Falling Isn't What It Used To Be

It's amazing how quickly a perfectly fine day can go downhill. And I don't mean those situations where you're traipsing along and you get a phone call that someone close to you died or was diagnosed with cancer or a father is contesting the adoption of his child. Those are life changing, life altering, experiences. I'm talking about how my plan for the day was to...

1. Go to Bible study.
2. Go to the fruit and vegetable market.
3. Feed my children.
4. Clean my house.

In that order.

I accomplished one through three and was getting something prepped for dinner. Life was fine. The Rock Star was in the bathroom and The Little Buddy was in his high chair. The latter had finished his lunch and, somehow, his plate had ended up on the floor. I went over to him and lifted him out of the chair.

And that's when everything went downhill.

I stepped back, toddler in arms, and placed my foot squarely onto the plate. We have fake hardwood floors and the plate, plus my foot, went sailing across the laminate. I tried to twist my body so that I would take the full force of the hit and Matthew would simply land on top of my body.

It didn't go as planned.

I went down, hard. Just before I landed I kind of tossed The Little Buddy to the side because otherwise he was going to not only be dropped but then get landed upon. I opted to drop the boy instead of using the drop and squish method. Thankfully, when all was said and done, he only fell about a foot. I'm not sure he would have cried at all if I hadn't gasped, gathered him into my body, asked him if he was okay, and then checked his body all over for protruding bones. Startled, he did cry for about five seconds. Then he hopped up and started laughing.

I did not hop.

Both of my knees were throbbing. I don't know what the left one's deal is because I landed firmly on the side of my right knee. And I have a knot the size of an egg to prove it. And a limp. And a sore hip. Because I'm almost thirty and I'm falling apart. I can't take a fall like I used to.

So I managed to limphop up the stairs. I asked The Rock Star if he was finished in the bathroom. "Yeah. But don't come in here!"

"Why? What are you doing?" I asked.

"NOTHING!"

Upon entering the bathroom I noticed tons of shredded toilet paper. My son was sitting, naked, on the pot spraying everything with a spray bottle. Why? I couldn't even begin to tell you. There was a puddle on the floor, which I hope was from the bottle and not a misfire. As I tried to limp around the bathroom, cleaning it up, Matthew managed to find a cup. Of course it was full of water and of course he dumped it all over himself.

I had one soaked son, one naked son, one messy bathroom, one sore hip and two sore knees. All in the course of five minutes.