath of war), this was, dare I say it, a cute book. The story is told through a series of letters between the main character, Juliet, and various friends, including a members of the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, which was formed as a way for the citizens of Guernsey to cope with the German occupation of their island. The characters are infinitely likable, and their stories, though sometimes quite painful, and similarly charming. A very fast, enjoyable read.

#12 Nurtureshock by Po Bronson and Ashley Merryman

This is another book that has received a great deal of press, and although I found the book useful and intriguing, I didn’t find a whole lot of new information in the book that I hadn’t already read in one form or another. It offers new data and studies that show that conventional parenting wisdom may not be all its cracked up to be, and offers some suggestions on how to parent differently. Definitely worth a read for parents of children of all ages.

#13 The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larson

The original Swedish title of this book, Men Who Hate Women, should give you an inkling that the subject matter of this mystery isn’t for the faint of heart. I have always loved mysteries, and I found that this one had me hooked immediately. By about 2/3 of the way through, I had figured out at least part of the mystery, and where that would usually frustrate me (I want to be kept in the dark, dangit!), I found that I still couldn’t stop reading because the characters were still so very compelling. I can’t wait to read the other two books in the series.

#14 A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini

Yes, I know, another one I should have read ages ago, but I only just got around to it in recent months. If you loved The Kite Runner, you will love this book, too. It is deeply sad (as I imagine almost any book about Afghanistan might be), and examines the experience of two women, married to the same man, in an unapologetically violent, and misogynistic culture. It was absolutely heart-breaking to read, but beautifully written.

#15 The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield

Another intriguing mystery, which this time I didn’t manage to solve before the end of the book. In this novel, Vida Winter, an aging British writer, engages Margaret Lea, amateur biographer and daughter of a bookshop owner, to write Miss Winter’s biography. We find out that Miss Winter has long been spinning fantastic tales about her origins, none of which have been true, but as she nears the end of her life, she’s finally ready to reveal her story. Lots of gothic castles, ghost sightings, fires, and governesses in this one, as well as interesting questions about storytelling, narration, and truth. Definitely an enjoyable read.

If you made it this far, you deserve a sticker. So what do you think? Am I completely off my rocker, or do you agree with my assessments?

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Because I know that’s what you were all thinking and that you were consumed with worry, right? :)

I have good intentions of writing these spectacular, well thought-out blog posts with engaging new angles on controversial issues, and I have about a half a dozen beginnings of posts, but seriously, who am I kidding? If I wait for the day when I can spend hours writing, I may as well sign the Do Not Resuscitate notice for this blog. When I read other blogs, especially mom blogs, I can’t help but wonder how on earth anyone has the time to do this. Between partners, and children, and friends, and children, and jobs, and chores, and children, and bills, and everything in between, how on earth does anyone have time to write the brilliant, charming, and witty things I see on the internet every day? And if you think I’m implying that my child takes up a hy-oooge portion of my time and even more of my energy these days, you’re right, and I’ve only got the one kid! What about those of you with two or more? Believe me when I say you’re like mommy deities to me, because I don’t know how you do it. And after you get done writing, how do you have time to read all the other amazing blogs that are out there and comment, and twitter, and facebook the hell out of it all? I know that for some your job IS blogging, and thus, you take your job responsibilities as seriously as I do mine. But my sense from being out and about around the internet lately is that everyone pretty much has their shit together far better than I.

If you’ve been following my Twitter (and yes, I know I should add the link to this blog, but it’s one. more. thing. on an already long to-do list), you’ll know I’m just getting over a cold that lasted more than 3 weeks, a cold that promptly kicked my ass then kicked my daughter’s ass while I was still down for the count. Prior to that, we were in Dallas for a conference for Mr. Shoe’s work. Airplane germies + hotel germies + the winter that won’t end + little sleep = well DUH, it’s no wonder you’re sick. And my tweets have also hinted at a really rough work week this week and very little sleep for the past several nights (It’s unicorns crapping daisies and sunshine over there, I swear). So I will grant that I’m probably not in the best frame of mind to be evaluating how together my shit is relative to everyone else’s, nevertheless, even when I’m healthy and things are relatively calm, this blog still suffers.

