My parents used to joke that I was an accident waiting to happen. It’s true. From the piercing of the feet with nails and even the odd bit of fencing (which went all the way through my foot and had to be removed by a doctor) because I refused (and still do) to wear shoes, to the dislocating of the knee, to falling UP the stairs (rarely if ever down, like normal people). I’ve done it all. My last two years of high school I broke both of my wrists a total of eight times. My knees have been operated on around a dozen times and yes, I can predict the weather with the subsequent arthritis from all my injuries.
Yesterday I did manage to fall DOWN the stairs. I had Melanie in my arms and while I did manage to keep her from being injured, I can’t say the same for myself. So here I sit with my brand spanking new ankle restraint and sexy blue plastic and aluminum crutches. And heaps of guilt over what could have been. (I’m ashamed to say that my daughter did end up falling as well. I held on to her as best I could, but when I bounced she kind of flew out of my arms. Fortunately (maybe not the best word) she only had a scare, a very big scare. And she probably will never trust me again.)
I got to have another fun trip to the Horrible Hospital in Chaumont. Folks, NEVER go there. NEVER! It’s horrible and the idea of communication is so non-existent it isn’t funny. After waiting for three hours, Marc went to find out what was going on. I mean, seriously, how hard can it be to wheel someone down to x-ray? Apparently very hard since the x-ray was out of commission and wouldn’t be up and running before 8 o’clock that night. Of course, no one bothered to tell us this, preferring instead to leave us rotting in a room. Neither of us had eaten lunch and the kids were spread all over God’s green half acre and ya know, when you’re a parent, you kinda need to take care of your kids—not send them off to the town hall with your sister-in-law while she works or out to the doctor’s office with their grandparents. Things like that just aren’t cool.
I ranted and raved at the Doctor, who apparently had no idea the x-ray machine was kaput; Marc ranted and raved at a stupid ass bitchy nurse who said we didn’t have the right to a wheel chair so I could leave and go maybe someplace where the x-ray machine isn’t broken and where people would tell us if it were.
At least they gave me a prescription for drugs, and a brace, and crutches. If my memory serves me correctly, these are all things I would normally receive in any emergency room in the US for the same injury. Oh, but not in France.** Here, you get to walk on your very sprained/possibly broken ankle to the pharmacy once you leave the ER hellhole. Did Michael Moore mention that?
Lesson learned: Never go back to Chuamont. Stick to the nice folks in Saint Dizier, who, even if they are farther away, will at least treat you with dignity and respect. And if I have any life threatening illnesses or injuries in the future, I’ll just go to the pharmacy, because hell, I’ll end up there anyway.
So, I’m back to being a hobbly half-handicapped person (physically this time, we all know I’m about 100% mentally handicapped) with all of Hung Chow’s Chinese laundry to do. My house is a disaster area (blame that on the late-to-set-in-post-partum-blues, baby), and in two and a half weeks the masses are descending upon us to celebrate our fifth wedding anniversary and Melanie’s Christening (for which we do have a dress, thanks God-Mommy Vivi!). I have an idea of what we’ll be eating for dinner Saturday night—and yes I’m cooking, or at least that’s the plan as of right now. But for Sunday, hell, I haven’t even thought of that yet, other than dragées and champagne, because I love those things and jeez, my priorities are in line, right?
So I need to take care of menus and catering and all the other fun things that go along with gathering all the family and friends for yet another not-so-intimate meal. Marc’s right (oh God, I said it), I should really scale these things down and just invite one or two couples at a time so he can talk more with his friends. But then, where’s the stress in that?
Monkeyboy is still thrilled about going to school. We have absolutely no idea of what goes on there because he can’t quite get past his excitement over the bus ride. The bus is cool. He gets to go to school on the bus, and the bus rocks. Bus this and bus that and bus everything else. Whatever is going on between bus rides, however, remains a mystery. Did I mention the bus is cool?
And the girls are at the crèche. Pooplette is amazing everyone with the progress she’s made in her vocabulary in just three short weeks. She’s a talker! And MP3 is charming everyone. She’s an absolute angel and the folks at the crèche are just gaga over her. I’m probably only going to take them in twice a week, maybe three times—just to give myself a break and give Pooplette a much-needed outlet with other kids. I’ve grown rather fond of having all three of the terrorists hanging around and without them it’s eerily quiet.
Of course, when they’re not around I have no excuses about not getting things done, like the mountain of laundry that’s blocking all access to the bathroom or the dishes stacked up by the sink, or any of the millions of other things I’m in charge of. So I’m just gunna grab my crutch and hop (litterally) to it.
**Marc once had to have surgery at the clinic and beforehand had to go to the pharmacy to get everything they needed—syringes, scalpel, gauze pads, and even the anesthetic—things you’d think they’d stock in the OR even if it is a clinic. This is an odd place.