Because I am a clumsy idiot, we spent yesterday morning in the emergency room Instead of the super fun trip to the Seaport to celebrate the 4th of July. Everyone was dressed (not just dressed, FESTIVELY dressed) and fed and packed and the car was running with both kids already in their car seats when I stepped on my left foot wrong coming down the back steps and collapsed.

Something in my ankle went “POP”, a sound so sickening I got light-headed and saw stars.

“I think I’m going to pass out” I said to E.

Then I passed out.

I came to after less than 15 seconds, just in time to keep from peeing my pants. (For the record, I have low blood pressure, and there’s something about the shock of an injury – not the pain, just the IMAGINED AWFULNESS – that causes me to faint. It’s happened since I was a kid, at least 6 times that I can think of. Only once did I actually pee my pants.) E helped me hobble into the house and got me a bag of frozen peas before unpacking everyone from the car. I quickly realized that although my ankle wasn’t broken, it was a serious enough injury to warrant a quick trip to the hospital. Because it’s not like the 4th of July is a busy time for emergency rooms or anything. Especially when I can’t walk on my own so we get to bring BOTH kids, one if which just realized he was not going to see the HORSE! WATER! BOAT! he had been promised. Good times. So we packed everyone back INTO the car and drove up the street to the ER.

The wait was blessedly short and the kids were total angels for E while I lay on a gurney and winced every time anyone even glanced at my ankle, but the diagnosis wasn’t helpful. It’s not broken (bless grilled cheesus) but it’s a moderate sprain and I’m supposed to stay off it for at least a week and wear my air cast for a week past the point I can walk on it. If it’s not healed in a month I should call my doctor.

A MONTH. I’m supposed to sit on the couch, icing and elevating my ankle, taking it easy for a month. I barely made it through a DAY and that was with E home to bring me stuff (not to mention BlogHer is in a month and no matter how many rosettes I glue to my cast there is no way I want to wear it around San Diego).

But the more pressing problem is that E is working today and I am supposed to care for 2 kids without walking. It’s impossible. And I don’t just mean “wow, this is going to be hard.” I mean it is bordering on an unsafe situation to be injured badly enough that I can’t pick up the toddler and I literally couldn’t run to save our lives. I certainly wouldn’t leave my kids with someone ELSE in this state. But we don’t have childcare – or even a regular babysitter – so the best I can do is use my crutches for the urgent stuff, like feeding everyone and poop emergencies, and hope E can come home early from work.

On a more selfish note, I’m super annoyed I won’t be going to Stroller Strides or running or even doing yoga DVDs anytime soon, so my plan to lose weight is completely derailed. Sitting on the couch feeling sorry for myself sends me immediately into MUST EAT GIANT BAG OF CANDY RIGHT NAOW mode, and I’m pretty sure Weight Watchers doesn’t allow for a pound of chocolate caramels four times a week. But I guess the good part is we don’t HAVE any candy in the house and I’m too gimpy to go get any so unless I can bribe E into buying me some I’ll just be cranky and injured with my lentil salad and my carrot sticks.

Good times all around.

Update: After sleeping on it and letting some of the swelling go down, it feels like it’s not actually my ankle that’s hurt, but my foot. Which means as long as I walk on just my heel I can limp pretty well, but also means the ankle cast they sent me home with is basically useless. I’m going to just keep up the Motrin and the ice and praying most of the pain is gone by the weekend so I can get back to my life.

You know those people who have amazing personal style and do crazy things with makeup and ride vintage bicycles to local farmer’s markets where they make 5 new friends and eat jicama salads with hand-shaved Parmesan and triple chocolate cake but still lose 5 pounds while homeschooling their kids and writing an incredibly successful blog and then do some long division just for fun?

I am not one of those people.

Almost nothing comes naturally to me. The last time I was just plain GOOD at something without really trying was dance class when I was 11. My teacher said I had perfect feet and fantastic arches. If you knew how often I thought about that compliment even now 18 years later you would laugh at me.

