Had a good blog post but it got censored/axed by my husband, who is my editor-in-chief. While I am generally happy to push buttons, these were not the right buttons to push, so he wanted to save me from myself.
I have a problem with my back – a ruptured disc that miraculously felt better so I could run a ten-mile race last fall and keep up with all my running and spinning and body pumping over the winter. It was really hurting last night, so I rooted through all the painkillers the back doctor gave me last year and found a Vicodin (which, ironically, I took at the same time Dr. House was popping his pills on television). It kept me up all night, itching. I literally saw every hour pass. What a unique form of hell, and how sad to realize I might make an excellent wino but I’d make a terrible druggie.
I was offered a job – seriously – that would pay me less than I pay the middle-school babysitter and would take away all my mommy duties, like room parent or coach or field trip chaperone. In my own twisted, tired way, I couldn’t help but pray all my mothering is worth more than minimum wage.
Caroline got the engine to a small car – errr, I mean an expander – put in her mouth, and WOW you should hear the complaining. And the speech impediment. Note to self: leave the country when she eventually has to give birth. She’s not so good with discomfort.
And Jack, who, bless his sweet little soul, is aggressively rubbing my sore back so relentlessly I almost sat on him three times today. He’s so strung out (see yesterday) that he’s just crying for no reason. This does not get on my nerves AT ALL, I promise.
And Whit is booking summer golf tournaments as fast as he can dial.
I think I’ll just go to bed.
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