Yesterday was a perfect example of why I am trying to focus on things I am thankful for this month, instead of spiraling into my dark hole of hatred and rage just because things don’t go my way.

Of course, having your grandfather die and then getting sued aren’t exactly small potatoes in the “things not going my way” category. But I’m going to start with the thankful parts.

I am thankful that my husband has a stable job and can support our family. I am thankful Little Evan wore underwear ALL DAY (in public and during nap!) without a single accident. I am also thankful he understands sad faces and did his very best to cheer me up with hugs and kisses until my face was happy again. I am especially thankful for Motrin and Oreos.

So now, the stuff that sucks. My mom’s dad has been in assisted living, then memory care, then a nursing home for a really long time now so his passing wasn’t a surprise. Alzheimers is a terrible disease. He was such a terrific Grandpa when we were growing up – he always worked so hard to make sure we had a good time when we came to visit. We called him “Tricky Grandpa” and his favorite joke was giving “fisherman’s handshakes”, where he’d grab your hand and wiggle it and reel you in. He was still giving them a couple years ago when we took Little Evan up to meet him, even though he didn’t really understand who he was.

My mother’s family doesn’t do funerals, which is kind of a relief (traveling alone with 2 kids sounds like a nightmare even though I would absolutely do it) but until we have his memorial service (probably in the spring) I won’t really get to say goodbye. So instead I’ll focus on some of the very best memories of my childhood.

My siblings & I with Grandma & Grandpa at their cottage

AND THEN. I came home yesterday morning and discovered papers stuck in my front door that said I was being sued because I am a terrible, horrible, negligent person who caused all sorts of damages and pain and suffering when I crashed my minivan into someone’s car. Except that NEVER HAPPENED. More than a year ago I was in a fender bender in a basketball court that was being used as a parking lot for our polling place. I had put the van in reverse and was drifting backwards slowly (it was a crazy scene with tons of pedestrians) so a truck a few feet to my left could get out of his parking spot. The driver suing me backed up out of HIS parking spot at the same time (except faster, with his foot on the gas) and my back bumper dented his back driver’s side panel. We exchanged insurance info and left – because it was such a TINY THING no one wanted to call the police – and after we both gave our statements to both carriers they BOTH DECIDED I wasn’t at fault. Since I was in a lane of traffic and he was backing out of a space, he had the greater responsibility to not back into my way. I thought it was over.

Now he says I owe him $15,000. Seriously.

In the paperwork from the lawyer, it specifically says I was the one backing out of a parking space. How can someone just lie like that?! Especially after I’m sure he made statements to the insurance company saying that wasn’t the case. It sounds to me like some ambulance-chasing law firm told him he had a case (although the damage to his car couldn’t possible have cost more than a couple hundred bucks to fix and was entirely cosmetic so I have no idea why he even CALLED a lawyer) and they had to change the story to file it.

Angry doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel.

After a few frantic hours on the internet, the state’s legal site and a couple emails, it looks like my insurance company is going to reopen the case and represent me. (True fact: I had no idea they did that. I had already figured out how to file the Appearance paperwork with the court, printed it, filled it out and was putting the kids in the car when my agent told me they would help. I was all set to represent myself, Elle Woods style. I object!!) I have no idea what happens now and no idea if I will have to go to court and testify. As much of a hassle as it would be, I would LOVE to get up and show his lawyer my photos (because yeah, I went back the next day and took a dozen photos of the location AND a dozen photos of my car, all timestamped, so you can see the complete lack of damage because I am smart. Lawyered!) and also point out that since the insurance company said it was HIS fault perhaps I should be suing, seeing as how I was 7 months pregnant at the time and gee, my back is starting to act up.

And now I am thankful I have somewhere to get all that off my chest, because bottling up my rage was giving me a migraine.

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.

Dear Pull-Ups,

What the hell is your problem? I thought that since my toddler started showing a lot of interest in the potty (interest that involves peeing in it instead of just throwing my mascara in it) I would ease him into big-boy underwear with some training pants. But instead of making my life easier, all you’ve manage to do is turn what used to be a simple diaper change into a horrifying poopstravaganza. Seriously, it’s like you’re the Jackson Pollock of number 2 – smooshing it and flinging it and twisting it all over my child’s butt until I need a spatula, a fire hose and a tube of Goof Off to clean him. It would actually be easier to clean crap up off the floor.

So what’s your point, Pull-Ups? Are you a diaper? Are you underwear? You’re the red headed step-child of pee and poop catching devices, more closely related to that dreaded harbinger of summer misery the swim diaper than anything useful. If my toddler was already batting 1000 when it came to making it to the potty I wouldn’t NEED training pants. Suck it up, Pull-Ups. Literally.

Your helpful little pattern that warns me my kid has peed openly mocks me. You start sagging at the slightest bit of dampness. The only thing you had going for you was the ability to pull you up and down and even that is useless. Have you ever tried to get a little boy to pee in the toilet while his ankles are pinned together? It’s a good way to experience the parenting version of a golden shower. NOT COOL, PULL-UPS.

