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My Critter got the cast off of his broken arm today.  It has only been four weeks, but that was four painfully long, like, snail-creeping long, weeks.   He was ready, READY to lose that thing.

Here he was with the x-ray techs at the doctor’s office:

They loved him.  While cajoling him for the x-rays, they told him he was too cute, that his eyelashes were ‘to die for’, and that he had to be careful because if he kissed too many girls, his teeth would fall out.

Well, DUH.  Who doesn’t know that?

ANYWAYS….back to getting the cast off:

Sure, it was a beautiful bright red.

Sure, all the girls ‘oohed’ and ‘ahhed’ over it.

Sure, the boys vacillated between respect and envy.

Sure he’d been able to get out of several chores, although the need for that was questionable, at best.

But in the end, what he really wanted more than anything was to be able to swim and bathe and pick his nose or any other 9-year-old-boy-gross-out-the-girls thing.  And he wanted to straighten out his dagum arm!

He now has a new appreciation for how difficult it is to do some things without the dominant hand.  It is something we all take for granted, isn’t it?

Doubt me?  Try it sometime.  Try to pick your nose with your non-dominant hand.

It can’t be done.  Not without minor trauma.  And it’s not the kind of trauma that girls get excited over, I promise you.

So what did the boy who broke his arm 4 weeks ago while attempting to do a back flip say to the doctor when the cast came off?

“When can I do backflips again?”

DOH!

It was past Noon when My Captain asked us if anyone had put the flag at half mast today in honor of Memorial Day.  My Varmint begged to do it, and was running eagerly out the door before anyone had answered.

I felt pride at my daughter’s sense of gratitude and respect for our fallen soldiers.  The men and women who died while making our lives possible.

And I felt deep chagrin for not remembering to put the flag down.  One simple task to honor those who gave me everything without asking for anything in return, and I can’t even remember to lower a flag halfway.

My life, if you read my blog, really has no horrendous difficulties.  The fact that I am able to blather on unhindered about my ridiculous mundanity is a testiment to my freedom of speech.   I have no challenges greater than the average dog.  My kids know very little pain.  There is nothing more valuable to a parent than that knowledge.

And it would not be that way had people before me not sacrificed their lives so we could continue to be free.

And I can’t even remember to lower the flag halfway to show honor to them.

It’s not funny.  It’s awful.  It’s embarrassing.

So why do I even write about it?  Why even post my faux pas publicly?

To remind you:

Don’t forget them…..

because they didn’t forget you.

My mother-in-law and I were vying over time with the icebag tonight.  Her for her swollen feet, and me for my knee.

I know…I consciously know that it would be wrong of me to knock a cute little 5’0″ grandmother over to steal the icebag from her.  I mean, it’s elementary.

But my knees hurt so badly I honestly contemplated it.

Then I remembered that even if I could get away with it initially, it’s not like I could run before she caught me.

I watched her from the corner of my eye, waiting…waiting for the moment when she would either fall asleep, or the bag would just slip off.  Either way, I wasn’t going to miss my chance.

And then it hit me…..She’s my mother-in-law!  I’m decades younger than her.  How the hell did my body fall apart so fast that I’m in the same icebag-dependant boat as my mother-in-law?

I don’t know.  I simply don’t know.  But one thing is for sure.  One thing I do know.

We’re going to need more icebags.

I prefer to wear bathing suits that are on the modest side.  And the older I get, modesty requires more and more fabric.  I’ve always been a fan of the ‘swim skirt’ style…you know, the frilly little ruffled numbers that scream, “SUMMER TIME!”.  And now, in my 40’s, and at my current heft, the swim skirts I’ve sported at the beach have, out of necessity, changed to ‘swim dresses’.

Oh they are still just cute as a button…just more so now.  Like, a yard-and-a-half more so.

And I bought this beautiful Black-and-White number for this season that has ruffles and a little flirty bit of red trim along the neckline and bottom hem.  It’s just TOO cute.

Here’s the picture from the catalog.

I put it on, accessorized with some cheeky looking red hoop earrings, and felt so pretty.

And then I looked down.

YOWZA! 

Boobies were everywhere. 

Remember, I like modesty.  I like to leave things to the imagination.  I’m not a prude, I just like people to think I’m more attractive than I really am.  If I cover it up, there’s a slight chance that I’m hiding something fantastic.  If I put it out there for all to see, well, let’s face it, 44-year-old boobs are 44-year-old boobs.  No one wants to see that.

Think tube socks with tennis balls hanging in the ends of them.  That about captures it.

But even when I had breasts to be proud of, I didn’t like to show them off.  It just felt so awkward.  That was not what I wanted to be noticed for….then or now.

I sewed the suit’s neckline up a lot higher tonight, telling myself that ‘I’m not a prude’, over and over and over again.

But I do like a little red-rimmed ruffle every now and again.

Ok, so my knee hurts like a son of a gun.  It’s bad.  It’s real bad.

Yeah, yeah, I’m a hypochondriac.  But just because I am always looking for something to be wrong doesn’t mean that there really isn’t something wrong.   Is that so wrong?

I’m at the beach right now.  Bethany Beach, Delaware.  We are at my father’s house here.  He’s dead now, but I always feel him here.  Especially when I walk the coastline.

Oh wait.  I can’t walk the coastline right now because my knee hurts like a son of a gun. All I can do is limp myself down to my chair under the umbrella and hope I don’t have to pee soon.

It’s such a pain in the …… I mean, I’m an active woman.  I like to be doing.  But this #$&*%#!! knee is stopping me from doing just about anything.

It hurts so much I can’t even cook.  ME!  It hurts to stand long enough to even just make a homemade casserole.  I’ve had to resort to (big breath) serving pre-made frozen dinners to my family.  That wouldn’t be SO bad if I didn’t continually burn them.

You see, the oven of my Dad’s old house is circa 1950.  It cooks like it, too.

The Stouffer’s Macaroni and Cheese that burnt to a carbon base on the bottom but remained frozen on the top….Yeah, that was pretty bad.

And the Frozen lasagna that only cooked around the edges before it started burning.  That was pretty bad too.

I suppose a good thing to come out of this is that my family really really really appreciates the efforts I usually make to serve home-made meals.  I don’t know when they’ll be eating them again, at this rate.

What I’m trying to say is you all need to pity me.   Feel deeply for my plight.  Send me letters of encouragement.

And a casserole or two.