I texted my mom. "I have too much to do. I don't have time to lady insert my heated blankie at noon." Except that's not even what I meant to say because, well, what the heck would that even mean, I wonder? It was supposed to say that I don't have time to lay under my heated blankie at noon. Lay/lie? Eh. Who cares?
(Okay. Me. I care. But not enough to look it up right now because CHILLS and SNOT!)
The heated blanket, however, is one of my most favorite Christmas presents. It's like my mother knows me REALLY well. Or something. It's fantastic. But, nevertheless, it has a TIME and a PLACE and noon, in my bed, on a Tuesday is neither the time nor the place.
Last night, after a round of Tylenol at 5:00, the oldest boy stayed fever free for quite a good, long, while and I thought we were over the period of elevated temperatures. I fell asleep between 8:00 and 8:30 (don't judge) and when I woke up I thought, "Oh goodie! I just feel like I have a slight cold." This was great news because I had to head to the orthopedist this morning because exactly one month ago I severely wounded my shoulder hauling chairs around the church after our women's ministry event which took us approximately 12,000 hours to clean up and included four women chair hauling and lifting and attaching. In and of itself, this is not a big deal, the moving of chairs. However, apparently, I need to come to terms with the fact that, in my old age, I am simply physically unable to do certain things. Like chair moving. Because I have compromised shoulders from years and years of repetitive swimming motions. No one told me, at the tender age of seven, when I started competitive swimming, that a decade of some pretty intense workout routines was going to take its toll and by the age of 33, I was going to, forever after maybe, have to politely say, "I'm sorry, I can't move chairs anymore. I was a swimmer. The end."
So I injured my shoulder on December 6 and it was the very worst it has ever hurt in all of time. I am not exaggerating when I say that it mostly just hung limp at my side for the better part of three weeks. I did not sleep through the night for weeks (practice for March, maybe?). I ate Ibuprofen like it was candy JUST TO SURVIVE. Two weeks ago I made the appointment with the surgeon and wouldn't you know, that's all it took. My shoulder almost immediately began to improve, ever so slightly, day by day. I decided to keep the appointment though because BABY LIFTING IN MARCH.
The good doctor thinks I inflamed my bursa or my rotator cuff and it just took THAT BLOOMIN' LONG to start to feel better. He gave me a prescription for an anti-inflammatory, told me to keep doing my shoulder exercises, and sent me on my merry way with strict instructions not to paint the baby's room OR move any chairs any time soon. Which was all fine and good because I did not want to try to squeeze shoulder surgery into the next nine weeks. He also showed me an excellent little calcium deposit that shows up in my x-ray. Thanks, years of competitive swimming for that gem. At least it was fun and I was pretty good. I promise it wouldn't have been worth it for mediocrity. But I could have been a contender so, for that, I suppose I'll live with my bum-non-chair-moving shoulder.
And none of that was even the point. The point was that, when the kids woke up this morning, their temperatures were 102.5 and 103.7 and that was just not remotely ON THE MEND. And, despite feeling only slightly under the weather myself when I left for my "YOUR SHOULDERS WILL PROBABLY ALWAYS JUST SUCK" appointment (no, he did not use that word), I am now lady insert my heated blankie at noon. Oh autocorrect. At least you provide amusement for me while I shiver:
Point of this entire blog: The plague is swirling around this house and it is not going away.