Yesterday I was outside writing on my laptop while the kids played in the yard.
Belle came over several times and asked me to “come see a bug” she found.
I was on a writing roll and didn’t want to go, but her persistent begging won out.
I finally stood to go check out the unidentified insect and somehow hit the top of my foot on a rock.
When I say it hurt, I mean, I promise you I came closer to smooth passing out than I ever have in my life.
I went down. Fast. In the middle of the backyard. Leaving my children wide-eyed and speechless.
I rolled around for a while, holding my foot and wondering if amputation would be necessary. By that time, the kids were surrounding me, and at the first sight of blood, Jeb began making gross-out sounds like, “Ewwwww,” and “Yuuuucccck,” while the girls immediately ran inside for the first aid kit. (I was thinking more along the lines of dialing 9-1-1 but figured a kit would be good, too.)
For a moment I was pretty impressed by my kids’ concern for my health and well being.
That was until they ran back out, dropped the first aid kit near me, and ran off to go find the mystery bug. Awesome.
I probably spent another five minutes just laying in the grass, not sure I could move. Ever. Again.
Finally the girls meandered back over and handed me a wet paper towel. (Their bug must’ve flown away.) I took it, along with a tiny wet towelette that Belle assured me was for cuts. I wrapped it around my wound only to realize IMMEDIATELY that what she had handed me was a ALCOHOL WIPE.
Commence more writhing. And yelling. And hysterical laughter from my children.
Today I have recovered, but barely.
I actually do have photos, but they’re gross, and some of you may be eating.
As a side note, I did NOT receive proper sympathy from my husband OR friends.
I am totally unappreciated.