Just another manic Monday

If I don’t crawl out of my own skin by the end of the day it will be a minor miracle. I’m frazzled. And on edge because of it.

My Monday has been notably craptastic thus far… We woke up in the wee smas of the morning to the sound of someone banging on our door. Banging. Robby ventured downstairs while I stood uncertainly at the top unsure if I should try to hide Jack or what.

It was the police. The 5-0. The Po Po. They wanted to know if we were okay. (Well, other than the possible heart attack, sure.)

Turns out that our land line is acting up. Again. It’s crackling and popping. (Really, it’s like a high-volumed Rice Krispie commerical.) And it’s dialing 911. It’s happened a few times before. We’ve had what seemed like random calls from the police asking if we were all okay. A while back we were watching television and an officer stopped by to check on us. Each time we’d apologize and the officer would tell us it happens all the time… but we’d prefer an earlier, less unsettling time– say 9 p.m. and not 3 a.m. to find an officer at our door.

Yikes. Sleep was not found again easily. Which made for a difficult morning for Robby and I (not so much Jack who slept through the entire thing).

Trying to drop off the Rabbit at school this morning was an adventure in not realizing it must be “Every Single Person at the School Take Your Kid to School Day.” I have all the empathy and sympathy in the world for parents and kids but– seriously– if your kindergarten child is crying maybe you need to pull off to the side of the school driveway so that the other parents can get their kids off to school.

I get Jack squared away and get back into the car for the drive to the office– and was almost mowed down by a fierce looking lady in a burgandy Enclave that spent more time on my back end then the nice doctor that did my colonoscopy. I was going the speed limit and there is a long stretch where there isn’t a place to pull off to let her fly past… and by the time I reached an area where I could I didn’t want to. I was going the speed limit. Not ten miles under. Get a grip, lady. She finally whipped around me (clearly going at least 10 miles over the speed limit). I took devilish pleasure in catching up to her at the stop sign. Then the first light. I smiled at her wishing I could congratulate her on her awesome one-car-length-ahead-of-me achievement.

On the edge of the little village where the university I slowed down. The speed limit drops considerably. I’m still wary of the phantom speed traps that linger from my student years. She plowed ahead and careened (yes, careened) left into the strip mall where, I finally figured out, she must have been running late for her 9 a.m. Kettlebell class. Hmmm. 40 something woman driving an Enclave. Angry. Kettlebell class. She probably didn’t eat a real breakfast (too many calories, natch)… Maybe her exhusband just announced his engagement to the 25 year old office manager. Her kids love the new mom. She’s fun. She takes them out for pancakes on their shared custody weekends.

Leaving me to pull into the university on the right. There is a circle drive with a tiny, verboten lot on the right hand side for the Admissions People. On the far bend of the circle there is a lot for staff/faculty/visitors. But What, Ho!?! What is this?! A burgandy mini-van whips behind me into the drive and turns left! into the s/f/v lot. I continue my trajectory and pray through gritted teeth for some kind of divine help– because if that @%$# van takes the last spot after turning left illegally into the lot defying all known rules about traffic circles and roundabouts (drives or otherwise) then I am going to let loose with a fury that has the heat of a 1000 white hot suns.

Okay. There was a spot for me.

Hopefully this day will get better.

Ball Game II

Robby’s recovery from surgery is slow. To say that he is uncomfortable would be an understatement. Even adding the words swollen, tender, sore don’t really come close to an explanation.

And he’s frustrated. He can’t really do anything. He makes the trip upstairs once a day to sleep for a few hours in our bed. Most nights he makes it until close to 5 a.m. before he creeps back downstairs to wait for the next vicodin dose. Last night he only made it until 2 a.m.

We’re usually a pretty decent team when it comes to taking care of the basics. I do the laundry but he carries up the heavy baskets and we fold it together. He can’t carry the baskets or fold right now. He can’t empty the dishwasher or give the dog a bath. He can’t change the sheets or shovel the walks. He can’t drive– so the ferrying of Jack to and from school and to activities is out.

He was able to make Jack’s lunch last night. Which I appreciated. It took him quite a while– but, with Jack’s help getting the stuff out of the bottom drawer of the fridge– they pulled together a nice little lunch.

We’re ridiculously grateful, of course, that this is a temporary condition. That he isn’t going through this much “discomfort” only to have to face a round of radiation in a few weeks.

We’re just tired. I’m tired of being the only ox in the yoke. And I’m sad to see him so frustrated that he can’t do the things he wants to do. The breaking point was the other morning when I could hear him and Jack arguing downstairs. There was a long break of silence. And then, a few minutes later, raised voices again. Jack came upstairs sullen.

“What’s going on downstairs, little man?”
“Dad was trying to snuggle me.”
“And?”
“It didn’t really work.”

Jack can’t crawl up on his lap the way he would normally. So they’d tried to cuddle with Jack balanced on the arm of the leather chair. It was lopsided and awkward.

We’ll be glad to have him back to his old self.