Matt’s back went out on Tuesday night. (Pause for appropriate sympathy … and done.) Since we only really have one perspective here and it’s mine, let me be selfish as all hell and tell you how excruciating that is for me. Today was a busy day because I had two extra kids whom I was happily watching for a friend who couldn’t be around her kids because she was radioactive from her radiation treatment last week. For cancer, Matt. Which is probably not as painful as throwing your back out, albeit slightly more deadly. The kids were all fabulous and it all worked fine, but I had like 67 iterations of pick-up and drop-off to do instead of the usual 52 and on top of that I had to put on Matt’s socks and shoes at 6:45 a.m. because he can not reach his own feet Which I am happy to do. Out of deep and abiding love and a need not to have another extra person in the house today. But mid-14th-kid-drop-off, I received a text from the love of my life.
Matt: Both of my shoes are untied.
Stacey: Are you criticizing me or longing for my devoted presence?
Matt: Both, I guess. I love you.
There are some situations in which adding “I love you” to a text barely (BARELY!) makes up for the message contained therein and this is one of them. If he weren’t so pathetic I’d make him put his own damn shoes on tomorrow.
We haven’t discussed Hampton Noodle in a while. He has this nick on his ear which may well be my undoing. When we decided to get a baby elephant as a pet, I distinctly remember mocking people who chopped their pets ears off in the name of fashion. Why would we do that? He’s not a show dog? It seems cruel. We’ll be so progressive and loving and leave his ears as god made them. Why does god hate me so? About a year ago Hampton took a small wedge out of his ear by catching it on the edge of the counter when he shook his head and I have been cleaning blood off of the walls, doors, ceilings, and furniture ever since. That freaking dog can make a splatter pattern like six people have been brutally murdered with butcher knives in my kitchen and he always chooses my kitchen. The walls of the dining room are painted congealed blood red. Swear to god. I think it’s a Ralph Lauren color. But does he choose the dining room for his performance art? No. He chooses my buttercup yellow kitchen every frickin time. We have tried everything. A cone. A bandage. Wound glue. Screaming obscenities (only I have tried this). NOTHING STOPS THE BLOODY SHAKING. He inevitably nicks it again before the scab fully heals. I mean, for the love of all that is holy, we cut off the end of all three of our precious baby boys’ penises and we were too high and mighty to chop off the dogs ears? Do you have idea how painful it is for the brutally anal retentive woman who hates crafts and stickyness of any kind to try and keep up with the Friday the 13th blood bath that is HN on a bad ear day? It appears there is a god after all and he thinks torturing me is really, really funny.
Sigh. So I’ll be here dressing all the people in my house and cleaning up dog blood. Visit me at Mamalode for a favorite story from the past and the essay that I read at our inaugural LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER Spokane event.
Embracing ridiculous at Mamalode. Obviously, I’m good at it.