Most of the time it seems like everything takes so much EFFORT. Nothing is effortless – it is in fact, effort-FUL – and it all feels sort of overwhelming. Sleepless nights, raising a toddler, feeding my family, keep the house from devolving into TOTAL chaos, buying clothes that fit, making sure I don’t have mascara running down my face (I usually do), maintaining friendships, running, providing fun and educational learning experiences for my children…They all seem hard to me, especially when I think of them all at once. Thank God there’s no long division.

So last night I added one more thing that’s going to take some effort, but hopefully in the long run it will make a lot of things easier. I went to a Weight Watchers meeting and signed up.

Despite my skepticism and my determination to find SOMETHING to roll my eyes at, I liked the meeting. I like the plan. I like the fact that I get to eat more because I’m nursing. I feel very hopeful that even though it’s going to take some work, I’ll be able to finally get back to a happy place where I don’t cringe every time I look in a mirror. Because although “eat less and move more” sounds easy enough (perhaps even effortless for some people) it is not enough for me. I’m going nowhere without trying harder and I feel like until I can be happier with MYSELF I have no chance at being happier with my life in general. And who has time to be unhappy with themselves when there are vintage bicycles to ride?

p.s. Don’t worry, this isn’t going to be a weight loss blog and I’m not being sponsored in any way. I’ve just heard good things and seen friends and family have a lot of success, so when my friend Cheri asked if I wanted to come with her I decided I had nothing to lose. Besides 50 pounds. So, yeah.

Because it is a Monday and it is not raining, I have exactly 90 minutes between the moment E walks in the door and the moment he leaves again for hockey practice. 90 glorious free minutes during which I can take a shower unassisted by a toddler (“Mama, BOOBS!”) or fold laundry using both arms or sweep the front porch without anyone running through the piles of dirt and tracking it straight into the house. 90 precious minutes to fit in all the chores and errands that are a struggle to do with two kids but should really be done sooner rather than later.

“I’m just going to run to the post office”, I said to E as I grabbed my keys. “Caroline just woke up so she probably needs a diaper [I throw a diaper and a clean outfit in his direction]. You don’t have to get her dressed though, if you want to give her some of this watermelon I cut up she’ll get all messy anyway. Just put her in the high chair. And there are apples in the bowl if you want to put some in her meshie, although it might be in the dishwasher but those dishes are clean so you could get it out.”

E looks up from the remote. “How long are you going to be GONE?”

And that, right there, is the cause of 99% of our fights. I think taking care of the babies is a full time, active job that involves fruits and vegetables and songs and flashcards and cute outfits and playgroups and tummy time. E thinks it involves making sure everyone is breathing and relatively non-poop encrusted.

In the end, we are both right. There are plenty of parenting moments that are nothing more than sitting on the floor with the kids, playing “how big is the baby?” or “where’s your belly button?” or “how hard can you whack daddy in the nuts while trying to climb on him?” But as the primary childcare provider*, more of my time is spent feeding, changing, dressing, rocking, nursing, chasing, holding, and disciplining children. My default mode is to PROVIDE.

So when I hand over the parenting reins for a few minutes I expect my husband to stay just as busy. No, Caroline isn’t going to STARVE if he doesn’t give her some watermelon during the twelve minutes I’m gone. But I was the parent who was home while E went to the post office, those are all the things I would have been doing. I feel like shared parenting means sharing all of it – not just the interesting parts. On the balance sheet of taking care of kids, he doesn’t get to cross of “get hugs” and “read books” while I’m stuck with “offer the baby eleven different foods to throw on the floor” and “let the toddler spit out the apple skin he refuses to swallow for the umpteenth time into your hand.”

But my parenting advice never goes over well and the more times I suggest – Honey you should…Honey why don’t…Honey I think… – the more annoyed E gets and, ironically, the less likely he is to pitch in. Not because he is spiteful and mean, but because who wants to keep doing something you are told over and over you are not good at? (I mean BESIDES blogging, because obviously no one can stop me from sucking up more than my share of the interwebs. I’m in yur bandwidth, writtin down mah rambling thoughts!)

We need to find a compromise that DOESN’T involve either of us threatening to move to Australia.

*And hey, who wants to talk about how totally messed up it is that childcare costs a frickin ZILLION DOLLARS, but watching one’s own children doesn’t count as a job? Oh, you don’t have time to discuss one of the most written about parts of motherhood ever? How about just an Amen?