In case you’re wondering, this isn’t the I-don’t-know-why-I’m-doing-this-so-I’m-going-to-take-a-hiatus-from-blogging-but-I-would-secretly-like-it-if-you-would-beg-me-to-come-back post, because I think that’s a little silly. I know why I do this (or at least why I try): to flex my writing muscles (corporate writing freezes those muscles up faster than botox, I tell ya); to foster the relationships that have only been possible through my online presence; to learn from the rest of you; and to participate in a community that is genuine and inspiring. This is more the I’m-venting-my-spleen-and-trying-to-figure-this-whole-work-life-blog-balance-thing-out. (On an unrelated tangent, could there be any grosser phrase than “venting your spleen”? I always imagine an angry inflamed spleen with a little valve that you open to let it vent its splenetic juices and steam like Old Faithful.) At the end of the day, I imagine each blogger has their own strategies of managing the balance issue. Or perhaps you’re all as scattered as I am but are way better at hiding it? Either way, I’d be interested to hear your thoughts about this. How do you find balance between your online life and your so-called “real” life? How do you make time for it all? Do you ever feel like you’re sacrificing one for the other? If so, how do you reconcile that? These are the questions that keep me up at night, so help me out here!

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By the very fact that you’re here, you know that I write (yes, yes, not as much as I should, but I do try). The other side of that coin for me, as it is for most (probably all?) writers is that I am a compulsive reader. I’ve always been this way. As a child, I would read every opportunity I could get, and I especially hated that my mother wouldn’t let me read at the table. And now as an adult, I still do it. The backs of cereal boxes, random magazines in random doctors’ offices, fliers for things I have absolutely no interest in whatsoever, and of course books, oh, wonderful books. For a year after completing my graduate degree in English, I couldn’t read for fun. I couldn’t allow myself to simply fall into a good story and enjoy it. It was always about the analysis and the greater issues and never about the pure joy of reading. But after a year, I was able to shake that and return to that which led me to pursue Literature as a field of study in the first place. And now, as of the first of this year, I noticed a meme going around where people are trying to read 50 books in the year. And I thought, surely I typically read that many in a year…don’t I? I’ve never tracked the books I read (I use Goodreads only sporadically) and I figured it would be an interesting exercise to track and share what I’m reading with you, as I suspect there are many bibliophiles among you as well.

Here’s what I’ve finished so far:

1) Loving Frank by Nancy Horan: This one I didn’t love. Historical fiction is so hit or miss for me, and it’s typically more miss than hit. Although I enjoyed the interesting questions around women’s rights, I didn’t love any of the characters and felt that the book dragged on interminably. Anybody else read this and feel differently? I’d love to be persuaded otherwise.

2) Hold Love Strong by Matthew Aaron Goodman: This one I did love. I’m always a little concerned when a Caucasian writer attempts to write the story of a minority experience; however, I would like to imagine that Goodman’s own work and activism on behalf of the disenfranchised of New York might allow him some insight into poverty in the United States that most of us cannot possibly imagine. The main character, Abraham, is beautifully, compellingly written, and I loved him and all the other characters. A wonderful read in my estimation.

I’m onto my next one already, and I’ll keep you posted. In the meantime I would certainly enjoy hearing about what you’re reading, too, so do share.

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Today, and the return to life post-holidays, felt much like I had been unceremoniously dumped out of a tornado and back onto the quiet plains of Kansas. Make that the pseudo-suburbs of Ohio. And although I was dreading the switch back to life as usual, I have to say it actually feels kind of good. There are a million things on my task list still, but they’re the things I do all the time, so they’re the things that bring a rhythm back to our lives that we were sorely missing. The weeks prior to Christmas were filled with shopping, and planning, and knitting, and wrapping, and generally just running amok. And although Christmas was wonderful (oh, the joys of sharing Christmas with a child who is finally old enough to register anticipation and the beauty and magic of the holiday), and although I’m happy we did the things we did to make Christmas wonderful for our family (there’s nothing I like more than watching someone open a gift that I’ve picked out for them that I know they will love), I’m grateful for the opportunity to come up for that breath of fresh (and VERY cold) air that comes with the new year.

