Coming Down with a Case of Bitchface

It really didn't seem like a big deal to be in a sling at first. Really, it didn't. After I epically threw myself down the stairs earlier this week in an attempt to be right (my ego knows no bounds) and sprained my shoulder, I tried to look on the bright side: It's not broken. It doesn't need a cast, nor does it need surgery. A week in a sling is no big deal.

Besides, when you're The Maven and your body is a gluten-free health hive where immunity makes the most delicious honey, you don't worry about this stuff as much. I rarely get sick, and I will undoubtedly heal quickly because I. Kick. Ass. A week? More like two days and I'll be flinging my arm around, whipping up a morning latte and throwing together lunches. Flinging, I tell you! Flinging!

Three days in, I have changed my tune - just a little bit.

First of all, I'm not getting better nearly as quickly as I'd like. Secondly, most of that is probably my fault. This limited mobility thing is seriously suckish when you have three kids and a job and a blog. It's hard to type with one hand, especially when it's not your dominant one. So I generally type with two and regret it later. And as much as my incredible husband does around the house, there's still more than he can manage alone. Spawnling still needs help with those buttons when it's just he and I, and I'm still chief operating officer of Mom's Preschool-to-Puberty Limousine Service.

Go ahead, shake your finger at me (but not on your right hand or I'll get a little jealous). Roll your eyes at me. Tsk-tsk at me. Get angry and tell me I should be taking it easy. You're absolutely right. I berate myself regularly for not resting more. But that doesn't change reality. I'm not trying to play martyr here, people. I am a mother: If you don't want me to use my arm at all for an entire week, you'd better sew it into my side, because otherwise it's going to get used. There's no way around it.

But worse than the need to do things, is the eerie desire to do them. Yes, it's true: even when nobody needs a thing and I have a couch and a TV at my disposal, I have a hard time sitting still for long. I've been a stay-at-home-parent for over a decade; the need to putter about, tidy up, sort something, plan a meal, or generally just check up on everything has been assimilated into my DNA. It's the most frustrating thing to make myself sit down when I know the table has a juice spill large enough to become the ant orgy-equivalent of a Roman bath house. Can Geekster clean it? Would Gutsy happily take care of it if I asked him? Absolutely. But that's not the point. It feels lazy and wrong and downright sinful to watch a romantic comedy while the bathroom sink is smeared with toothpaste. Must. Clean. The. Toothpaste.

The problem, of course, is that if I don't take it easy, this sling ain't coming off any time soon. I'll be stuck wearing it or some other restrictive torture device for longer than a week. And then my bitchface will be permanent.

Yes, I said "bitchface," as in "the face made by a bitch," or "The Maven has a giant bitchface going on right now." Boredom coupled with chronic pain will do that to a chick, ok?

What's that? You don't think it's possible that I - the sweet and wonderful human being I am - could look bitchy. Yes, I am generally full of amazingness, but even the mighty falter at times. Observe:

Day 2. Bitchface setting in. Note symptomatic eyes. Also note pretty sparkly scarf used as sling. Vanity for the win.

Day 3. Full-on case of Bitchvisio Maximus. Boring grey sling with better support. Boo.

I keep telling myself I'm going to get scowl lines. Being a somewhat vain individual, this may be just the thing to cure me. That or chocolate-covered almonds, which have not materialized in my world recently. I may have to treat myself tomorrow - you know, for medicinal reasons - in the name of curing the bitchface.

I vow to rest my arm now and go watch the hot dudes in Supernatural. They're not chocolate-covered almonds, but they sure are yummy.

I am the Greatest Mom Alive (now with busted up shoulder)

Stairs and I are working through our issues. Mostly trust issues. On my end.

Yesterday I got in a really big argument with Gutsy over wearing protective gear while inline skating. He kept insisting that he "never falls" and therefore doesn't need to wear anything but a helmet. I told him that it only takes one fall to hurt oneself badly. We eventually settled on a helmet and wrist guards, at the very least. And the whole process only took about an hour of intense negotiation - which, if you know how stubborn eight-year-olds with behavioural issues can be, is pretty damn good.

But here's my secret weapon: I'm even more stubborn than he is. I am the stubbornest. Epically stubborn. Stubborner than thou. Supreme Ruler of Stubburnia. Not only that, but I have learned that in order to teach children a lesson, one must traumatize the shit out of them.

So, to show Gutsy how quickly people can hurt themselves, I threw myself down the stairs last night.

Okay, maybe it didn't quite happen like that.

