i wanted to be able to come back and honestly say, “the ribs and I are just FINE!”
But we aren’t there just yet. So instead let’s deal with rib stuff. If you haven’t read the comments on that last post – or have no idea why i’m talking about ribs anyway – and you sorta care… you might start with that last post.
(Sara, this first part is for YOU also)
SO. I wasn’t honest in the grocery store when the two guys smashed into me. I had a million excuses and reasons why i didn’t want to inconvenience people or make a scene or make a really awkward scenario actually FEEL awkward for anyone so I just continued to shop without a supply of oxygen. That decision made PERFECT sense to me at the time. (right, Sara?)
Enter the lovely therapist lady who hears this and is squinting at me slightly and saying, “Whaaat…? But if it had been one of your KIDS?”
Or, “lightbob” as Seth-6yr says.
Well. If it were one of my kids, I would have made everyone in that entire story feel VERY awkward. I would have scooped up my baby, whichever one it was, and then loudly confronted the two cart guys who smashed into MY PRECIOUS small person and asked for a manager and taken down names and phone numbers of witnesses and let my full mommy tiger ire reign in full force right next to the cold quiches because THAT’S MY BABY AND HE MIGHT BE HURT, I DON”T KNOW, I’LL KISS HIM AND ASK HIM IN A SECOND BUT FOR NOW THIS WHOLE WORLD WILL STOP AND PAY ATTENTION AND WAIT IN A STATE OF EXTREME AWKWARD UNTIL I KNOW FOR SURE. WHILE YOU WAIT, PLEASE EXTEND YOUR RIGHT ARM THIS WAY AND MAKE YOURSELF USEFUL AND PRAY BLESSINGS IN THE NAME OF JESUS BECAUSE I WILL APPRECIATE THAT A LOT. PRAYING IN TONGUES IS NOT DISCOURAGED. UNITE FOR A GOOD CAUSE RIGHT THIS SECOND, Y’ALL. THIS! IS! MY! BABY!
So… for ME. I should probably have at LEAST shaken my head NO when asked if okay and gestured that i would now collapse in a puddle on the floor right there by the cold quiches and at least let a few of those tears actually fall. And ditch the fake smile. And gasp. And maybe make the ugly, gutteral sounds Michele described that I really so desperately wanted to make, but wouldn’t let myself, because i am a lady. (Um… no offense, Michele. Hee!)
And my COMPLETE unwillingness to take a second to even think about how I really was, or allow anyone – including me – to care… probably another self worth issue.
Or, as the lovely therapist lady says, “you didn’t have your tiara on, did you?”
No. NO. No, I did not. My figurative tiara was long gone at that moment.
For now, I’m mostly okay. I sort of walk and sit like I might have a minor hunchback issue going on, but I’m SURE IT”S NOT NOTICEABLE OR ANYTHING, DON”T TELL ME OTHERWISE. I am not lifting stuff. Or doing the yardwork that needs to be done. Or working out. Or running. Or laughing hard, if I can help it, because oh but y’all that hurts so bad.
I couldn’t help it earlier though. Mike came to get the kids this morning and he borrowed a couple of tables for a 4th of July thing they’re attending. The boys helped him load it into the back of his truck.
For the rest of this to make sense, you have to know that Mike just bought a REALLY nice truck, and apparently had a REALLY nice thick, fabric bedliner put in it, and then a shiny, silver diamondplate locking bedCOVER thing also. FAN-CEE.
(and, so much for ‘we will not make large purchases during this time, and will consult one another’, but HEY. i guess we’re officially past that point.)
So Caden-8yr helps load these two tables into the back of the nicest truck bed ever and then turns and yells, “mom! i am SO GLAD we got these out of your house!”
(note: they were in the far corner of the garage)
He continues, very sincerely, from within the Fanciest Truck Bed Ever: “Because these are COVERED in like, a MILLION baby spider egg things!”
And then he gets out of the Fanciest Truck Bed Ever and they lock up the million baby spider egg things in there and the boys kiss me and they drive away and I could NOT stop the rib-hurting laughing even though I desperately wanted to.
OH… Caden-8yr, you are so cute.