That being said, Christmas was, for the most part, truly lovely. Mr. Shoe, who grows more thoughtful each year, gifted me with several awesome items, including a DSLR, a beautiful necklace that I had mentioned I loved months ago, cold weather running clothes (although with the temps in the single digits with windchill today, even those won’t suffice), and a stovetop popcorn popper (thanks to my recent discovery of all the God-only-knows-how-toxic-they-are chemicals in microwave popcorn).

Mr. Shoe got lots of fun gifts, including a root beer brewing kit (if you hear that I’ve suddenly succumbed to food poisoning, you’ll know why). Santa and grandparents were extraordinarily generous to Sweet Girl, and we’re trying to ration the gifts so she can enjoy the newness and fun long after the lustre of Christmas is gone. We did travel over Christmas weekend to visit the in-laws per normal, and although it was stressful to travel on Christmas day, the only major downside of the trip was a long and snowy drive home that Sunday.

Then, before I knew it, New Year’s was upon us and we celebrated at a local Vietnamese restaurant where we’re regulars and got invited to their after-hours party. Lemongrass beef, shrimp, pork belly, calamari salad, OMG the food was amazing. Then we came home to put Sweet Girl to bed, and Arch Support joined us to watch the ball drop in NY. All in all, a very quiet New Year’s Eve.

You know, when I sum it up like this, it doesn’t sound like we did all that much, but it was all so very full, and I think so much more challenging because this is the first year we’ve had to navigate the holidays with a pre-schooler, which proved to be incredibly difficult.

Anyways, here we are in 2010, and I’m feeling hopeful and optimistic (funny how a totally irrelevant change in numbers makes us re-group, isn’t it?). I started running again a few days ago (with nothing but sore quads and frozen snot and appendages to show for it); we’re laying various travel plans for the year already; and I’m planning for some major life changes this coming year (hello, pre-school!). So yeah, life continues to be full and challenging, and it continues to trip me up on a regular basis, but I think with each passing year, I’m slightly better equipped to cope and come out stronger on the other side. So, a very belated Merry Christmas to you all, and a very happy new year, too.

Floundering

These past months, well, they haven’t been easy. And just when I thought I could come up for a bit of air, I feel like I’m back under water again floundering like a beached whale. I guess I can’t actually be beached AND under water at the same time, but you know what I mean. Apparently I can’t even execute a decent metaphor while under stress.

Here are some things I COULD be doing right now:

1) getting caught up on work
2) knitting for Christmas presents
3) writing a real blog post and/or finishing my nablopomo posts
4) wrapping presents
5) figuring out what we’re going to eat for dinner
6) making said dinner
7) tidying my utterly chaotic house
8) ordering last minute Christmas gifts
9) figuring out where Sweet Girl is going to go to pre-school next year

Here’s a list of things I WANT to be doing right now:

1) sleeping
2) sleeping
3) crying…oh, wait, I already did that
4) reading
5) sleeping

Usually list-making makes me feel better, but those two lists are only serving to stress me out even more because there’s about a million other things I could add to list #1, and list #2 just feels like a pipe dream. I’d love to think that once Christmas is over things will ease up, but life and reality are going to come crashing back with a vengeance come January, and the thought of that makes me want to curl up in a little ball and rock back and forth.

BLURGH. (That, sadly, is the most articulate finale I can come up with at the moment).

Three years. Can it possibly be true? Have you really been here with us for three whole years already? Was it really three years ago today that my heart felt whole at the sight of you, the smell of you, the sound of your beautiful cry, the feel of your tiny body held tight to my chest? Was it really three years ago today that my heart just as quickly broke again knowing that a piece itself was no longer safely cocooned within the confines of me?

Three years. One thousand ninety four days. Twenty six thousand two hundred and fifty six hours. An impossibly long time. But as much as my mind can’t quite grasp that number, you with your impossibly clever mind and your impossibly tall and ever-growing body, so vastly different yet completely reminiscent of that tiny squalling baby of three year ago, you are the proof of time’s passage.

Three years. As we went through the motions of our day, I couldn’t help but look at the clock and recollect what we had been doing three years ago that moment. My water broke right about now. We were scarfing down Burger King before heading to the hospital right about now. They started pitocin right around now. The pain started to get pretty bad right about now. I couldn’t stand it any more right about now. I laid eyes on you for the very first time right about now. And from there, our lives were forever changed for the better. The world seemed to become a happier and more hopeful place for having you in it. The universe somehow more…right.