My life is a pocket, being emptied before the endless parade of pants go into the machine.

A crumpled $20 bill. It’s enough for a day – a coffee, a burger, a pretty bobble from Target – but wouldn’t make a dent in a year’s worth of bills and car payments and mortgages. My worth as a mother isn’t paid in dollars and cents, so I am both worthless and priceless.

A rubber band. My patience being pulled and stretched and twisted further and further with each temper tantrum, each unwashed dish, each crying baby. Sometimes in breaks and someone gets stung, a hurtful snap I immediately regret and I vow that next time I won’t let it get so tight.

A paper clip. Holding it all together a day at a time. Doctor’s appointments, vet appointments, car maintenance, groceries, playgroups, laundry, dishes, bedtimes, start all over. Papers papers everywhere and that file cabinet I was planning to use still empty. I need an hour a day a month to organize before I’m buried alive.

A goldfish cracker. The compromise between having a hungry, cranky toddler and eating nothing but organic, locally grown produce hand-picked by virgins under a full moon. The place where doing what is “best” for my family meets doing what is best for ME when it comes to my family and the guilt I do or do not feel when I cut corners. Sometime delicious trumps perfection.

A band-aid wrapper, the band-aid long since peeled off a skinned knee. I cover up the boo-boos, deal with the pain, pretend it’s not a big deal. I’m glad the hurt is so small but the scars are still there even after the scrape is gone.

Lint. Dog hair. My hair that is still falling out by the handful thanks to post-partum hormones. Messes of all kinds invade my space. Bits of yarn. Crumbs. Pen marks. Dirty feet. Messy faces. Playdoh ground into the carpet. Drips of milk. The remnants of a day full of fun, sunshine and creativity.

A penny. For luck. We are all healthy, clothed, fed, loved and safe. So much luck.

Yesterday, I was working on some life-skills with Little Evan. Doesn’t that sound fancy? Life-skills. What I really mean is I was teaching him how to use the Keurig to make Mommy a cup of coffee. Obviously he can’t do it on his own – he’s always trying to make me drink tea instead and he can’t even reach the counter – but he loves to switch out the K-cup and push the button. And I dare you to tell me making coffee isn’t an absolutely necessary skill, especially if he takes after me and gets an Underwater Basket Weaving Liberal Arts degree.

As we waited the 20 seconds for my mug to fill with the delicious, life-giving nectar of the gods that is Newman’s Own Organic Dark Roast, Little Evan reached his fingers right towards the stream of hot coffee.

“Oh no!” I said, pulling him away, “That’s hot! Danger! Don’t touch!”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because hot things can burn you and that would hurt your fingers,” I explained.

“Oh ok mama. I won’t touch the coffee,” he said. And we both enjoyed a quiet moment of understanding and an important lesson learned.

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA No.

“WHY?” he asked again. “WHY? WHY? WHY?”

“Because if you got hurt you’d be sad and that makes me sad.”

“WHY?”

“Because when you’re sad you cry and I don’t like crying babies.”

“WHY?”

“Because it hurts my head and there aren’t any circuses in town I can sell you to right now.”

“WHY?”

“Well, they probably heard I was trying to unload one majorly whiny toddler and they didn’t want to risk getting stuck with you.”

“WHY WHY WHY?”

After about thirty seconds I resorted to something I used to swear would never cross my lips: “BECAUSE I’M YOUR MOTHER AND I SAID SO.”

Other variations: “Because I am the boss of you!” “Because Mommy is in charge!” “Because Daddy will be mad when I tell him!” and “Because God doesn’t like it when you ask questions.” Yeah, I might be going to hell. Also, it didn’t work.

He asked “WHY?” approximately 40 bazillion more times over the next 8 hours, although it felt more like 8 days. WHY do I need to stop kicking my sister? WHY do I need to eat something besides Fritos for lunch? WHY shouldn’t I punch Mommy in the face? WHY can’t you hold me while you cook dinner? WHY WHY WHY?

How is it possible that my toddler has learned this word already? And how long do you think it will take before it drives me to drink?

(Non-surprising answer: negative two hours.)