Stairs are Stupid. So are fractures.

Um.

You know how I run stairs weekly with Moj? Typically, it’s 40-60 minutes of heart-pumping, sweat dropping, why the hell do I do this myself workouts and not once have I ever tripped. We run up the stairs, we go up two at a time, we go up sideways, we lunge, basically, we kill the workout. Based on this, one may assume I’m fairly good at going up & down stairs.

But this assumption is wrong. It is so terribly wrong.

Because while I may kill a stair workout, I also try to kill myself when leisurely walking down a staircase on my lunch break. Somehow on Tuesday, I missed a step and landed wrong on my left foot. I immediately fell to the ground and then popped right back up. Had I been alone, I probably would have sat there for a moment but because I was walking down stairs located directly in front of an eating establishment on campus – I was not alone. I was surrounded by 30 students who witnessed my drop from heaven.

And that was slightly embarrassing.

I did not make eye contact, I did not pass go and I did not collect $200. I did; however, quickly grab my stuff that fell from purse and thank the few students who helped me and hobbled straight to the gym to workout.

Yeah. I’m the moron who fractures her foot, ignores the pulsing pain, and cycles for 30 minutes thinking I’ll just work through it.

Technically, I did, I worked through it and made it back to my office. I immediately took off my shoe, thought I noticed some swelling and then sat down and ate lunch. It was painful but nothing over the top, so I stood up to get some ice on it. And then I immediately fell back down in my chair. I attempted to put my shoe back on – yeah, not happening – and told my co-worker I was going to the doctor.

I managed to make it outside of my office by about 10 feet before my boss (and dear friend) caught me hobbling inch by inch in tears to my truck. We side-armed another co-worker into pushing me through the building in my office chair, while another went and brought my truck around to the front. Luckily, it was my left foot and it did not impede my ability to drive or to curse.

Oh, the cursing.

Once I made it through X-rays, my doctor came in to confirm what I already felt like I knew – something was seriously screwed up in my foot. My navicular bone has a small fracture in it.

It’s only been a couple days but I’m definitely over it – frustration doesn’t even begin to describe my feelings about this. But you know, I can always count on Lillie to pull me from the dumps.

Walking in with my shoe & crutches, Lillie runs to me.

Lillie: MAMA! What is on your foot?
Me: It’s a special shoe I have to wear because I got hurt today.
Lillie: You go to doctor?
Me: Yeah, the doctor is the one that gave it to me.
Lillie: Why?
Me: Because I wasn’t watching where I was going and I fell down the stairs. That’s why I tell you to be careful and look where you’re going, otherwise you’ll be going to the doctor too.
Lillie: Oh. Well, I go to your work tomorrow and I hold your hand and we BE CAREFUL. You’ll not fall.

God bless children. Even when they don’t get it, they still get it.

It could have been a lot worse but for now, I’m stuck wearing a very fancy shoe and sporting some oh-so-styling crutches. I have a follow-up appointment with an orthopedic doctor next week to see what this actually means. And by means, I mean like when can I start running/being active again.

If you have any spare good thoughts/karma/prayers for a speedy recovery, I’m accepting all donations.

Lillie Lately v.3

Click below if you’re interested in other Lillie-isms.
Lillie Lately v.1
Lillie Lately v.2

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As I’m pulling Lillie out of the bathtub she steps on the side & kind of pushes off. Whenever she does this, I push her higher into the air, she says, “Wheeee!” and then I place her on the rug where she dries off and we work on getting her pajamas on.

Lillie: I jumped high.
Me: I know! It’s almost like you were flying!
Lillie: I’m not flying. I don’t have wings.
Me: Well, Superman doesn’t have wings and he can fly.

At this point, Lillie is either looking at me like I’m the smartest person she’s ever come across or the dumbest. (Pretty sure it’s the latter.)

Lillie: Oh. Well, daddy is Superman.
Me: (Thinking how adorable she thinks her daddy is a superhero) Aww, he is Superman, isn’t he?
Lillie: YEP. And you’re the mama Superman and I’m the Lillie Superman. We’re all Supermans!

Apparently, Lillie thinks we are the equivalent to a Commie-Superman family. Who knew?

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Lillie and I were both sitting on the couch. She wanted some more Cheetos so I told her to go ahead but she had to get them herself. They were just sitting on the kitchen counter. About 10 feet from where we were sitting. She quickly hopped up, grabbed a handful, put them in her bowl, ran full blast back to the couch, looked me straight in the eye and said, “Did you save my seat for me, mama?”

My initial reaction was to laugh and think how adorable that was but then my actual reaction was, “Nope! This is alllll my seat!”

She giggled, pushed her way back onto the couch, said I was a “silly mama” and wiped her Cheetos on my jeans. Orange crusted jeans are a thing, right?

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We’ve just finished bath time and I reach for the towel. It slips through my fingers and falls to the floor. Lillie places her hands on her hips (she’s naked, mind you), cocks her head to the side and says, “Mom. You’re killing me!”

(The only thing that would have made this moment better is if she would have added, ‘Smalls’ to the end of that.)

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After running the Bearathon I called my husband to see if he needed anything from town before I headed home. He didn’t need anything but he did give the phone to Lillie so we could talk. Lucky me.

