Clumsy Fool
Big Dummy, er, I mean Big Daddy broke his foot. Don't ask me how because I won't be able to tell you. It is just broken. What a damn mess. This hampers my lifestyle on several different levels. The first of which being that I like to be waited on hand and broken foot. And suddenly I find myself as the waiter and not the waitee. It is unfamiliar territory. Yesterday Big Daddy said, I need to go out and turn the pool timer off, but it just seems like too long of a walk right now. My sympathetic response was, Well, don't worry about it. It doesn't have to be done right now. You can do that in a couple of days when you get more used to the crutches. God forbid I waddle my lazy ass out there and flip off the timer.
Then it occurred to me that perhaps I should cancel my upcoming bachelorette sojourn to South Carolina. Big Daddy is after all going to be a single parent while I'm gone. But luckily I came to my senses and realized if those two little dwarfs in Oregon can parent four children then certainly a one-footed Big Daddy can parent a couple of little varmints for five days. All he has to do is make sure they don't die. He can do that in a cast, can't he?
Of course I wouldn't be surprised if my mom and grandmother showed up at my doorstep this afternoon with grapes to feed him and hot compresses and fans and anything else you might pamper a big, spoiled baby with. When I told them that he had broken his foot you would have thought I said he was in intensive care with only a 2% chance of survival. They both started hemming and hawwing and freaking out as if it was a big deal. Holy shit, people, it is just a metatarsal.
I've recently become obsessed with the word shuttlecock. Can you blame me?
Then it occurred to me that perhaps I should cancel my upcoming bachelorette sojourn to South Carolina. Big Daddy is after all going to be a single parent while I'm gone. But luckily I came to my senses and realized if those two little dwarfs in Oregon can parent four children then certainly a one-footed Big Daddy can parent a couple of little varmints for five days. All he has to do is make sure they don't die. He can do that in a cast, can't he?
Of course I wouldn't be surprised if my mom and grandmother showed up at my doorstep this afternoon with grapes to feed him and hot compresses and fans and anything else you might pamper a big, spoiled baby with. When I told them that he had broken his foot you would have thought I said he was in intensive care with only a 2% chance of survival. They both started hemming and hawwing and freaking out as if it was a big deal. Holy shit, people, it is just a metatarsal.
I've recently become obsessed with the word shuttlecock. Can you blame me?
@ 12:09 PM
3 Comments:
You're a regular Mother Teresa. Actually, you're more like Sister Boom Boom of the Church of Perpetual Indulgence.
Isn't that what the kids are for - to serve as his personal minions while you're gone? That's what we use ours for. He's great at picking out beer from the fridge.
And that is why I'm up for mother of the year every year.
yep...builder mama has the right idea.
child labor!!!
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