Klutz Gods Strike Again - October 1, 2012

Saturday started off so well.  Birds were literally chirping when I woke and I didn’t want to sneak up on them with a BB gun.  The clouds probably parted, while the sun came out, and stayed that way.  The temperature outside was set at a perfect 85 degrees, not too cold and not too hot (I like it hot, hot, hot).


My daughter was listening to me from the minute she opened her eyes.  Listening so well that we would go in for frequent morning hugs.  We made cinnamon rolls and they came out perfectly, not too doughy and not too crisp.  My husband took my daughter to soccer, while I took a nice, long shower, an uncommon and wonderful occurrence.  No one was screaming questions, while I bathed, so I’d forget a step.  The questions often distract me from rinsing off conditioner or washing my face.  Oily skin and greasy hair are my new fad.  I call it the “Mommy!”


I found a coupon for the Elephant Bar, so we were able to have a drink with our linner.  The planets felt aligned and we were on our way to a relaxing, family movie night.  My husband has been working late hours everyday for the past few weeks, so it was a gift to spend time as a family.  We were all face-to-face for an entire day, no Skype to connect us.


Well, it only takes one second to switch up the calm and cool in the air.  Sometimes, I think our family should have our own “walking controller”, with light-up wands and reflective jackets to guide us to safety at every step.  Everyone is a klutz.  We achieve injuries that would make anyone marvel: stepping off steps, tripping over our own feet or while grabbing something from a high cabinet.


Drinking and dancing is like the Indy 500 for me.  I can’t count on one hand, how many times I’ve suffered an injury at the hands of champagne, some tunes and heels with even a one-inch lift.  I have a perfectly round scar on my foot from someone in a stiletto standing on my foot on a wedding, dance floor.


We had just made a Whole Foods run and were headed in from the garage.  All chores for the day were at a close.  I was going to do a little writing, Babyface would have a snack and Daddy would catch up on college football.  My daughter heard some kids playing a few houses down and asked Daddy where it was coming from.  Of course, instead of turning around to look, Daddy stepped back, forgot there was a downward curve in the concrete, rolled his ankle and fell to the floor.


I ran to the scene of the klutz, knowing that it was probably a doozy and he would be out of service for at least a few days and, hopefully, not longer.  When he took off his shoe, his ankle was the size of a small peach.  Ruh roh.


When he injures himself, I learn how it feels to be a wife with no help from her husband.  I can empathize with the wife whose husband doesn’t do anything around the house.  I’m Alice, Mike and Carol Brady all rolled into one.  Daddy can’t roughhouse.  Daddy can’t give me a break by playing with our little ball of energy.  Daddy can’t even wash the dishes to give my feet a rest.


My husband said maybe this is karma for him breaking my favorite, childhood plate, but I am the one suffering here.  He’s in pain, but he’s resting, while I’m shackled in chains to all of the chores.  This must be my three-fold punishment for something.  Can’t wait to see what’s next at the hands of the klutz gods.


Luckily, his ankle is only sprained and he should be better by next weekend.  But, this has taught me to be even more efficient because you never know when my roles may increase at the hands of the klutz gods.  I will now sleep with my eyes open, while making my daughter a sandwich.


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