There have been a fair number of evenings of late which have ended with more than a lady-like number of glasses of wine. I’m not just trying to take the edge off. I want to forget the details of the day including the growing mountain of laundry in need of folding, the sibling assaults that lead to tears and bruises and those mean mommy moments that keep the Mother of the Year Award as unattainable for me as that elusive gold medal for underwater hockey more commonly known as Octopush.
(Let it never be said that I can’t do you some real learnin’). I want that out of body experience that allows me to float away from my life and land on a happy cloud of make believe even if it means crashing down to reality the next morning with a dull headache and a sad realization that I get to experience it all over again.
Yesterday started out on the wrong foot in more ways than one. Try as I might to organize our mornings, we always struggle to get out of the door in a timely fashion to get to Asher’s bus stop on time. Asher insisted on pushing Levi in the stroller, and I chose not to argue. I coached him for the entirety of our 6 minute trek. “If you’re talking, you’re not walking!” “Can you please try to move a bit faster than the ants on the sidewalk?” “No, I don’t want to play ‘I Spy’ again, thank you very much.” With about 10 yards to go, I leaned forward to gently nudge Asher to pick up the pace, but my hand never made it to his back.
I can’t recall which came first. Did I watch the stroller lurch to the left wildly and unexpectedly before I registered that the stroller’s detour was due to my foot accidentally ramming into the back wheel or did my brain receive a searing pain message from my toe prior to the realization that Levi was about to be catapulted into a wall of shrubbery? Given the glass or, um, two of wine the night that preceded this fabulous morn, I’m thinking I watched Levi and his stroller swerve to the left, I saved him from a face full of bush (steady) and THEN realized that I had, indeed, heard an unidentifiable crack that originated from my right foot.
I limped to the bus stop reciting colourfully foul strings of profanities…in my head. It’s possible that I mouthed a few choice favourites – perhaps some referring to the off-spring of an unwed working girl who might be intimate with my mother. The boys carried on oblivious to my suffering. I tried to ignore the voice of my father in my head. “Nice job. Why don’t you call a toe-truck?” “Sometimes you can be a real heel, Dad.”
Too quickly did I dive into summer living. I started to sport the flip-flops before carefully considering the dangers. Levi had already stepped on my feet numerous times and yet I had not adjusted my gate to consider the threat of children and stroller wheels. OHSHITMYTOEISPURPLE! Thankfully, I treated myself to a pedicure a few days ago. I’m not the pampering sort usually, but I had to file and sand and paint winter away before I could shed the socks entirely.
Gabriella had little sympathy for me. I should have known not to solicit any kind of emotion during Top Chef Masters. “You should put ice on it,” she offered without turning her head away from her new chef friends who clearly deserved her undivided attention. “Why don’t you let me rest my foot on top of your heart.”
Wasted words during a quick-fire challenge. Oh, toe is me.