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Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Injured Mom, Angry Mom - Just Call Me "Hopalong"

Just call me “Hopalong” for awhile. Remember when I mentioned the“something” I did to my knee in the brief novel I wrote the other day? Well, I finally went to the doctor on Monday and it turns out that it's highly probable that I've torn a ligament in my knee. By walking. Three steps. Indoors. I'm fairly confident that this gives new meaning to the term accident prone. I haven't gone for an MRI yet because my doctor said there's a chance the ligament isn't totally detached, and if it isn't, it may heal on its own. But, if I go for an MRI and there's a tear, then an orthopedic surgeon is probably going to want to do surgery. Since I would rather avoid all of that if there's a chance it might heal on its own, and since the doctor said it won't make any difference in outcome if I go now or if I go in 2 weeks, I'm waiting 2 weeks to see if it shows any improvement. Thus far that would be a big fat no, incidentally. Anyway, I'm extremely disgruntled by this whole thing. I do not have time to be seriously injured. Let alone stupidly seriously injured. If I'm going to be, for all intents and purposes, down one leg, I'd like to have a better story, at least. Maybe I got stabbed in the knee while breaking up a knife fight in a bar. Maybe I broke my knee, but it's really a blessing because I'm the sole survivor in a freak antelope stampede that wiped out everyone else in the vicinity. (It could happen. You don't know.) Maybe I wiped out while snowboarding and was pinned beneath a rock, living off of melted snow and rock moss for 3 days. You get my drift. But, no. I took three steps to talk to my dog and snapped a ligament. Fail.
That's my knee back in the summer.  This was the last time I did something really, really stupid and hurt myself.  
Worse than having a lame story to go with my injury is the fact that I really despise how everyone behaves. Before 11m today my leg was already killing me. Why? Because my child is a pain in the butt. Hunny took Mr. H out to potty before he left for work, then came in and gave the kids strict instructions to be well-behaved and helpful today since Mom has a gimpy leg and all. Not 10 minutes after he left, Mr. H started whining that he needed to go out again. I called for Eggy to take him out, but instead of just putting on his shoes and taking the dog out, he argues with me that the dog can't possibly need to go out since he just went out. Sigh. Um. I don't care? The dog indicates that he hasn't been watching the clock, and he needs to go out, so just take him. (I should point out that I actually like taking the dog out, and since I hurt my knee, I find it extremely annoying that I can't take Mr. H out for his walks myself.) But, he keeps arguing, then when I've finally just said to suck it up and take him anyway, he decides he needs different pants. He was already wearing pants, but apparently he needs different pants. To take the dog out. So, he starts wandering around the house aimlessly, on a quest for pants. Because, you know, there certainly aren't pants in any logical places, like... I don't know... His closet? Or maybe those wern't special “taking the dog out to poop” pants. Meanwhile, Mr. H is still making the whining, I've-got-to-go noise, and I'm getting more and more irritated. Finally, I just wrench myself up, hobble over and start putting my shoes on. The kids immediately start freaking out. “You can't take the dog out! Your knee is hurt!” But I'm too cheesed off to care. So, I mouth off about the fact that if E can't be bothered to take the dog out, and it's too much trouble, I'll just take my broken knee, and take my whiny dog, and go out myself, and if I fall and get hurt, I guess he knows the correct numbers to call.
Mr. H: For the love of all that is holy and good, a puppy gotta poop, here, people.  Someone just suck it up and take me out, already!!!

Mr. H and I hobble outside, down the steps, and around back, where he proceeds to deposit possibly the largest pile of doggy excrement I've ever seen, proving that he did, in fact, need to go out. Then, I hobble back into the house with the dog, load the dishwasher, and put in a load of laundry. By the time I was done, my knee was throbbing, of course. All of these are things that Hunny specifically told me not to do before he left, but, I was just so mad. I mean... I wait on everyone around here all the time and it's asking too much for someone to take the dog out when my knee is all jacked up? Really? Logically, I realize that my kids are not horrible, self-centered brats, just typical kids. But, man is it frustrating to be in the situation where you can't do for yourself like you want to, and everything that someone does for you is done with resentment. Now, things could be much worse, and I'm not about to whine about how rough I've got it when I'm fully aware that I could have it ten times worse, but I'm betting that every mom out there totally gets the feelings that I'm talking about. I love being a mom. I truly adore my kids, but man is it a sometimes truly thankless job, with little in the way of appreciation or payback. And at no time is the depth of their ability to take you for granted as apparent as when you have an injury. Sigh. Okay. I'm done complaining. Probably. Okay, I'm probably not. But, I don't want to write another huge novel, so I'm ending it here.  Sigh.

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