I think I need to start off this post with an excuse.
I might be MIA for a little bit.
I don’t know. But I feel like I should prepare you.
I am busy, busy, busy, and I don’t even have children. So all of you teachers who also mother other people . . . I have so much admiration for you, I can’t even put it into words. And you know me, I tend to have words. So that’s big.
My weekend was turned UPSIDE DOWN when my brother called me. I had just left the wedding shower and was headed to church. I knew instantly something had happened to my mom or my dad.
I have no idea why I thought that My brother and I almost never talk on the phone so I knew it was serious.
Sure enough, my mom fell on plastic while painting in the garage. For those of you who don’t know my mom, that’s actually a good example of her character. Let’s put plastic down in the garage. Wouldn’t want any paint to get on that oil spot. No sirree, Bob. Not on her watch. (We like to joke that when we went camping, she always had a mop and a can of Pledge with her in the tent. Although it was the truth and not a joke.)
So . . . my poor mom fell on the plastic or under the plastic . . . or got her foot caught in the plastic . . . however it happened, she broke her femur.
Apparently, that’s a big one. The biggest one.
911 and all that.
I just mosey-ed on over to church. Shrug. Oh well.
Not exactly. But sort of.
I mean, where better to pray, right? (My dad was holding me off because they were in the ER with no news and I was on standby. But I was actually sitting. And then standing for songs. And then sitting again. But he called it standby.)
Immediately after church, the hubs and I headed to the hospital.
Poor, poor, poor mom. She was in a lot of pain. She said it was a 9 1/2 on a scale of 10. And she is one tough cookie so I knew it was bad. Kidney stones. Twins. Gall bladder. Son. People tracking dirt in on her new hardwood floors. Daughter. Fingerprints on her sliding glass door. Not in that order, of course. She can take A LOT. But that femur did her in.
She was really proud of herself for living her whole life and not breaking anything. I told her we could call it a fracture since that’s what my parents like to call the broken arm I had when I was in first grade.
NEWS FLASH – a fracture is a break.
But not in my family. Especially when your parents left you in the backyard with your 8 year old sister to watch you. All so that they could go on a walk. Apparently, four young kids under the age of 8 meant frequent walks were necessary. So they left us. In the backyard. In Houston, Texas. And behind us was the bayou. It was the late 70s – it’s how it was done. No biggie. Anywho, I fell off the monkey bars and cried and cried and cried. When they FINALLY got home, they put ice on it, fed me rolos, and told me I’d be fine. It wasn’t until the next day, or even the next day, or even the week after that, a kid at school bumped into me and I lost all sense of where I was and howled like a monster. So they sent me to the nurse, called my mom, and the next thing I knew, I was getting a cast put on.
NEWS FLASH – they put casts on fractured bones. Synonym for fracture: BROKEN.
I must have been destined to be a teacher from the very beginning because I didn’t want anyone to sign my cast. I wanted to sign it for them in my own printing. Just tell me what you want to write and I’ll do it, I said.
Meanwhile, my mom doesn’t have a cast. Because the rod they put in during her surgery yesterday IS THE CAST. Ironic, don’t you think?
I could go on and on because there’s lots to tell, but I won’t. But let’s just say that I would rather have been at the hospital with my mom than anywhere else. She is still there and we are hoping to have her home by Wednesday. She’s in good spirits today.
Today was miserable. I don’t have those kind of days. But it was. I faked it, but I didn’t want to be there.
All the work I was supposed to do over the weekend didn’t get done. SO . . .
I must go now. And I may not even get to read your blogs tonight. So I am super sorry if I haven’t left you a comment in two days. I know. I hate it, too. I’m thinking of all of you.
But, most of all, I’m thinking of my mom. She reads this. So, mom, I love you lots and lots. And more and more. And even though she insists I just had a fracture, she makes the BEST DESSERTS in the WORLD and she spoiled me rotten when I was growing up.