My son, the 13 year old Big Dog, had a little medical procedure yesterday that left him feeling all kinds of crappy and me feeling like a worthless Mom who couldn’t do a dead blasted thing to make him feel all better.
Apparently it also made me feel like a side kick in an old western as I am now using phrases like “dead blasted” to describe things.
I should tell you that I’m one of those women who babies sick people. When you are fortunate enough to fall ill in my house, you are totally going to be spoiled. Food comes right to your bed, any and all remotes are placed within reach and if you mention even the smallest thing in passing that you might possibly want, I am out the door and in the store before you can say butterscotch pudding.
You wish you were coughing up blood under my roof right now, don’t you?
Even though The Dog is nearing 6’ tall, weighs far more than I do and I have to buy his shoes at Big Ass Clown Feet, he is still my baby boy. While he had his procedure done without his Momma holding his hand and never cried a tear, I sat in the waiting room and did cry a tear.
When we got home and the giant boy was all settled in, I was in the living room with the TV turned down low so I could hear him if he so much as whispered my name. I had barely sat down when he called for me.
Before I go any further, you should know that in addition to being a caring nurturer, I am a graceful gazelle. Actually it would probably be more accurate to say I am a graceful gazelle that falls down all the time. I fall out of chairs, I fall down stairs, and I fall up stairs. If falling can be accomplished in any situation, rest assured I will get it done. It makes people like Mr. Man and Deputy Pretty laugh hysterically.
Nothing says funny like a grown woman writhing in pain on the floor with a compound fracture.
Upon hearing my son issue the “come here” command yesterday, I sprung from the sofa and broke into a full on run, forgetting for a moment that I neither spring nor run. I had barely rounded the corner when my mind reminded my body of that very fact.
I hit the floor, arms and legs in crazy, bent positions and did what I’ve found always works best when an injury of some sort has occurred.
I screamed and cried and begged God for the sweet relief only death could bring. It hurt like a bitch. A biker bitch. A biker bitch with a mullet, no front teeth and a tattoo across her bicep that read, “Your skull would look pretty on my key chain”.
My screaming triggered the wedding vow chip I had secretly implanted into Mr. Man’s armpit and he came running to render aid. Since his back surgery and subsequent weight gain I think perhaps running wouldn’t be as good a word as maybe lumbering.
By this time, I was hollering something about a bright light and walking in a beautiful garden, so my husband felt the need to kick it into lumbering overdrive. In the scuffle, he forgot that we live in a house with two tiny Yorkies who have a natural ability to somehow always be exactly where your feet are. It’s like they gain super Yorkie powers from our shoes.
One of the tiny males fell as an unavoidable casualty. His little self got hit with a bedroom door and he ran yelping to hide under the sofa where only moments before, I had been sitting calmly unaware of the tragedy that was waiting.
To recap, we now have a hurting 13 year old boy yelling for his Mom, a Mom lying on the floor yelling for Jesus to take her home, a Mr. Man yelling at the Mom to stop yelling or he is going to assist Jesus in helping her get to Heaven, and a dog yelling in dog language that he thinks it’s highly likely his pelvis has been crushed.
It was all very “This is the House That Jack Built”.
When finally I managed to get back the breath that had been knocked out of me and Mr. Man took off my shoes so that I could walk unencumbered by things that Southern girls aren’t that used to anyway, I half limped and half crawled to my son’s bed side.
“What’s wrong, Sweetheart? Momma’s here.”
“Can I have a drink of water?”
And that ladies and gentlemen is exactly why condoms should come free with the purchase of every six pack of Michelob.
Love it, love it, love it.
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