My plan for the day: Drop off the three older kids at (pre)school, go to the bank, go to physical therapy for my tendonitis-inflicted wrist, goof off until 2:30, then carry on with the picking up, ballet-lessoning and so forth of offspring until the husband eventually returns home.
Instead, I got to drop everybody off, go to the bank, go back to preschool to get Boo Bug, who was ‘very grouchy and complaining that her ear hurts’ and drag her along to physical therapy. She was 100% fine earlier that morning, ate a hearty breakfast, played and frolicked and in no way gave me any indication that she was sick. So I’m chalking it up to a combination of not wanting to go to school in the first place and maybe a headache.
For the first twenty minutes of my session, all was fine. She settled in with a coloring book and crayons and was quietly drawing away. Bacon Bit was fine, chewing on Gerber fruit snacks and ogling back at the nurses. The therapist is going to town on my wrist, doing the stuff that hurts like hell – this is the stuff I consider to be my payment for the part that actually feels good, later.
Then suddenly, the man sitting across the table from Boo diligently using his recently-surgically-repaired fingers to move pegs around a board says, in tones of great uncertainty, “Uh…she’s sorta…throwing up…”
SORTA throwing up? The kid is hurling up three times her own body mass! AAAAAAAAAAAAH!!
In all the chaos, I:
♠ Hyper extended my wrist trying to grab paper towels
♠ Made it go ‘crack!’ when I tried to pick her up off the chair in an attempt to get her over a trash can
♠ Topped it all off by toppling over, landing on the sore hand (naturally) and letting out a yelp that is probably still ringing in space
THEN, I had to strip my little girl nekkid right there in front of God and everybody, wrap her up in an adult-sized hospital gown, pick up Bacon Bit and put his sister into his stroller, carrying him with one arm and push the stroller with the other (hmm, which hurts the bad wrist more, holding the baby or pushing a stroller?), maneuver my way through the various doors and around corners, over hill over dale, back to the van, get them all loaded in and buckled down.
Oh, and right in the middle of the crisis, my cell phone starts going off.
So. My wrist hurts more than it did before, I have an extra kid at home (currently running around playing ‘mermaid princess Barbie’ and feeling 110% fine, TYVM), and all my plans for goofing off? Out the window. The closest I might be able to get is if I load up my video game and attempt to thwart the Minions of Darkness for a while.
But at least I can’t claim that I’m bored, right?!
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