Six o'clock this morning, an absolute chaotic moment of puking and pooping little people, I rush around the house at Superman speed searching for bowls to catch a possible repeat performance, wipes to wipe up everything, toys to keep little hands busy and out of the poop explosion and W H A M. I ran into a wall. (yes, this wall has always been there) I drop. Then I do the I-stubbed-my-toe-whiny-big-breath-half-crying-half-moaning-"shit, that really hurt" dance.
I'll secretly admit as my eyes are going down towards my foot to assess the damage I'm pretty sure it's going to be very gory and grotesque -- probably a blood-oozing gash or perhaps my little toe barely hanging on but with a few shreds of skin...
Oh, I can't look, I can't look.... I peek, one eye at a time. Nothing. At all?? No blood. Wha??? But it really, really hurt!!
After I realize there's no need to call an ambulance and have the best orthopedic surgeon in Winnipeg on standby -- I'm pretty sure I just fractured it. I've done it many times before to both my pinky toes and both my pinky fingers. So, I ice it to be safe. As the day goes on and it hurts more and more it's swelling and turning a darker shade of purple, I realize I probably broke it.
I'm broken. I've never broken anything, ever. I drink insane amounts of milk everyday since I was a little pooter - things on me don't break. I'm pretty sure I'm not going to die, HOWEVER, I'm pretty sure the best opportunity for healing will not involve waiting on the hubby hand and foot (no pun intended) while he and the boys watch the Super Bowl.
10 am.....10 pm....
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