It's been 101 days since I broke the ankle. A long 101 days, that were mostly frustrating, but also humbling. I find that I appreciate the little things more, like showers. That I can stand up in. And running errands. I learned a lot of patience this summer, which I sorely needed to learn. I am happy for the normal, boring, simple life I have.
I do miss cute shoes. I won't lie. I was never a high-heel girl before, but man I want what I can't have. Like 4 inch leopard pumps.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Friday, May 27, 2011
Ankle still broken, attitude adjusted
Ankle is still broken, but I got the splint off and staples out on Monday. Looks pretty good so far. I was expecting a fair amount of swelling, and it's not nearly as bad as I thought it would be. Started PT on Tuesday and feel like I am making progress already. I have good dorsiflexion, and my plantar flexion improved by almost double in three days. I am enjoying PT, both because it gets me out of the house and it feels really good to work on my ankle.
I am in a CAM walker, which is a big, soft-ish boot cast. It's not all hard plastic like an airboot. I can take it off for baths/showers and to exercise my foot, which is great. I am very happy not to have a plaster cast here in the south with summer approaching. Cooper calls it my "robot leg", and was both interested and horrified that my "real leg" was still in there when he saw me without it the first time.
I am in a CAM walker, which is a big, soft-ish boot cast. It's not all hard plastic like an airboot. I can take it off for baths/showers and to exercise my foot, which is great. I am very happy not to have a plaster cast here in the south with summer approaching. Cooper calls it my "robot leg", and was both interested and horrified that my "real leg" was still in there when he saw me without it the first time.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
So, I broke my leg.
Actually, I broke my ankle. It's called a trimalleolar fracture, which basically means I broke the bony sides (inside and out) of my left ankle along with the tibia (leg bone). Basically, I f'd it up royally. How did I manage this impressive feat? I stepped out of the car wrong. Seriously. Anyway. Now I am leg-less for the next six weeks or so.
So, here are the things you cannot do without use of your legs:
1. walk
2. drive
3. leave the house
4. take your children to school/bring them home
5. wake your kids up/put them to bed (their bedrooms are upstairs)
6. give them baths
7. make anything in the kitchen that requires the use of more than one hand
8. get the mail
9. put laundry away
10. take a bath
11. wear cute shoes
12. go out on the boat
13. take the kids to the pool
14. grocery shop
15. reach most clothes in the closet
I miss my kids. I am so sad that we aren't going to have the fun summer together that I had planned. I hate that they will spend every day with a babysitter because I can't take care of them by myself. I hate that we can't just pick up and go to the zoo, or the pool, or even out to lunch. I am trying very hard not to be depressed, but I am having a hard time. I miss them. I miss our routine. I hate this.
So, here are the things you cannot do without use of your legs:
1. walk
2. drive
3. leave the house
4. take your children to school/bring them home
5. wake your kids up/put them to bed (their bedrooms are upstairs)
6. give them baths
7. make anything in the kitchen that requires the use of more than one hand
8. get the mail
9. put laundry away
10. take a bath
11. wear cute shoes
12. go out on the boat
13. take the kids to the pool
14. grocery shop
15. reach most clothes in the closet
I miss my kids. I am so sad that we aren't going to have the fun summer together that I had planned. I hate that they will spend every day with a babysitter because I can't take care of them by myself. I hate that we can't just pick up and go to the zoo, or the pool, or even out to lunch. I am trying very hard not to be depressed, but I am having a hard time. I miss them. I miss our routine. I hate this.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
A tribute to What White Chicks Cherish
A friend posted a link to What White Chicks Cherish on Facebook today. Admittedly the name of the blog totally made me do one of those "whatever-single-white-guy" smug eyerolls. However, I got sucked in to the content, and immediately went to check my windows and door locks, because I am fairly certain Mark has been peeking in my windows and following me around town. No, really, this guy nails it. He has southern white women down to a science.
Since I am feeling chatty today, and he's obvs. not in the game of kids and PTO, I am going to do my own What White Chicks Cherish: Suburban Mom Version, because I liked his blog so much. So here we go...
