Muscles Sprains Galore

I sprained my tongue. No joke. I was making all "wah-wah" at Mike, using way-overexagerrated mouth movements, and that sucker just went "ZOING!". Then came this funky pain, that started under the right side of my tongue and radiated all the way down my neck. It was absolutely excruciating and weird all at the same time.

It felt like God had reached down with a baby lightning bolt and interceded on Mike's behalf to get me to SHUT THE HECK UP.*

I was so surprised, I stopped making fun of Mike's situation, which, incidentally, was something like "What restaurant should I leave the house to go to with my friend? The expensive one or the MORE expensive one?" When the menu at home was pb&j with the kids, followed closely by dishes, I felt his dilemma deserved a little well place "wah-wah" action.

What it didn't deserve was a sprained tongue.

Anyway.

Fast forward to two weekends ago. I decided it would be a good idea to "clean out" the flower beds in the backyard. Normally, Mike does this, but he was out of town** with the guys, so I decided to be the "good" wife and surprise him with my ability to pull ill-placed, nuisance weeds.

Today, two weeks later, I still can hardly bend at the waist without the thigh in my left leg going "ZOING!" My days as a weeder have temporarily ended.

Thankfully, for me, my tongue has righted itself, so I have the ability to complain.

This leg issue has been useful in making my kids do the "right thing" by cleaning up the floors of the rooms they manage to cover with Legos, books, and DS games each and every day of my life. The phrase "Mommy can't" followed by a ten-minute tongue wagging on my latest injury is enough to make them spring into action. Just to shut me up.

So, I'm nursing my wound, literally and figuratively, for all it is worth. Probably, a good massage or an hour of yoga would cure my ills. But, then who would be available to complain?

What do you think my boys would do if I stopped all the "wah-wah" talk and went silent? I know the ubiquitous phrase "Silence is golden." But, is it really?

I, for one, am not about to find out.

"BOYS!? Come clean up this room!"

ZOING.


*Yes, this is a recurring theme in my life. You'd think I'd have gotten the hint by now.

**Probably eating at an expensive restaurant. But, I'm not bitter in the least. No.

Ambiguously Gay

I know someone who is most definitely ambiguously gay. He is so A.G. that I don't even think HE knows which way to go. I've known him for at least 10 years now and there has never been a hint of a girl OR boy friend in all that time. The closest I ever get is "Me and my friend, soandso, went to the movies with another guy."

All I ever want to ask is "Did you kiss one of them afterwards?" because the suspense is KILLING me.

I'm sure it's killing him, too.

Which brings me to today's subject: Saturday Night Live*.

I have been a fan of this show ever since the "Wild and Crazy Guys" were on in the late 70's/early 80's. Some of my favorite political jokes have come from the "Weekend Update".** And, if I know that Justin Timberlake or Kim Basinger's ex-squeeze are on, I will DVR the event for a bladder-splitting laugh.

But, above almost every skit ever done on that show, there are two that make me laugh just by the sheer mention of their names: More Cow Bell and Schweddy Balls.

So, the other night, during cousin's camp, I had hit a point of "Someone, anyone, PLEASE relieve me of my duties as sheepherder. If I hear anymore bleating, one of these kids is going to get a crook to the back of the head."

We had just enjoyed time in the pool prior to my impending mental break and I was trying to stop the next argument about who was going to get the coveted Spiderman towel.

Now, you would think, with all the clean laundry hanging around this house in baskets, that I could have found four white, plain towels. No dice. So, I gave the superhero towel to the Babe. It practically covered him from neck to toe and he was digging the scene.

Then another swimmer spotted its webalicious goodness and started acting like an ape in heat. "I want the Spiderman towel. It's mine."

The yank that spun the Babe around like a 50's-era top and dropped him to the ground was, in a word, impressive. But, also, altogether improper manners.