Three years. Your dad and I reminisced tonight about that first sleepless night with you. Sleepless because you arrived so late in the evening that after all the hubbub died down, it was well past bedtime for us all. Sleepless because your every movement, every whimper, every cry pierced me to my very core. Sleepless because even while you rested quietly, I was afraid to let my guard down because I knew you might need us at any moment. Sleepless because I could not pull my eyes away from you and because I wanted to hold your delicate little body close to me forever. As I held you this evening in our nightly cuddle before bedtime, I felt your legs drape far over my lap, and your head resting comfortably above my shoulder. I wondered how it was that three years later, it still felt like you fit into my arms perfectly. You and I talked quietly about your day, about birthdays, about cake and candles. You reminded me that you had to turn the cake plate at your party so that you could get close enough to the candle to blow it out. I told you that I thought that was a very clever move rather than blowing hard over the entire cake to reach the candle on the other side. Then we both grew quiet and in an unusual move, you turned your head and body so that you could look straight at me. Your thumb positioned comfortably in your mouth. Your pinkie tracing my nose and cheek. Your eyes searching my face. I smiled and watched you for a long time, marveling that for you, my face can bring comfort and reassurance the same way my own mom’s familiar lines do for me. And as it always has, I was caught off guard by the fact that I’m someone’s mama. Your mama. And the weight of that role felt strangely terrifying and comfortable all at the same time.

Three years. I wish I could explain it, that feeling I get when I see you, when I think of you. It’s the same feeling I got in that moment when I first realized I was pregnant. It’s the same feeling I got when I first saw you. It’s the same feeling I still get every day when we play, and talk, and laugh. It catches in my throat. It fills my chest until I feel like I might never be able to draw another breath. And then the pressure releases in a flood of happiness, of love. I will never get used to it, and I will never tire of it.

Three years. This most recent year has been amazing for you. You’ve grown dramatically, and you look like such a big girl now. You’re simply beautiful in your generous heart; your witty, charming personality; and your lovely smile. Even your saddest faces are somehow crushingly beautiful. You have continued to learn so much, to demonstrate an amazing faculty with language, to show a love of books that rivals my own, to rise to the new challenge of learning numbers in addition to letters. You’ve coped with losing a best friend and a close auntie and uncle to a move. You’ve charmed new friends, family, and total strangers alike over the year. You traveled all over the country like an old pro. You danced your heart out at a wedding. You were the source of my strength at my brother’s funeral. You’ve endured the bumps and bruises of bravely trying out your new-found physical abilities. You’ve learned to pedal a tricycle. You’ve learned that the Madeline cookies at Starbuck’s are really good, and you’ve learned the joy of collecting a substantial Halloween stash. Your imagination has blossomed, and you’ve learned how fun it is to pretend to be different people and to do different things. Every day you’ve wanted to learn, and more and more you beg me to teach you all kinds of new things. You’ve laughed hard, and you’ve cried hard. You’ve endured good days and bad, and you’ve been resilient and strong throughout.

Three years. I’m certain that soon I’ll find myself writing on the occasion of your fourth birthday, and tenth birthday, and sweet sixteenth birthday. I’ll wonder how it went by so quickly, how you grew up so fast. But I plan to savor the time we have, and I can’t wait to see what these next years will hold for you. Thank you for three precious years of joy, laughter, tears, heartache, and love like I’ve never known before.

My love forever and always,
Mama

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First of all, yes, I know, I failed to post on the last day of Nablopomo, but since I knew I had to post into December anyway, the pressure was off. Second, Monday wasn’t quite as bad as I had expected (yay!), but today was way worse. After dealing with some interesting work dilemmas, I decided to go for a run. And a third of the way through the run, I was on some sketchy, uneven sidewalk when my left foot caught on something, and my ankle twisted and gave out. I tried to save myself from falling, which I think only twisted the ankle further, and landed HARD on my hands and knees.