1. Monograms on kid accoutrement. beginning at birth, little Buffy or Tater Tot is required to have the following emblazoned with their cutest-ever new initials: diaper bag, burp cloth, bib, onesies, tiny smocked bishop/john john/bubble, pacifier clip, sippy cup, diaper cover.
2. Bunco or Book Club. It is imperative for WCSMV to be a member of a bunco group or book club. Even better if it is a hard to get-into Bunco group or book club. Why do we play bunco? Because we are grown women, and it's just not acceptable to have Beer Pong night. Bunco is girlie gambling, and we like any excuse to get together and drink and gossip. Book club is the same. They all start out as a night night where we can come together as women and discuss great works of modern literature, but really we all just get together to talk about the next Twilight book, drink wine, and gossip. I will add a plug for my own personal book club, we skipped the heavy reading and just named ourselves Trashy Vampire Therapy. We haven't actually read a book since last November.
3. Pillowcase dresses, or I Shop at Boutique Clothing Parties. Here in the suburban South, fashion counts. No one cares what the WCSMV is wearing (but pajama pants and tshirts should never be worn out of the house. Ever. You are not People of WalMart) because we are all too busy looking at Buffy and Tator Tot. I can pick out a kids' clothing line and tell you the year in about 2.5 seconds. Southern women spend an obscene amount of money on children's clothing, and we want you to notice. Nothing makes our day like when another WCSMV compliments our cute spawn and throws in "Just Ducky last season! Did you see their double ruffle pants this year? LOVE."
4. Hair bows. No self-respecting WCSMV sends their Buffy to preschool without a matching hair bow. They even make headbands now so you can attach the giant bow to the baby who unfortunately has no hair.
5. Newborn attire in team colors. Yes, I took an entire (adorable) orange and white ensemble to the hospital when Cooper was born. Game day is Saturday, and it's just a standing rule that you wear Big Orange. I do not care that you are 23 hours old and can't sing Rocky Top yet. I just don't.
6.Mongrammed car decals. How else will I pick out my silver mini-van/white Tahoe in the school pick up line/Target parking lot? If your name is on it, you have a much easier time finding it while Buffy and Tator Tot scream for you to open. the. new. toy. NOW. Makes sense to me.
7. Stella &Dot necklaces with the spawn's initials. Fabulous for two reasons: 1. you get to go to the Stella and Dot home party and do everything you do at Bunco/Book club AND shop. 2. You get to co-opt other monograms.
So there you go. WCSMV. Now go run get you a Chik-Fil-A #1 combo then read Mark's (better and more entertaining) blog while you sit in the pick-up line. Go on and do it, you won't have time later because of gymanstics and that PTO meeting.
Since I am feeling chatty today, and he's obvs. not in the game of kids and PTO, I am going to do my own What White Chicks Cherish: Suburban Mom Version, because I liked his blog so much. So here we go...
1. Monograms on kid accoutrement. beginning at birth, little Buffy or Tater Tot is required to have the following emblazoned with their cutest-ever new initials: diaper bag, burp cloth, bib, onesies, tiny smocked bishop/john john/bubble, pacifier clip, sippy cup, diaper cover.
2. Bunco or Book Club. It is imperative for WCSMV to be a member of a bunco group or book club. Even better if it is a hard to get-into Bunco group or book club. Why do we play bunco? Because we are grown women, and it's just not acceptable to have Beer Pong night. Bunco is girlie gambling, and we like any excuse to get together and drink and gossip. Book club is the same. They all start out as a night night where we can come together as women and discuss great works of modern literature, but really we all just get together to talk about the next Twilight book, drink wine, and gossip. I will add a plug for my own personal book club, we skipped the heavy reading and just named ourselves Trashy Vampire Therapy. We haven't actually read a book since last November.