After assessing the damage and gently*** reminding the culprit that his brother shouldn't be treated that way, I sent the instigator to bed. He, away from all the noise, excitement, and activity of the week, settled into a much-needed 1.5 hour nap, after much gnashing of teeth and a kid-size lecture to me on the "Unfairness of Mommy."****

By this time, I felt like I was going through menopause. I was on FIRE. I honestly hate to sweat, so this was beyond uncomfortable. It was a moment, caught in a TV ad, where you shouldn't raise your hand lest you take down those within ten feet of your pits.

And, right then, I ran into Mike. He needed the "update", as he was conveniently perched in his office for this entire episode, and wanted to know what was "up."*****

I looked him right in the eye and said "I'm schweddy." We both burst into tears when he said "So you have 'Schweddy Balls'?" Juvenile? Yes. Sheer, Alec Baldwin, genius. Absolutely!

Thus, broke the tension and my lousy attitude. None of the little sheep were any worse for the wear and, as I lay in the bed that night wondering "What the HECK is that odor?"******, I realized: I MADE IT THROUGH ANOTHER DAY AS A MOM.

Woo and hoo. Can I have my shower now?



*I am way overly impressed with my ability to transition on this one. Someone, please, poke a pin in my overblown head before it explodes.

**Sadly, most of my nightly news has come from the same skit.

***You act like an ape, you get ape Mom gentle. CPS might not have approved. But, BONUS! The Dallas Zoo would have.

****Yes, it stinks that you can't have the exact same Spiderman towel that I bought back in the 90's at some random Wal-Mart. I'm really considering going on EBay to see if I can pay $50 + shipping to get you one, too, so you won't feel left out. NOT!

*****Um, sky, stars, blah, blah. Have I mentioned that my response to stress, menstrual cycles, and life, in general, is SARCASM? Bet you guessed that already, huh?

******I was lying, hands under head, pits exposed. A not-so-gentle reminder that I needed to bathe after the brother gripe-fest.

Handling childhood injuries via your freezer...

After reading an article about the "miracles of ice", I had to give this bonehead idea a shot. The premise was that any injury that wasn't going to have to be set, sewn, or operated upon could be "cured" almost instantly by ice.

Stick this in your frontal lobe: we determined where to put Mike's office in our new house using baby's lungs in an empty room. We literally closed the door* between what would become the TV/family room and the back hallway, then shut ANOTHER door to the proposed office. Then we let little one scream; I swear, the hounds of Hell were barking like mad. We both looked at each other and wondered, "Genetically, who contributed the LOUD gene?"** And we instantly determined that the back room of the house would NOT be the best place for Mike to office.

But, I digress. The point of this story is ice. I tell you about the noise factor to help you understand that we have two other boys who both can be just as loud as the babe. And when they are injured***, it sounds like both death and destruction have been loosed. Which brings us back to the ice.

So, I started responding to every injury in the same way (assuming I didn't see blood, gaping wounds, or internal organs) "I'm sorry that happened to you. Would you like some ice?"

Friends, pack up the station wagon and head out, 'cause this scientific experiment is OVER and I'M the bonehead! This tactic WORKS! Every time I've offered ice to an injured son, he has accepted. And shouting/crying/wailing has ceased.

Here's another juicy tidbit (and totally scientific, to boot):
The ice only gets used as much as the ego is bruised****.

One recent night, for example, one of my sweet guys walked out of the bathroom and straight into the door molding*****. Hard. I was expecting blood. So was he. I immediately got the ice and he was back to normal in about .53 seconds.

Who knew "EUREKA!" would be followed by "Ice!"?


*Not just any door, a fire-rated door, thus extra thick....

**Jill: "Him." Mike: "Her."

***And, Heaven forbid, it is simultaneously, as in "He hit me with a stick when I tried to whack him with the pool noodle"

****Resident poet, MommaJ, at the mic tonight....

*****Now, I KNOW who contributed the CLUMSY gene. But, I'm not telling you.....