Saturday, March 17, 2012

I'm not Irish, and you probably don't want to get close enough to kiss me.

I'm about at my wit's end.  I, frankly, had more faith in the length of my wits before this week, but now I see the truth of it: I'm nearly witless.

In the words of Indigo Montoya: There is too much; lemme sum up.

My husband got hit by a car while riding his bicycle 2 weeks ago.  He had surgery on Monday to repair the complete separation of his shoulder, including the complete tear of both the AC and CC ligaments.  I don't want to explain that any further; it's medical and boring if it's not happening to you. Suffice it to say that the past two weeks have sucked immensely.  I'm exhausted.  I'm frustrated.  I'm fearful of lasting damage to my  husband's mobility.  I might cry if they don't have the flavor of ice cream I want when I stop at Publix on the way home today.

Now it's St. Patrick's day.  I could not give a flying tow-truck about St. Patrick's day.  I don't own any green clothing.  I'm not interested in green beer.  And anyone who pinches me is going to lose a couple fingers, at best.

My daughter, on the other hand, is 6, and thinks it's a serious holiday for everyone.  They apparently camp it up in elementary school nowadays, and she's been talking about the stupid Leprechaun like it's Santa Claus.  Any minor change in her environment is chalked up to the Leprechaun's practice runs of mischief-making.  Geeze.  Last night she set up a Leprechaun trap in her bedroom, which looked a little like a fairy house, so it was mildly endearing to me.  But this morning she awakens me at 4:30 asking if she can get up yet.  Like she's expecting a pot of gold in the living room.  I had, in concession to her sweet enthusiasm over the day, gone into her room after she fell asleep to mess around with her toys and write a little Leprechaun note for her.  But that was as much as I could manage.  I wasn't getting up 3 hours before dawn to enjoy that moment with her.  Fortunately, she let me go back to sleep and didn't wake her dad about it.

Really.  People.  I'm sorry I can't drum up any enthusiasm here.  I feel like a jerk for being unfestive and stuff, but cut me some slack.  I have to change the dressing on some surgical wounds.  And then eat a pint of salted caramel gelato.  I take that back; I'm not even a little sorry.  Especially about the gelato.


  1. I'm sorry about your husband. How is he doing? How are you doing?

    I'm also sorry that I am terrible at reading things don't appear in my facebook feed.

    1. So sweet of you to check in! Maybe I need to go find you and face-friend you. Husband is healing well, and going crazy because he's not allowed to use his arm for anything more movement-ey than breathing. You know how much arm movement is involved in breathing. I'm holding up okay. Had a week off, and am feeling more like a person again.