So, in conclusion, go screw yourself.

xoxo

Suzanne

Every couple of months, some morning show or women’s magazine or blog does a poll where they ask women if they would be willing to give up a year of their life if they could lose twenty pounds or if they’d take a 10% salary cut if it meant they could eat whatever they wanted and still be a size 6 forever. Invariably, more than 50% of women choose being thin. We are a vain society.

Personally, I would give up a year of my life, keep my 20 lbs and PAY 10% of my (imaginary) salary in exchange for dry armpits.

I am extremely sweaty person. I sweat when I’m hot. I sweat when I’m cold. I sweat when I’m sitting perfectly still. I sweat when I’m nervous. I sweat when I work out. I sweat when I eat. I sweat when I wear extra-super-duper-clinical strength antiperspirant. I sweat ALL. THE. TIME. It’s mostly my underarms but my hands have been known to literally drip. It’s disgusting and humiliating and worrying about it consumes at least 10% of my brain at any given moment.

The technical name is hyperhydrosis, but for me it’s just the suckiest, most embarrassing condition ever.

I distinctly remember the day in 7th grade that my friend Elizabeth sat down next to me at lunch, took one look at the giant wet marks on my gray baby doll tee and said “Whoa, looks like someone forgot to put on deodorant!” I had not forgotten. But I did die of shame right there in the lunchroom. I ended up wearing my winter coat the rest of the day and pretending I was just really cold. I never wore a baby doll tee again.

In high school, I cried at least once a week about my stupid armpits. I actually stopped going to church just to avoid the part where we were supposed to greet one another with handshakes because no matter how many tissues I balled up in my pockets my palms were always damp. The look on people’s faces when they feel your wet hand is about equal to the look they would have if you handed them a dead fish. I tried putting prescription antiperspirant onto my freshly shaved armpits (something that is strongly warned against on the bottle because of the HORRIBLE stinging) and it helped. A little. For a few minutes. My mom searched the internet and ordered these evil little machines that you strapped to your armpits and basically sent electric shocks into your sweat glands to dry them up. It helped. A little. For a few minutes. I’ve heard Botox shots in your armpits can help. A little. For a few months. But I can’t afford $400 an armpit just for a few weeks of dryness.

Have you ever tried shopping for clothes you can sweat in? Yeah, good luck. Here are the rules:

No tight fitting t-shirts. No cap sleeves. No sleeves at all. No small armholes. No lightweight fabrics. Nothing made of cotton. Nothing made of silk. No bright colors – black is much safer. Strapless was usually OK, until I had two babies and my boobs hit the floor. No fabrics I can’t touch in person to check for stain-ability. Sometimes when I’m not sure if something is “safe”, I actually lick the hem line to see if the fabric shows dampness. Shopping online is almost impossible. Bridesmaids dresses are a nightmare. When I was in college it actually wasn’t so bad – cheap, artificial, plasticy fabrics were popular and easy to find. But I am long past shopping at Wet Seal or Contempo Casuals and Ann Taylor doesn’t do a lot of rayon. Now that I’m nursing as well buying clothes is a NIGHTMARE. Almost all button down shirts are out of the running because they’re cotton or a cotton blend. Shirts meant for nursing are always solid colored and “breathable”, which definitely means it will show my sweaty armpits. And forget vintage ANYTHING. All the dresses have sleeves and all the sweaters are too close-fitting.  In college I almost never borrowed clothes because I didn’t want to ruin someone else’s stuff with pit stains and have them tell everyone. I haven’t bought an article of clothing bases solely on how flattering it is ever. EVER.

I realize in the scheme of things having sweaty armpits is not the worst thing in the world. It is not life threatening. It has not prevented me from getting married or having children or finding happiness. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it. It’s made me – someone who’s naturally a little socially awkward – SUPER socially awkward.

So if you meet me, and I’m wearing something really ugly and don’t want to shake your hand you’ll know why.

I have three actual blog posts 75% written and was planning to finish at least one up last night but I went to bed at 9 with a horrible pain in my kidney (AGAIN) and woke up with a fever (AGAIN) so I’m going to spend the day popping antibiotics and chugging water in bed. Because I am single parenting Tuesday and Wednesday I NEED to get better by tonight so I don’t lose my mind. (Call me spoiled if you want but the best part of my day is when my husband gets home from work and is actually excited to spend time with the toddler I’m 30 seconds away from selling to gypsies.)

So instead of words today, please enjoy these pictures of the kids.

It's like a game - can you spot two kids in this picture?

They found each other!

She's topless, he's pantsless, together they're almost a fully dressed kid!

This is how we amuse ourselves - playing "how long can we let go of the baby before she falls over?". Don't worry, we catch her.

Love

Apparently Dada is a lot more interesting than I am.

If adorable feet were a cure for illness, I'd be the healthiest person in the world.