3. Pillowcase dresses, or I Shop at Boutique Clothing Parties. Here in the suburban South, fashion counts. No one cares what the WCSMV is wearing (but pajama pants and tshirts should never be worn out of the house. Ever. You are not People of WalMart) because we are all too busy looking at Buffy and Tator Tot. I can pick out a kids' clothing line and tell you the year in about 2.5 seconds. Southern women spend an obscene amount of money on children's clothing, and we want you to notice. Nothing makes our day like when another WCSMV compliments our cute spawn and throws in "Just Ducky last season! Did you see their double ruffle pants this year? LOVE."
4. Hair bows. No self-respecting WCSMV sends their Buffy to preschool without a matching hair bow. They even make headbands now so you can attach the giant bow to the baby who unfortunately has no hair.
5. Newborn attire in team colors. Yes, I took an entire (adorable) orange and white ensemble to the hospital when Cooper was born. Game day is Saturday, and it's just a standing rule that you wear Big Orange. I do not care that you are 23 hours old and can't sing Rocky Top yet. I just don't.
6.Mongrammed car decals. How else will I pick out my silver mini-van/white Tahoe in the school pick up line/Target parking lot? If your name is on it, you have a much easier time finding it while Buffy and Tator Tot scream for you to open. the. new. toy. NOW. Makes sense to me.
7. Stella &Dot necklaces with the spawn's initials. Fabulous for two reasons: 1. you get to go to the Stella and Dot home party and do everything you do at Bunco/Book club AND shop. 2. You get to co-opt other monograms.
So there you go. WCSMV. Now go run get you a Chik-Fil-A #1 combo then read Mark's (better and more entertaining) blog while you sit in the pick-up line. Go on and do it, you won't have time later because of gymanstics and that PTO meeting.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
We all have guilty pleasures
Some are better than others, and some are just shameful to admit. I know no one wants to hear about the ones like "oh, I love pretzels dipped in mustard" or "my favorite comfort food involves cheez whiz and canned soup", so I am just going to go straight for shameful.
MTV has sucked me in. Not with that trash that is Jersey Shore, but with their damn pregnant teenagers. I will admit, this one time, that I love Sixteen and Pregnant. It's definitely train-wreck tv on so many levels, but I still think that below the cheesy Juno drawings, it has a lot of merit, and should be required watching for every sex-ed class in the American high school. Where Secret Life of the American Teenager completely fails in the depiction of life as a high-schooler with a newborn, this show shows the good (and there is some), the bad (living with parents who tune out completely or enable unbelievably) and the ugly (teenage boys that just do. not. give. a. shit about their progeny, the harsh reality of what it means to quit school/live in a motel/give your child up for adoption). I am glad that in their plethora of trash tv programming, they have this little gem of a show, a show that doesn't hide reality behind Sweet 16 parties and horny college kids living in free beach-houses. It's definitely a throwback to the MTV of old, when The Real World wasn't just an orgy.
MTV has sucked me in. Not with that trash that is Jersey Shore, but with their damn pregnant teenagers. I will admit, this one time, that I love Sixteen and Pregnant. It's definitely train-wreck tv on so many levels, but I still think that below the cheesy Juno drawings, it has a lot of merit, and should be required watching for every sex-ed class in the American high school. Where Secret Life of the American Teenager completely fails in the depiction of life as a high-schooler with a newborn, this show shows the good (and there is some), the bad (living with parents who tune out completely or enable unbelievably) and the ugly (teenage boys that just do. not. give. a. shit about their progeny, the harsh reality of what it means to quit school/live in a motel/give your child up for adoption). I am glad that in their plethora of trash tv programming, they have this little gem of a show, a show that doesn't hide reality behind Sweet 16 parties and horny college kids living in free beach-houses. It's definitely a throwback to the MTV of old, when The Real World wasn't just an orgy.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
I am on a roll, people. Three entries in a week. Somebody stop me.
