I keep my son in stitches.
Today was the day for the drive-thru surgeon. It wasn't that bad, actually, but Mr. Thirteen WAS eating a footlong subway downstairs an hour after having the plates removed from his elbow. What's next?
Ohhh, I am silly. I am also very tired. I announced this loudly at dinner and my five year old decided to reinforce her post-dinner entertainment foothold, "Don't forget you promised to play cards with me!" She can see my demise coming a mile away!
We got the plates back, too, by the way. No matching bowls, though. Poor guy. I know it has to be a relief to him to get them out of his arm. He's had a few screws loose for a while (and I don't mean the genetic ones!)
He's feeling the love right now, between the medication, his sisters, and the people who responded to his MySpace messages. "Ow, I'm really hurting right now. . ." He says. "Poor baby!" or "Dude!" they reply, based on gender.
I'm hoping I make it halfway through a glass of wine before slinking off - therefore I will postpone the wine until I get the baby bathed, the patient sedated and Fifteen for a Moment on count with her unarmed exhibition routine.
I caught something on the news while I was waiting for the boy's anesthesia to wear off this morning- some guy was trying not to complain for three weeks. Tonight, we're on the backside of this crisis and the next is hopefully a day or two off. Therefore, I'll do no complaining! A little wining, but no complaining!
1 month ago