Monthly Archives: January 2014

I called it by the second quarter.  I said, “Trevor is sick.  Ten bucks says he is sick.  He’s not playing like he is tired, he’s playing like he is sick.”  A mother knows these things.  Even if I’m not his mother, I could just tell.  I can even smell a fever on a kid’s breath.  For Real.

They poo-pooed me.

By the third quarter, Trevor’s head and legs and arms would be down the court, but his butt was still dragging on the other end of the court.  The boy was sucking wind like a fish out of water.  This boy is one of the top scorers in the county, and he could hardly get to the basket this game.

“He’s sick, I tell you.”

They poo-pooed me.

He wasn’t even trying for rebounds, and at one point, I swear he looked green.  “He doesn’t need Gatorade,” I shook my head, “he needs chicken soup and his bed.”

They poo-pooed me.

Critter decided it was his job to sub for Trevor’s dad, Ty, who couldn’t be at the game tonight.  Ty is, er, passionate when watching a game.  Yelling “You Suck!” to a ref is par for the course, in Ty’s world.   Garrick has been watching and learning…ever the dedicated pupil.   I did not allow him to yell “You Suck!” but he did yell other, nearly as insulting things to the refs.  “You Stink!” can sound pretty menacing from that boy. Ty would have been proud.

When the game was over, we met Trev courtside.  The first question I asked was, “Are you sick?”

“Yeah.” He firmly agreed.  “My stomach really hurts.”

“YES!” I laughed, and clapped with glee.   This was, er, not the reaction anyone was expecting.

“I mean, I’m sorry that you’re not feeling well, and all, but I’ve been telling them and telling them that something was wrong with you!”  I couldn’t have been more pleased with my instinctual accuracy.

Trev just looked at me politely, and then gently took a slow step back.

Critter went in for a picture with him, and I am not sure, but I think Trev was using him as a human shield.

But I was right, dagnabbit.  I am feeling very smug in my Mommy-ness right now.

No one ever listens to me.

What do you get when you take a extra sugary,  Monsters Vs. Alien’s B.O.B – themed birthday cake,

11 lit candles,

a newly turned, 11 year-old-boy,

and a Grandma,

who is mature enough not to care about what the world thinks,

but juvenile enough to entertain and enable all of the 11-year-old’s impish plots?

That’s right.

Trouble.

with a capital “T.”

God help us.

How does a man who defines the word “Manly,”

from whom you can just SMELL the testosterone oozing,

one who makes women swoon just in performing simple tasks,

one with the forethought to donate his free time to teach future generations what heroism means,

one who joins his manly man friends in charity drives for burn hospitals,

one who looks like he was born in the wilds of Montana, without even trying,

one who makes fatherhood look positively easy…..

how does he also manage to bring his sick wife an artistically arranged meal in bed (complete with inventive walker/tray-stand) that looks like it popped out of a magazine?

I mean, the time and attention that went into the salad alone….

makes me seriously concerned if my particular talents are even needed in this marriage!

How the heck does he do it???

I joke that he is totally left-brained….but when I see a salad that has been artistically arranged like this….. THAT, my friends, is a seriously right-brained salad.

It’s like I’m married to Dudley Do Right, Ironman, and Martha Stewart, all in one. I’m seriously, SERIOUSLY concerned!

I’m home!  I’m home WITH a brand spankin’ new knee!  I’m bionic!  I’ve got STRAIGHT legs!

I can’t walk worth a crap, but that’s beside the point.

And that will change over the next few weeks!

Much of what happened at the hospital was a blur, I confess.  There was Dilaudid and Zofran involved, both of which don’t exactly help Mama with the ol’ linear-thinking thing.

But, um, one small item, which I had indeed forgotten, was remembered when we came home yesterday.

On the first night after the surgery, My Captain was beat.  He was totally zonked.  He had been waiting all day, in a full surgical waiting room, and was just getting over being sick, himself.  So by 10pm, he was making some serious Z’s on the recliner chair beside my hospital bed.  There was snoring and drooling involved.  He was adorable.  Poor guy.

But me?  I had been unconscious for most of the day, mostly in drug-induced haze.  By 10pm, I was raring to go!  I was alert!  I was happy!  I was ready to party! I had a new knee in my leg after all (which, along with its partner, was tied down to the bed in inflating, anti-blood clot contraptions) so this was no time to be sleeping!  Especially while I was enjoying the euphoric effects of my pain killer.  Friends, Mama Boe was STONED.  Legally, but totally, stoned.

I twiddled my thumbs while I thought about what I could do with my awake time.  I watched My Captain sleep for entertainment, but that got old after a minute or so.   I couldn’t turn the TV on, for fear of waking the tired man.  I looked over and found my Kindle, all charged, and ready to go!  YEY!

I played a few games, and then in my drunken stupor realized I had access to the hospital’s WiFi.  That meant the internet!  Before you can say “Paypal,” I was shopping online, baby!

I don’t remember much after that.

The next day, sometime in the afternoon during group Physical Therapy, I suddenly remembered doing something like that.  I said to the woman next to me, “Hey, I think ….I’m not sure….but I think I was shopping on the internet last night….”  She started laughing and cried, “Girlfriend!  Your husband let you shop while on Dilaudid?!”

Which stopped me in my tracks.  First of all, I wasn’t SURE I had shopped.  I sure as heck didn’t know what I’d bought.  And I sure as hell had not informed My Captain.  He had enough on his worry plate!

I was anxious about this for the next thirty minutes, until the next dose of Dilaudid was injected, and then I stopped caring, frankly.  And that was the last I thought about it.

Until yesterday.

When we pulled up to the door of The Little Cottage.

There, by the door, were several large UPS/Amazon type boxes, stacked like Christmas presents.

I looked at My Captain and immediately confessed,  “Um, love? I think Drunk Me might have bought Sober Me a couple of gifts Monday night.”

Other than a smirk, his face showed no emotion.  He was not surprised.  Not one bit!  He didn’t scold me.  Instead he showed patience, and was happy to see what I’d purchased, before I, er returned them all!

UNTIL I rocked the new Dansko Clogs that Drunk Me had had the fantastic sense of style to purchase.  Those I refused to part with.   Oh, and the stained glass Cabin Accent Light.

I couldn’t possibly part with that.

He shook his head, especially when I was modeling the clogs with my walker,

(Which, when you have my kind of total-knee-replacement-swagger, can be somewhat overpowering.) and simply loved me.  Both of me.

But I think he loves Sober Me better.  Sober Me is a lot less expensive.

Don’t judge.