Sunday regurgitation: I never thought the act of bending over could bring me such joy

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The other day, Zoe dropped something onto the floor.

And then with absolutely no warning whatsoever, not even the slightest suggestion that I should sit down and pop a few Xanax and maybe even blow into a brown paper bag just in case, she bent over and picked it up.

I was stunned. I honestly could not think of an appropriate response other than gasping so strongly that I inhaled my own tongue as well as the George Forman grill sitting on the counter in front of me.

Anytime a teenager masquerading around as a slob actually acknowledges that gravity does, in fact, exist, it’s worthy of a celebration and no one can deny that the proud owners of the slob in question are totally justified in calling the 6:00 local news with an excited HOLY SHIT, LOOK WHAT MY KID JUST DID.

But when that teenager in slob’s clothing hasn’t bent over since last October because she suffers from not only selective eyesight but also a fractured tailbone and a herniated disc? And hasn’t been able to carry laundry baskets up the stairs or empty the dishwasher or clean the bathtub or put anything away below neck level or, in essence, do anything remotely resembling a chore or exercise for over ten months?

Forget the local news. I hooted and hollered and banged pots and pans all over my kitchen for a full ten minutes and had to be physically restrained from calling CNN and screaming ANDERSON! GET OVER HERE THIS MINUTE. I THINK THE WORLD JUST ENDED.

I leave you with the post I wrote last year, soon after Zoe broke both her coccyx and my spirit in one moment of pure unadulterated teenage lunacy.

And now I am going to go celebrate with Zoe as well as her little sister who, upon realizing that her days as a servant and pack mule for her sibling are numbered, promptly ran around the house shouting with glee, leaving a trail of laundry baskets behind her.

Happy Sunday, everyone!

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Zoe’s giving Humpty Dumpty a run for his money

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I had every intention of writing a post about Helena’s ears because I know how much you look forward to reading about my kids’ appendages but Zoe had other plans and those plans took 65% of what’s left of my sanity and blew it to smithereens so now you’re left with this post.

Since I only have 35% of my faculties to work with at the moment, don’t be surprised if I occasionally drip some drool or start channeling KC and the Sunshine Band willy nilly.

By the way, what would KC have done if the word “boogie” hadn’t been invented yet or if it had been against the law to repeat the same phrase fifty times over and call it a song?

drip

drip

drip

(((wiping my monitor)))

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It all started when I picked up Zoe from swimming and she winced and moaned and contorted her body into 57 different positions before gingerly coming to rest in the front seat. I was immediately suspicious that something was amiss and that’s because I am astute. I like being astute. Makes me feel smart. I like to feel smart.

But I cringed and hesitated before asking her what had happened because I really just wanted to drive straight to the Land of Denial and pretend that a doctor’s visit and x-rays and physical therapy were not in our immediate future.

But the Land of Denial was closed for renovations and I listened to  Zoe as she recited her tale, gripping my steering wheel and, as she spoke, fighting the urge to let every fiber of my being beat up every other fiber of my being until I became a raging puddle of GOD DAMN IT TO HELL AND BACK.

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I’m your Boogie Man. That’s what I am. I’m here to do whatever I can.

Be it early morning, late afternoon. Or at midnight. It’s never too soon.

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((((wipe, wipe, wipe)))

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To understand my frustration, you need to be familiar with Zoe’s medical history. Hang on a sec while I have a forklift dump off Zoe’s file.

*THUD*

Let’s recap, shall we?

• Broken leg
• Broken arm
• Broken wrist
• Broken finger
• Sprained neck
• Fractured / severely bruised elbow (depending on which doctor you believe)
• Sprained right ankle
• Sprained left ankle – which turned out to be far worse than if she had actually broken it. Ironic much?

I can’t even begin to add up all the costs associated with her injuries, in terms of casts, splints, braces, Advil, Tylenol, recovery time, follow-up visits, co-pays, physical therapy sessions and loss of exercise. And then, of course, we have to add what we spent on Zoe.

After years of screaming and crying and stomping my feet and pleading to God to just STOP IT ALREADY AND LEAVE MY CHILD ALONE, I’ve come to realize that accidents, much like shit, happen and for some reason, they are drawn to Zoe like heat seeking missiles. I could hide her two miles into the earth’s core in an underground bunker and they’d still find her.  I understand and accept the fact that neither Zoe nor I nor anyone has any control over this. It just is. Kind of like arm flab and cramps.

But what I cannot accept nor understand, what simply boggles my mind and drives me utterly batshit crazy, is WHY WHY WHY FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, would someone who is an accident magnet, who simply has to stand there while accidents fall all over themselves to get her autograph, phone in an order to Freak Accidents Are Us and request a supersized #2 special?

Clue? Anybody got one?

And no sooner did she place her order, hang up that phone and start goofing around with her friend by pulling chairs out from under one another, when she missed her chair entirely and fell butt first onto the rock solid ceramic tile floor. Hard.

Freak Accidents Are Us then asked if she wanted fries with that?

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I want to put on … my my my my my boogie shoes. Just to boogie with you.

Yeah, I want to put on … my my my my my boogie shoes. Just to boogie with you.

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((((wipe, wipe, wipe)))

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Four hours, five x-rays, three different medical buildings across the city and three co-pays later, Zoe is now the proud owner of a fractured coccyx. In other words, her tailbone sustained a very slight, barely perceptible, hairline fracture, as well as one whopper of a bruise.

HOLY DAMN SHIT, SHE BROKE HER ASS.

And it’s not like I can run right out to Target and get her a new one.

I know she does not need me to be angry right now. I know that she needs me to just be there. And so I will just be there and try to swallow my outrage over the very real probability that of her litany of injuries, the one that might cause her the most pain and the longest recovery and result in permanent damage to her body is the only one that was entirely preventable.

I wonder if outrage goes down smoother with a chocolate milkshake chaser.

I’m irritated beyond belief at the sheer stupidity of it all and I agonize over the price that her body will now have to pay for a couple moments of idiocy. And at the same time, I realize that she did not intend to do this, that she’s a kid and kids mess around, that it was an accident, that it never occurred to her that she could get hurt and that’s because she does not worry about such things. She rarely worries about anything. She leaves all the worrying to me because I do such a good job at it.

If she didn’t have her father’s jaw and disposition, I would be hard pressed to believe this beautiful fourteen year old girl once gestated in my body. How could she have lived inside of me for nine months and be genetically incapable of worry?

Right about now, my mother is yelling at her monitor THE SAME WAY YOU LIVED INSIDE OF ME AND ARE GENETICALLY INCAPABLE OF HEMMING PANTS WITHOUT DUCT TAPE.

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Shake Shake Shake

Shake Shake Shake

Shake your booty

Shake your booty

((((wipe, wipe, wipe)))

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