more shenanigans.

I slipped on dog drool Tuesday night and just about did the splits to keep myself from belly-blasting on the tile floor.

And now my baby’s never going to turn head down, because I’m going to be ICING MY GROIN FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE. Holy, holy pain balls. I can’t walk, I can’t move. I’ve never felt anything worse except for maybe the birthing process itself, and even then I only experienced the after effects, because I am ever so careful to drug myself up in a major way well before the onset of anything so horrific as childbirth.

Merrick’s infection was looking better yesterday for the first time in 48 hours. He was acting like his awesome self, strutting around the house, dancing to Roxette in the car, and asking for a million and one things at Target. Until last night, when I stuck him in his routine bleach bath and all hell broke loose. Poor guy–his mucho-grody bump exploded in the warm water, causing a very painful and tearful screaming session where he cried out “I just want to die! I just want to go to heaven! I just want to be with God!”

I kept him alive throught he night and, thanks to my dermatologist-y friend’s advice, was able to do miraculous things with a warm vinegar compress this morning. My boy is on the mend. As far as I can tell, he no longer has a death wish.

Mia’s acid reflux is kicking again and she barfed all over my feet. Her aim is less than accurate. So is her timing.

My house smells of bleach and dog hair. I’m crawling with germs, people. I know I said that we’re safe and sanitary, but I feel mighty dangerous what with the flesh-eating-virus and puke all over the place.

I don’t say this to make fun of elderly people, but I’m kind of ready for assisted living. Can’t bend at the waist? Someone will help me get dressed. Trouble walking more than 5 feet at a time? Someone will roll me in a wheelchair through the garden all afternoon. Vomit all over my toes? An orderly will suddenly appear in my room and wash my feet. I won’t even have to feed myself–a nurse will lift spoonful after spoonful of yogurt to my very mouth for me. Rec rooms, TV, painting, talking, chicken soup–it all sounds not too shabby for Toni, and I’d like to get this thing started while I’m still young enough to appreciate it.

That is all.

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About Toni

Mom. Wife. Artist. I take care of the kids and pretend to clean sometimes. I can cook spagetti and I have never been arrested. View all posts by Toni

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