Where to begin?

I should start by saying that I've spent a goodly amount of time considering changing the name of my blog to "Adventures in the ER" or "Super Fun Times Bleeding in Public"...but I know how mommy blogs  are kind of popular, and referencing drinking whilst mommying is also big...so maybe it should just be "Mommy's Bleeding - Get her a Cocktail!" Oh ha ha, that'd be rich.

Turns out, I'm just sorta clumsy. Or I go too fast. Or the bulldog wants me dead. One of those things. Or all of those things put together.

I won't go into terrible bloody detail, because if you know me in real life, I've already bored you with the slow-mo reenactment of tidily drilling straight through my thumb with a wood screw and the resulting fleshy hamburger that exited my body through the new hole as the drill bit reversed and returned. I've already relived in exacting detail stepping onto a dog toy, accelerating due to a combination of freshly polished hardwood floors and completely treadless Birkenstocks and slamming forward at Mach-3 stopping only when my already substantial nose broke my fall into the large DVD player I was carrying.

If you know me, I've described to you the five stitches it took on the outside of my nose, the crimson and violet bags drooping underneath my eyes for the week following, the vertical fracture of my proboscis that still throbs daily, the clouds in my brain as the concussion cleared. I've demonstrated the lack of feeling in my thumb by poking at it in front of you. I've shown you the bills from the ER.

What I have not done is post pictures of my temporary disfigurement like I did with my children. Ethical? Perhaps not, but it is afterall, my blog.

I will tell you, however, that after receiving three shots in my face to numb my nose enough for stitches, I will never, ever, even consider Botox.

And, I will tell you that none of it compares to the pain I experienced when my hard drive crashed and the online back-up system I've trusted for years didn't really do everything I thought it was doing.

In short, it's kind of been a mess over here in Little Girl Land.

But the stitches are out, the bruises are gone. I sort of remember most of everything, and I have a big fat shiny new hard drive with almost everything I want on it. Somewhere. And I have a new external harddrive that holds a terabyte of information and is so beautiful I want to have children with it.

Thanks for waiting on me.

PS to Cupcake Murphy: I think "Haiku Laureate" is the nicest thing anyone's ever said regarding the badass bulldog. Thanks for giving me the oomph to dive in again.

I'm pretty sure nobody has ever gotten seriously injured sitting on the couch and watching TV. At least I haven't.

Hey remember how I was just at the emergency room like LAST WEEK because in the course of my 10 year old having "fun" he actually had his head split open and required four staples in his skin to hold it all back together? Remember that?

Well, would it be irony or coincidence or kismet or karma or sibling rivalry or what exactly if the very damned day I got the bill from the hospital for said incident I also got a call from my 12 year old son that HE needed to go to the emergency room?

It would be coincidence, I think. Irony is really over-used, and often, incorrectly.

But really, that's not quite how it happened, it happened more like I was reading the bill from the emergency room and focusing on the part where it said, "NOT COVERED" when my phone rang and it was the giant middle schooler, who I knew was at his giant middle school baseball practice, which is only a few blocks from my house. I assumed he would be asking for a ride home those few measly blocks, so I steeled myself and answered as unlovingly as possible, "Yeah, what?"

"Can you come get me?" Sniffle. Pitiful Sniffle.

"Why?"

"I'd like a ride."

"Are ya dyin' or something?"

"Nope. Just bleeding. I think maybe I broke my nose."

"Really. And why would you think that?"

"Uh, a baseball hit it and it made a loud cracking noise."

So, that is when I got a lot nicer and sent his father to go pick him up.  They came back home and I kid you not even a little bit that the child's nose was on the SIDE of his face instead of nicely mounted in the center where I made it. I am rather big on symmetry, so I suggested we visit the ER since we've got frequent flyer miles there and our own parking space and everything, and I kid you not AGAIN when the giant middle schooler, who plays tackle football and creams people twice his size AND just took a baseball to the face suddenly looked panicked and squealed, "Will I have to get a...shot?"

And that is when I used foul language right at my beloved first born who stood before me covered in his own blood.

"Aw, for f*%k's sake, Calvin. Get your ass in the truck."

He did.

And we went, once again to the ER where they were just getting done cleaning up the blood from my other child, and once again our very swell doctor friend came and comforted us.

And then she made a call to one of the best plastic surgeons in the city to make my baby pretty again.

And then she made a sign that she layed on his belly as he was wheeled to have his nose straightened back to its rightful place in the center of his facialary region.

S

Not only a damned fine doctor, she's also 

some sorta comedienne, apparently.

Don't know about the rest of ya's, but I'd be okay if we just stayed home and watched TV for awhile.

Wherein spring break is more of a spring stress fracture, contusions and possible concussion.

Last week was spring break for the Little Dudes, which meant Working From Home And Pulling My Hair Out And Shushing People Because Mommy IS.ON.THE. PHOOONE. I managed to arrange free babysitting playdates for much of the time fortunately. Or unfortunately, as it would turn out.

A sidenote - I hate the term "playdate." Since when is kids playing together a noun? When I was little, we'd say, "Can I go over to Pam's?"  or  "Can Pam come over?"  For a time, I forbid my children to use the word "playdate" so they started saying "PD." Which is even dorkier.

Anyway - My younger son, whom I rarely talk about here - not on purpose, it just sort of seems that way, don't judge me, was over at his buddy Evan's house. They were being supervised by Evan's dad, Mike, who is a morning DJ in Denver. Usually, I don't stick dads with playdates because a) they're not really watching the children and b) please see a). However, Evan's mom and I had been putting off a beerdate (because if there are playdates, why should there not be beerdates) for weeks, so we decided this was some kind of spectacular timing and the universe was practically forcing us to have her husband watch all the short people so that we could enjoy some barley pops on the patio. Also, Evan's dad has actually praised the merits and character of my boy on regional airwaves, leading me to believe that he has some sort of fondness for him that might keep my child out of harm.

Who here knows what foreshadowing means?  Cause I just dropped you a big ol' nugget of it in that last paragraph.

Anne and I had our feet kicked up and the beers flowing, happily talking about what superior parents we are to everyone else we've ever met, because seriously? Just look at our children, oh my gosh they're perfect, when Mike calls and says he's taking his three kids and Miles out to dinner.

We glowed. We were not only superior parents, but we'd married well.  Life was good. Let's drink to that.

In the interest of time, I'll fast forward to Mike calling that my sweet baby's head was split open and he may or may not require emergency medical care, so could we please hustle on over because the blood, oh my god. The. Blood.

Way to be a buzzkill, Mike.

I suggest you go now to his blog for the rest of the bloody tale. 

You should know it ended with stapling. And ice cream. And a sleepover that I'd prefer to call "a friend spending the night." But whatever.

Happy spring break. Literally.
(Get it? Because, like, a spring broke. On his head. You gotta go read Mike's version.)