We had quite a weekend. If I didn't know better I would swear we somehow got a houseful of malevolent sprites causing things to go wrong (and I don't mean the kids).
Saturday morning I left for my walk about 8 a.m. The big boys were in the tub. They'd run out the hot water and asked Dr. G-to-be to heat some on the stove for them. He was doing this because he is a nice dad. He got it a little too hot ... and he also spilled it on himself on the way into the bathroom. He ended up with a nice salmon-colored burn in the shape of an artist's palette about 4 inches in diameter on his belly. He still managed on his own until I returned, clueless, an hour and a half later. Poor G! He iced it all day and it's much better now. No blisters or anything.
I made chicken nuggets for lunch. I'm telling you, it's gourmet. They were even shaped like dinosaurs. I bet you can't imagine how I managed that. Well, I set the pan on the table with kids gathered all around - and G was there, too - and went to get the ketchup or something. Next thing I knew I heard a two-year-old wail. Z had grazed her wrist against the hot pan. Oh, I felt like a loser! Poor baby! She did get a little blister.
Then, here is the crowning moment: Late in the afternoon I decided I should squeeze in a little bathroom cleaning before heading to the evening session of Stake Conference. (I had been graciously told I should run away for a while. The kids have been off school all week and I've built up a good bit of crazy.) After getting the fixtures all shiny I remembered I have been meaning to wipe the dead ants down off the ceiling where they were left after being repelled in their last invasion by G and a can of Raid. We won't say how long ago this was.
So there I was, standing on a chair inside the shower. Can you see this coming? If you checked my Facebook yesterday you already know the ending. I will tell you the story anyway.
I felt the chair slip. I thought I could shift my center of gravity. I failed. I felt myself beginning to fall. I started to scream. I landed on Z's Dora the Explorer potty chair, shattering the plastic and making a well-defined print on my behiney. I lay prone on the floor crying for a few minutes. I thought my tailbone might be broken, which would be horrible but also karmically just, given the number of years I have spent laughing about a middle-school teacher named Mr. Butz who sat on a table, which broke, sending him to the floor and breaking (yes, really) his tailbone.
My family asked me if I was ok. I was too mad and hurt to talk. Sometimes I tend to lose power of speech when I am overwhelmed. They were baffled. Eventually I determined that I was ok, and I got up and cleaned up the shattered red plastic potty. I got dressed and even did my hair with a straightener for stake conference. I think I needed extra self-assurance after this debacle. After the meeting I checked my bruise, and I have to say it is awesome, but I will not be posting pictures.
There is actually a song about me and my accident-proneness written by a famous songwriter. I worked as a cafeteria line server - burning my arms all the time on hot pans - in the Morris Center at BYU with Cherie Call, whom you can see on any number of Time Out for Women dates and stuff. I find her really quite good, and not just because she penned the following for me (sung to the tune of "Walk on the Ocean" by Toad the Wet Sprocket):
Walk on the lotion
Slip on the stone
Fall in the water
I am ready for Monday in so many ways.