It was about 9 p.m. and I had finally convinced Spawnling that bed was a good thing. I tucked him in, kissed him goodnight, and tsk-tsked about how messy his room was (because stressing kids out by showing dissatisfaction at bedtime is a great way to make sure they go to sleep; Maven parenting tip #164.) I told him we would clean his room in the morning, turned to leave - and then, in a moment of near-OCD coupled with the desire to set a good example, I picked up the littlest gremlin's clothes off the floor and carried them in a heap down the stairs.

Did I use a basket? No. Did I carry more than I could safely manage? Probably. But whatever. I was being a good mom and getting a head start on what was bound to take a fair bit of time the next day.

I felt pretty good about the whole thing, right up until an article of soiled preschooler clothing fell right in front of me. And I stepped on it, and, of course, I slipped. And this resulted a rather dignified tumble down the stairs.

I figured my ass had taken the brunt of the impact - which is good, because it's quite a sizeable ass with ample shock-absorbing ability. What I failed to realize in that moment was that I had put out my right hand to brace myself, and had thus absorbed a great deal of my fall that way. More on that later.

The first thing I yelled when I hit the bottom of the stairs was "It's okay, it's just me!" in an attempt to reassure everyone that it was no big deal, it's just mom, and mom's invincible, and there's no need to be panicked. I picked myself up, smiled reassuringly to the family members who came running from all directions, and even laughed as I collected the fallen laundry. See? No big deal, everyone. Just a little fall. Mommy's perfectly happy and not at all broken! Now, goodnight!

And then the shock slowly left my body, and my reassuring smile turned into a creepy grimace of pain. But I kept it up like some sort of deranged funhouse painting. I'm pretty sure that was more traumatizing than the fact that mom was hurt, and if any of the gremlins wind up with a fear of Bubbles the Clown, I'll take full responsibility.

This morning, I woke up in a fair bit of pain, and far too early for Mother's Day, I might add. I winced through my shower, winced through getting dressed, had to have Geekster help me do two-handed things like fastening my bra and putting on my coat. I was getting ready for a family brunch, but it had become apparent my shoulder was going to require some medical attention. Priorities first, however. Mother's Day brunch (AKA bacon-fest), then doctor. B (bacon brunch) comes before D (doctor), so we could also argue alphabetical sequencing.

At brunch, my mom decided that it would be very motherly of her to take me to the hospital to get x-rays, so that's exactly what she did. Her love for me may or may not have been amplified by the gift I gave her, which is quite possibly the funniest parody book I've ever seen (and probably one of only a handful of parody books I've ever seen, but that in no way diminishes its hilariousness.) We had a great mother-daughter bonding experience, and she only once asked me to turn the music down while we were driving. What better way to spend Mother's Day than with my own mom who is mothering me? It was pretty much perfect-- well, minus the germy hospital and the pain and stuff.

As it turns out, I have a sprained shoulder. I need to keep my arm in a sling and the Advil a-flowin' for the week, but I should be just fine. Not that the Advil is making much of a dent at the moment, mind you.

My husband is a superhero of a man who cleaned the house (including Spawnling's tornado debris of a room), did the groceries, did and put away all the laundry, watched the kids, and cooked me a fantastic dinner. After eighteen years together, he has figured out that doing the dishes is the ultimate foreplay.

(Too bad about the constant pain in my shoulder. You win some, you postpone some.)

But fear not, fiends. I'm taking this whole thing pretty well. Yes, I'm fairly uncomfortable and pretty frustrated with my current limitations, but at least I made sure I couldn't lift a finger this Mother's Day. Maven: 1, Domestic Duties: 0.

The moral of the story: Never argue with your mom about safety rules or she'll fall down the stairs just to prove you wrong. Never, ever, underestimate your mother, little boy. She is epic winning incarnate.

Happy Mother's Day.

Super Mom Vs. The Horrible Hobble

(Image credit: Wikipedia.org)

In the last set of comments (yes, I do read them - every single one - and they totally feed my writer's ego make my day), Deb asked if I would write a post about my recent injury. So, since I'm nice like that, allow me to flex my non-injured wordsmith muscles and tell the tale.

First, I have a confession to make: I've been working out. But if you're not my Facebook friend, you likely wouldn't know it (and if you are my Facebook friend, I apologize for spamming your live feed with my annoying workout messages). For the most part, I've been doing it all secret-like in my office or bedroom, kind of like a teenager with a case of the late night porn itch.

(Come to think of it, it's a lot like porn: skinny, scantily-clad women on the screen working up a sweat, telling you to keep going, twisting themselves into... Well, anyway. I think I've made my point.)