So here I am, lying on the sidewalk (THANK HEAVENS this didn’t happen on the road or I could have added tread marks to my list of injuries), in the dark, li-te-ra-lly SCREAMING because my ankle feels like it’s being stabbed and torched simultaneously (the pain was really un-freakin-believably awful), and it takes several minutes of this ear-shattering hell breaking loose plus gallons of tears before I can even straighten my ankle, and bring my hands away from it long enough to pick up my phone and call Mr. Shoe to come get me because there ain’t no way I’m getting home on foot. While Mr. Shoe is frantically buckling Sweet Girl into the car and racing towards me, I’m sitting on the ground in pain, feeling very, very sorry for myself when I suddenly notice that my right knee is also throbbing. I pull up my pants and notice blood streaks originating from my knee making a very Jackson Pollack-like pattern down my leg. Excellent. It’s not until Mr. Shoe brings my pitiful and still crying self home that I notice that there are actually little bits of skin stuck to the inside of my pant leg. Swell! (Oh, did I mention that my squeamish readers might want to skip this post? I didn’t? Sorry about that. I promise to spare you the picture of the wound, although it IS really awesome and wonderfully gory and gross).

After icing the ankle produced no discernible results and the pain kept getting more pronounced, we packed up and headed to the ER. By the time we got to the ER, my ankle looked like there was a golf ball attached to it, and my knee looked like mincemeat and was so swollen that it appeared that I had an additional giant kneecap below my existing joint. When the doctor asked me to describe what happened, I simply told him that I had wiped out while running. He made all the appropriate doctor noises, and then I showed him my knee at which point his eyes got huge and he said “WHOOAA. You REALLY wiped out.” No sh*t, dude. A few x-rays later I got the verdict: badly sprained ankle, no fracture, road burn on my knee. Ice, elevation, and rest, and I should be fine, which should be easy-peasy with a pre-schooler around, right?! Oh, and percocets for the pain, which are great, but which also had not sufficiently kicked in when I showered and let me tell you, water and soap don’t belong on your body in places where there is no skin. Oh no they don’t.

Anyways, I’m home, and getting reeeeallly sleeepy from the pills, and ready to prop up this swollen, bruised appendage already. So in conclusion, I realize the irony of being back in one shoe, yet again. I also realize that the tag line on my blog is “Tripping Over My Own Two Feet Since the Early 80’s.” *sigh* I couldn’t make this crap up if I tried. Concluding item the second comes from Sweet Girl: “Mama, you should be veeery careful when you run.” You couldn’t be more right, sweets. Concluding item the third: I don’t plan to quit running. As soon as this bad boy is healed up, I’m back on the road, because when I pound the pavement in the future, it will feel like payback to said pavement for tearing me to shreds. (This either makes me persistent, or stupid, I’m not sure which.) Concluding item the fourth: being back in the hospital, even as a patient was really, really nice. Even the smells of that place brought me back to my patient care days, and I miss that work deep down. I love hospitals, I truly do, and I really need to think long and hard about what I’m going to do with that feeling. Off to percocet-induced slumber. G’night y’all.

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I am having a serious case of denial/dread about all the work and chaos that will inevitably come crashing down after 5 days of being off. I so needed the break that Thanksgiving offered, and I’m now feeling very spoiled about the whole thing and wanting about 5 more YEARS off. It doesn’t help that I’m planning Sweet Girl’s birthday party this week so soon after hosting Thanksgiving, and the best course of action might just be to go pull the covers over my head and not come out again until Christmas.

I will say that one of the things that is currently helping me feel like I can manage what the next weeks will bring is the fact that I’ve started running again (this after a nasty case of shin splints followed up by some plantar fasciitis, for those of you just joining us). Oh, the irony that expending more energy somehow yields higher energy levels. Go figure. Anyways, I decided last week was as good a time as any to hit the pavement again, and I’ve not regretted it for a moment. I had to run in the rain tonight, but given that I’ve run in sleet, snow, and freezing rain previously, a few drops of regular old rain seemed like no big deal. And I figure that if the next weeks are as intense as I imagine they’ll be, I’ll need the outlet even more.

On a totally different note (yes, I am the master of random and sometimes painful transitions and segues), I just peeled off one of those pore cleansing strips, and MAN, there is nothing more cathartic than that feeling of stripping off a layer of skin and seeing the junk that was clogging your pores mere moments ago. Gross, for sure, but very satisfying. Surely I’m not the only person who feels this way?

Anyways, it’s time to go hide under the covers, plug my ears, and say “lalalalalala” until morning. Happy Monday, y’all.

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