I am one of those people who gets obsessed. Usually, it's entirely the fault of a book. I spent several years reading everything and anything about World War Two, beginning with the Holocaust when I was nine or ten, moving through college where I majored in History and somehow managed to squeak a degree out of it, eventually moving on to books about generals and battle tactics and weaponry ( I actually considered asking for a Garand for my birthday one year). The FLDS and anything and everything Mormon is another one (damn you, Jon Krakauer, and your Under the Banner of Heaven). Big Love and the recent influx of books by survivors of this wacked out lifestyle fed it fine, until I exhausted every book in the library and the local Barnes and Noble, and started getting funny looks from the bookseller because I was complaining that they moved the Mormon section (there aren't, apparently, a lot of LDS or LDS-obsessed nuts in H'ville, I am sure I am on a list of some kind now).
This time, it's entirely the fault of my internet addiction and boredom. I stumbled upon www.charleyproject.org one afternoon, and decided that an excellent time killer would be reading all the missing persons cases in chronological order. Let me tell you, there is no faster way to achieving the state of total paranoia than reading those cases. They will also make you think twice about a.) alien abduction, b.) time warps and c.) the idea that anyone and everyone you have ever met is potentially and probably a serial killer.
Where do these people go? Sure, you have to figure lots of them are domestic abuse cases, suicides, teenage runaways that met with foul play, but there are quite a few cases where someone just disappears into thin air. Then there's Websleuths, where other weirdos *just like me* sit around and talk about these cases and various and sundry other cold cases, all trying to out-sleuth each other and play CSI:The Internet. Naturally, I now spend an inordinate amount of time reading there, because I, too, fantasize about matching up the unidentified body in Phoenix with the girl who went missing in 1986. I went to the library this week and checked out a book about children who kill and another about forensic anthropology. I then spent two nights dreaming about The Body Farm, bodies in crawlspaces, and Ted Bundy in my bathroom. I need to move on from this, it's depressing and sad, but engrossing at the same time. I thought I would take a break and re-read The Lovely Bones. Brilliant choice, now I am thoroughly sure that at least five of my neighbors and ten of their relatives are the boogy man or related to him in some way.
I am one of those people who gets obsessed. Usually, it's entirely the fault of a book. I spent several years reading everything and anything about World War Two, beginning with the Holocaust when I was nine or ten, moving through college where I majored in History and somehow managed to squeak a degree out of it, eventually moving on to books about generals and battle tactics and weaponry ( I actually considered asking for a Garand for my birthday one year). The FLDS and anything and everything Mormon is another one (damn you, Jon Krakauer, and your Under the Banner of Heaven). Big Love and the recent influx of books by survivors of this wacked out lifestyle fed it fine, until I exhausted every book in the library and the local Barnes and Noble, and started getting funny looks from the bookseller because I was complaining that they moved the Mormon section (there aren't, apparently, a lot of LDS or LDS-obsessed nuts in H'ville, I am sure I am on a list of some kind now).
This time, it's entirely the fault of my internet addiction and boredom. I stumbled upon www.charleyproject.org one afternoon, and decided that an excellent time killer would be reading all the missing persons cases in chronological order. Let me tell you, there is no faster way to achieving the state of total paranoia than reading those cases. They will also make you think twice about a.) alien abduction, b.) time warps and c.) the idea that anyone and everyone you have ever met is potentially and probably a serial killer.
Where do these people go? Sure, you have to figure lots of them are domestic abuse cases, suicides, teenage runaways that met with foul play, but there are quite a few cases where someone just disappears into thin air. Then there's Websleuths, where other weirdos *just like me* sit around and talk about these cases and various and sundry other cold cases, all trying to out-sleuth each other and play CSI:The Internet. Naturally, I now spend an inordinate amount of time reading there, because I, too, fantasize about matching up the unidentified body in Phoenix with the girl who went missing in 1986. I went to the library this week and checked out a book about children who kill and another about forensic anthropology. I then spent two nights dreaming about The Body Farm, bodies in crawlspaces, and Ted Bundy in my bathroom. I need to move on from this, it's depressing and sad, but engrossing at the same time. I thought I would take a break and re-read The Lovely Bones. Brilliant choice, now I am thoroughly sure that at least five of my neighbors and ten of their relatives are the boogy man or related to him in some way.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
