So, What Had Happened Was...

I broke my arm. 

No, seriously, my right arm, right above the elbow, the humerus bone (haha). It was less than funny. It hurt like a bitch. I remember being on the floor in the dark, kicking and screaming for my sleeping husband. What felt like a million years later, he tried to help me up.

"DON'T TOUCH, DON'T TOUCH ME!" Seriously, the kind of pain that makes you lose your mind and forget for a little bit what was happening next. We went to Urgent Care at 5 AM, where I got x-rays and a splint, then somehow some Orthopedic Surgeon was available RIGHT NOW and we had to go. It was not a small break, as my sister-in-law so eloquently put it. She should know. That girl has broken the most bones of anyone I know.

My arm had to remain immobile, completely, for weeks. How the hell does that work when your husband has a job to go to, and you have a two-year-old to watch? Well, thankfully, Husband is a computer programmer, so he could mostly work from home. We had to have the in-law's watch our child for 2 weeks. 2 WEEKS! Because you can tell a toddler Mommy has an owie, but he has no idea how to not touch the owie.

Those were some hard 2 weeks. Not just because I could see how stressed my husband was, but also because being without your child, while nice in small doses, was depressing. I missed him. He missed me. My arm still needed to be mostly immobile, but with a cast and a sling, I agreed my son needed to be home with me.

Currently, I have a brace, which is removable. I'm still supposed to manage my arm situation, but it seems a little less terrifying. I mean, when I first saw the surgeon, he was talking possible surgery (shocking, I know, coming from a surgeon and whatnot). But I have a severe allergy to hospitals and needles and anything that makes it to where I have to put up with lime jello.

My entire point with this post is to blame my non-posting ways to a broken arm. Yeah. That's why.   

Wagon Crafter

I've always taken my son on neighborhood walks, ever since he was a tiny baby in a pouch on my chest. Something about being outside always seemed to calm him, even when he was screaming his head off. But at some point, your baby gets too big for the pouch.

And even though he can walk, his "stay out of the road" instincts aren't that great. He's not quite tall enough to comfortably hold my hand, and I got a little leash, but soon discovered that he could still throw a tantrum on the sidewalk in full view of neighbors if I didn't let him go where he wanted: in front of cars.

So, next best thing. Foldable red wagon, with extendable handle, two cup holders, and three storage straps, plus the ability to zip down into a bench. The cremé de la cremé of red wagons. It came, I saw, I fucking conquered.

Basically, I got bored one day, so I ripped that big box open and pulled out instructions, parts, and the wagon itself. Then I went in search of tools. Hammer, wrench, and Phillips screwdriver all laid out, I glanced every once in awhile at the pictures in the instruction booklet, and got to work. 45 minutes later, et voila! A wagon that makes me speak French.

I don't know about anyone else around here, but there is something extremely satisfying in doing something with your hands and making a workable object that will serve a purpose in your life.

A few days later, and our first neighborhood wagon walk began. We pointed out trucks, cars and colors. I pointed out plants and garden decorations. I also was attacked by the traitorous wagon; it hit the back of my shoe. I went down to the sidewalk on my knee and forearm. My leggings ripped, my knee bled, but as long as I am not seriously injured, I tend to play things like that off in front of my son. No big deal. Mommy fell, Mommy got back up.

The next day - bigger deal. My knee hurt; my arm was very sore; and today, my upper back was sore as well. Nothing a little Advil plus Tylenol can't take care of. In any case, my son loved the ride. I loved the exercise. The sidewalk loved me. Good times were had by all.