By now, you all know how I am and how circumstances conspire to the point that I wind up somehow injured or humiliated in a way that normal people don’t ever have to deal with. It’s inevitable. I’ve learned to just roll with it over the years because hiding and crying about it isn’t my style.
People, women especially, seem to hate getting older and actually admitting to their ages. Me? Please. I’ve managed to survive 33 years so far.
It’s been a challenge.
I’ve got two girls, 6 and 12. A few weeks ago, the oldest broke her pinky toe because she forgot exactly where her bed is located in her room (hint…same spot it’s been in for over a year…) and a couple of days ago my youngest pulled her own stunt.
There’s nothing that makes your stomach sink faster than looking at your caller ID and seeing that your child’s school is calling you. It’s even worse when you answer and can hear your six-year-old screaming and crying in the background. Apparently, her class got an extra recess at the end of the day since it was so nice out. A couple boys were playing tag and came my daughter’s way. She turned and then ran full force into a pole, mouth first.
It did not end well for her, the poor baby. She busted both lips, had to deal with a lot of swelling, and knocked out one of her front teeth. Luckily, it’s a baby tooth so she won’t wind up looking like a munchkin redneck. Right now she’s missing two other teeth that came out the usual way, so she’s looking pretty funny anyway.
This was taken the next morning, so you can imagine how bad it looked right after. She kept complaining about how her top lip kept “overflowing” her bottom one.
Of course I immediately came and picked her up from school, and since there was only five minutes left to the day they also released my oldest so I could take them both home. My husband had come with me, so we’re driving back home and trying to cheer up the youngest by telling her stories of how we’ve gotten hurt too.
I noticed my husband was being really quiet, so I look over to see what’s going on. He’s slumped over, holding his head in his hands and looking panicked. “Oh my god,” he’s muttering.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I mean, I’m about to panic myself, thinking his sugar has dropped or spiked or something.
He shakes his head. “It’s just that there’s THREE of you.”
“….yeah, babe. It’s not like I surprised you with them or anything…”
“WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?!” he wails.
I can’t help but bust out laughing. “Dude, I tripped over a crushed can in your yard one of the first times we met. There’s nothing you can do but buckle up for the ride and be prepared.”
He continues shaking his head and looking shell-shocked.
I can’t really feel sorry for him at this point. We were together for four years before getting married. He has seen firsthand how things just happen around me, and it’s hard to feel pity for him when I know how much free entertainment he’s getting out of this deal.
At least life is never boring with me.