I've been trying not to be too rah-rah about the whole exercise thing. I tend to get overzealous and fall head over heels for something new, then lose interest, much like the guy in high school who never called you back after you got to third base.... not that teenage me would have any experience with that (the jerk). When I make a small change in life I should just do it, do it regularly, and appreciate the results. This is what I've done this time, and it's been amazing. And It feels different. I love how strong I'm getting, how much energy I have, how I tore my calf muscle while kicking myself in the ass...

Oh, yes: the injury! I had almost forgot. I was in the middle of this wonderful exercise called a "butt kick." Basically, you have to run in place while kicking so high you whack yourself in the buttocks with your heels. It's not the most attractive thing in the world, but it does get the heart pumping. I'm not quite getting foot to ass yet, but nearly. In fact, I was trying ever so hard to reach my sizeable bum with my $200 running shoes, using their uberpadding to the fullest as I pushed myself off the floor and - POP! - there went the party.

Did you know calf muscles could making a popping sound? I sure as hell didn't. In fact, it wasn't the pain that made me cease and desist, it was the fact that my leg made the same sound as a champagne bottle on New Year's Eve. The pain only came after that awful sound in the form of a rather unpleasant cramp.

I'll skip the part where I cried in agony in the shower and hastily sent off a message to a friend of mine who knows a thing or two about working out. We'll ignore my visions of having to have my leg's innards surgically reattached, or the horror running through my mind as I pictured watching helplessly from the couch as my once-tidy house goes to shit while I recover from said surgical procedure. I won't even mention my fear of gaining back the weight I've undoubtedly lost (I don't weigh myself at all these days so as to not get hung up on numbers) and watching all the muscle mass I've worked so hard for turn into flab I simply don't need more of.

But I'm not dramatic or anything. And definitely not anxious or someone who skips ahead. Me and the Dalai Lama, staying in the present like the centered beings we are.

The good news: It doesn't look to be serious. I know this because it's been getting a little better every day. As per my friend's suggestion, I immediatley applied the R.I.C.E. technique: Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation (I hope I got that right. If not, my botched memory created a whole new recovery system that worked anyway and maybe I have a future as a trainer).

Okay, I maybe lied a little bit. I only took care of myself after donning my Super Mom cape for a few hours. After my shower, I went to the grocery store, drove my sister and Gutsy somewhere, and took Spawnling to the park to play with his little friend Dalek. It was all going swimmingly - minus the part where painkillers did absolutely nothing for pain and I gasped in agony every time my calf muscle was stretched even the slightest amount - until Spawnling and his buddy decided to try to kill each other at the top of a very high play structure. They never fight -- well, hardly ever. They picked the one day I was crippled and Dalek's fairly pregnant mom was the only other adult at the park. They attacked each other ten feet off the ground, surrounded by four long slides and two openings fit for bone-crunching falls.

Fan-freaking-tastic. What on earth was I supposed to do?

After yelling at them to stop failed miserably, I rushed up to the top as quickly as I could, narrowly avoiding my now tattered Super Mom cape getting tangled up in the monkey bars. It was only once the boys were on the ground sobbing and tending their wounds with retracted claws that I felt an intense surge of major ouch. When I got home, I told the kids that mommy was done for the day. There would be no fetching of favours, no snack acquisitions. They were on their own until their dad got home from work.

Gutsy pushed the ottoman up to the armchair, put a pillow on it and carefully lifted my leg. He then grabbed an ice pack and a cold drink and handed them to me. "Are you alright, mommy? Is there anything else I can do for you?" he asked kindly, and stroked my cheek. Later, he, Intrepid and Geekster took orders, formed a sandwich assembly line, and delivered a late but very yummy dinner. The even did the dishes.

See? The family can survive without me -- for at least 12 hours! I was mostly back on my feet by the following morning, getting things done one limp at a time. I am nowhere near ready to start kicking my own ass again, but I did get a great upper body and abs workout done yesterday. Soon, I'll try walking a block or two, and then hopefully a little ways longer. By next week I hope to jog, and then I'll tentatively (and a little fearfully) resume my regular exercise routine that involves a fair bit of things that can apparently make Maven's muscle go "Pop." Yikes.

Injury sucks. However, it's reminded me just how grateful I am to be this healthy and mobile; all the more reason to keep working hard, getting stronger and healthier.

Oh, and hotter. Yes, I'm definitely getting hotter and really buff. If you know me in real life and I haven't asked you to feel my bicep yet, consider yourself lucky. I've been making everyone touch it. I expect a flood of restraining orders to start coming in soon.

Look, just fondle my arm, ok? Don't make me hobble after you.