What the Wild Things Did

In case you’re dying to know, I surrendered my girlish dance dreams when I sprained my left ankle at Bible camp. And true to just about every Lifetime Movie sans Valerie Bertinelli or Very Bad Men (and I can think of exactly… um…let me get back to you…), this happened only weeks (*gasp*) before a Very Important Audition for a Very Turning Point-y summer dance program.

Got Drama?
(And also, I have the oddest associations between that hippy ’70s version of the New Testament The Word and intense lower body pain. Hey,do you think that’s what kept me out of seminary? I don’t know.)

Anyhoo, the ol’ ankles have been like unbaked sculpey ever since. In fact, I do believe I’ve crawled across every single backyard we’ve ever had, sometimes with a baby or two in tow, trying to get to the “C” and the “I” in standard post-ankle fuck up care (see below).

Rest Ice Compress and Elevate

Yeah, and our state is not known for flat backyards. And it may be a teensy bit genetic. My mother once declared that the only thing that kept her from nicking a certain lamp in the Wright Brothers’ Exhibit was the sad state of her swollen ankle. Believe it.

Clearly, the toys of small boys have an unfair advantage over this old mommy– they are small, they often have wheels, and they are frequently meant to interlock by means of sharp angles and /or edges. (I know what you’re thinking, and yes, it is unfolding more and more like a Lifetime Movie with every twist and turn–ankle puns aside). Oh, and I just went back to ballet class. So old. Sooooo careful. So tentative. And so damn sexy in my pair of white stretchy ankle supports. But I’m there. Only took two decades and then some.

mugshot of offender

But then…
Minding my business, doing regular old laundry-related duties, it was freaking Bible camp all over again. Only this time the offender was a block. A block. One of LRHF’s Where the Wild Things Are blocks. They are blocks made of freaking cardboard. I know them well, as I have picked surely picked them up as often, if not more often than I have picked up my small sons. Collectively.

Still, left foot caught the edge of one and Down Goes Mommy…

Dammity Damn Damn Damny Damn. And other bad words.

Because I have stuff to do. No, really–not just the painty, dumb arty stuff–I drive a pick up truck with a very, very itchy clutch…left ankle required. I have the whole compost thing I do. Again, left ankle not optional. And I have to remove and re-lay the stones for the patio outside the playhouse (needed more pea gravel–drainage issues–you know how that can be, right?)

More than that, though, there’s that dull understanding that sometimes (read: usually or always) I’m their maid. I mean, I didn’t twist this baby falling out of a pair of 4 inch heels. I’ve been picking up or tripping over the same crap every day, over and over…and I’ve tried to instill work ethic, really, I have. They’re not exactly Puritan stock.

Speaking of Puritans, it’s just R.I.C.E. for me tonight. Well, rice and B.

That would be for Bourbon. Because it ain’t Bible camp no more.