Me: Hi Lillie!
Lillie: WHERE ARE YOU?
Me: I just finished running my race. I’m on my way home.
Lillie: Oh. Okay.
Me: I got a pizza!
Lillie: YAYYYY PIZZAAAAAAAA. HURRY UP! I HUNNNGRY!
Me: Okay, well I’m coming home as fast as I can.
Lillie: Go faster. Like me. I have fast shoes. You have slow shoes.
Me: …
Lillie: I run faaaaast. And I eat pizza. And where are you?
Me: I guess I’m going slow. Give the phone to your father.

This is not the first time Lillie has called me slow. And I’m certain it won’t be the last. Kids. Sheesh.

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Real quick, I’m thinking of hosting a weekly link-up starting next Wednesday inspired by the following two posts:

• 30 Things to Start Doing for Yourself
• 30 Things to Stop Doing to Yourself

Both articles are from www.marcandangel.com (they have some great stuff on there) and while I was reading, I realized that a lot of the things I could really relate to. Basically it’ll be used as a weekly writing prompt to share your feelings or how you’ve dealt with the situation about the item mentioned. The majority of my posts are fitness related, so I’m hoping to just round out my blog a little bit.

If you’re interested, I’d love for you to join me. I’ll have more information about it on Monday and the first post will be scheduled for Wednesday.

Hope you all have a wonderful weekend, you deserve it!

The Tale of Two Sophies

“Mama. Maaawww-MUHHHHH.”

Sleepily, I push the hair from my face and glare angrily at the alarm clock realizing that it isn’t even 7am yet. The previous night I had high hopes that I could make it to at least 8am. I mean, it’s the weekend, right? People should not be mobile before 8am on the weekend – unless, of course, there’s a race to be had.

I began to scoot closer to the side of the bed hoping it was a false -

“MAW-MUH! MAW-MUHHH!”

Nope. Not false. I sit up, swing my feet to the side, and look up to realize the husband was already awake and dressed.

“I got her. Don’t worry about it.”

What kind of madness is this?

I quickly roll back into bed for fear this is a dream. Probably a little too over-enthusiastically I reply with a very generous “Thanks!”

Note to self: The husband deserves good loving – or at the very least a breakfast that includes both bacon and eggs.

I hear them both fumble around to the bathroom, to the kitchen for cereal (Berry Crunch, I’m sure) and settle into the living room. My eyes are closed; however, my ears are not. It’s too late for me, I’m fully awake and now, I’m just fake sleeping in an attempt to trick my body into thinking it’s well rested and won’t be exhausted at 11am from the terror of a nearly three year old.

Ah, parenting at its finest.

I hear the husband ask, “How do you like school? Do you have any friends?”

“I have TWO friends, daddy” she replies.

“Oh yeah, what are their names?”

“Sophie” She says this so matter-of-factly you would think she had said only one friend a moment ago.

“What’s the other friends name?” he prompts.

“Sophie”

“That’s only one friend.”

At this point, I’m staring down the hallway and into the living room – I know where this is going.

“NO. TWO.” She emphatically holds up two fingers to clarify.

“That’s only one.”

“TWO!” her frustration is rolling in like a freight train. It’s at this moment, I decide my body is well-rested enough and I need to come to life before this hits head on.

I roll out of bed, catch the husbands eye and say,

“Identical twins. There’s a set of identical twins at school – one’s name is Sophie, the other Grace. So, technically she’s right – she does have two friends.”

And that, my friends, is the Tale of Two Sophies.

I can trust no more

Something has happened to me.

Something big.

Like, I-don’t-even-know-if-I-can-ever-trust-the-world-again big.

Intense.

I have an office job in higher education. I’ve worked here for 8 years (3 in my current position, 5 in Financial Aid Office – yeah, I was that person you loved to hate as an Undergrad) and I love a lot of things about my job but one of the main things I’m grateful for - that the summer is so laid-back. Most of the students and faculty are gone, which means it’s a lot quieter, parking is easier and there’s not as many distractions when it comes to getting my work done. There are some days when no one even walks into my office.

Those are glorious, glorious days my friends.

One of the other great things about no students is I don’t have to time my bathroom breaks. I refuse to go at certain times when classes get out in the fall & spring because it’s a madhouse out there in the halls. Like a bunch of gazelles being chased by lions madhouse. Especially in the first few weeks of fall as the incoming freshman are figuring everything out. But the summer is bathroom freedom on my bladders will.

Again, glorious, glorious days my friends.

One of the things that I get pumped up about is when going to the bathroom I’ll luck out and see the toilet seat raised up. This is a wonderful indication that housekeeping has cleaned the bathroom and I am the first, the first, to sit on a newly cleaned toilet seat (it’s the small things in life).

I don’t know why I get so excited about this but it makes me feel better for not being one of those people that insist they hover over every public toilet and never sit on the seat.

If that’s you, you’re a dirty filthy liar. We all know you sit on the seat. WE ALL DO. 

Anyway, I walked into the restroom and as I turned to the right a small, dark-haired woman was coming out of the first bathroom stall. I glanced over (this is typically my stall because I had read once somewhere that the first bathroom stall is usually filled with less germs) and you know what I saw?

She put the toilet seat back up – like she never used it at all!! The toilet was still flushing and the door was open, and she was standing there with her back to me and, and, and…

WHY WOULD SOMEONE DO THIS TO ME?

My glorious, glorious summer days have forever been lost. I will never be able to trust a raised toilet lid again. That dark-haired woman took that from me. She.took.it.from.me.