Bad things happen around here, to the people we love, to us.
We really should have some kind of warning label, some visible disclaimer. There should be some way to put people on notice about the version of crazy that's all up in here.
Again with the vagueness. I know. I'm sorry.
Only this time I have real and legitimate reasons for not being forthcoming, beyond my own unwillingness to share, that is. Usually it's my filter, my discretion that makes me withhold. This time, I just really can't say much, at least about one of the million crazy things happening in my world. And yes, it's that bad.
There is one new development that I can talk about though. And it's entertaining, at least to those of us not involved in the physical pain of it all.
This story involves my punch card. You know, the one that I jokingly wrote about a while back during our streak of visits to the emergency room.
It should be all filled up now, if it wasn't already.
Last night, my husband was being taunted by a little girl. The one that lives across the street and who, at nine years old, can talk some pretty good smack already. Tom has this antagonistic relationship with a lot of children. Sometimes it's impossible to tell who is teasing who.
Anyway, a while back, Tom taught her how to ride her Ripstik after he committed a full weekend to mastering it himself. For those of you who don't know what a Ripstik is, it's basically a funky 2 wheeled skateboard that requires a whole lot more balance and coordination. He says it's also waaaaay more fun to ride, but I know better than to tempt fate (or test my balance and coordination) that way.
|Seriously, don't try this at home.|
The two of them, Tom and the nine year old taunter, often tease each other about who's got better skills on the boards. Last night was no exception. She mastered catching and throwing a football while riding. Then she called him out.
He hopped on his board and they rode circles around each other a while.
Then, something happened. He went off the front of the board in a strange way, different than how he'd ever fallen off it before. Put his hand down to catch himself. Heard a pop.
This is why there should be age limits on these things.
I knew something was wrong when he didn't get up or make any attempt to. Just slowly rolled over in the middle of the street and cradled his elbow. Ice, motrin and a phone call to the grandparents. I took him in as soon as we could leave, and the guy at the registration desk asked what happened. After hearing what Tom had fallen off of, he decided his son wasn't getting one for his birthday anymore.
I knew that he'd done something to it immediately, but Tom was in his usual post-injury denial. That denial lasted only until the x-ray tech came in for images and told him to straighten his arm. It's broken, at the head of the radius. Basically the place in your arm responsible for most of the manipulation and all of the rotation.
He's home from work today, pretty heavily drugged. The cast will go on tomorrow after the swelling goes down a little. He joked with Ashley this morning that he wants to get the same color she has so they can match.
Hell, who am I kidding?
We don't need a label. It's obvious. People can see us coming, with our crutches and casts.
Oh, look, there are the DeBies.....