Averting Pootastrophe

This is one for the baby book, for sure. I give you, Averting Pootastrophe:

It was Wednesday afternoon, and Darrick had been home with Luca all day. I get home around the time she generally takes her afternoon nap, so I usually come in the front door so the garage opening doesn't wake her. This time, right as I was coming in, Darrick and Luca were standing in the entryway. I walked in and was thumped in the face with the smell of something stinky and musty. Ahhh...that's right dog-owning friends....you know the smell. The dog crapped in the office. It matters not which dog, but for the sake of the story, I'll share that it was Piggy.

Anyhow, I looked at the poo, all 3 piles of it, on our lovely carpet, and asked what happened. Turns out, Darrick and Luca had run out to the store, and returned home moments before I got there, to see poop on the floor. He had kicked the dogs out already, but hadn't had the chance to clean it up.

So, what did I do? Well, I decided to be a nice wife and clean it up so he wouldn't have to. Armed with a plastic bag over my hand (THIS is what those suckers are good for!), I went in and scooped the poop. Hey....it's a glamorous job, but someone's got to do it! Poop in hand (well, in plastic bag OVER hand), I walked out back to toss it in the dumpster. Now, when you come in to our house through the back door, you see straight through the great room and into the office, which is where the offending poop had been left for us. So as I walked in, I see the spot where it had been, and I see Luca about 6.5 seconds from going RIGHT OVER to investigate the still un-cleaned spot.

I choose to blame what happened next on motherly instince to protect, rather than my own lack of grace and balance. From the front door to the entry to the den is about 30 feet or so. Then, it's down 2 steps and another 15-ish feet to the far end, where the poo spots remained. If you hit this running while simulatneously attempting to keep your voice calm and repeating "Luca. Come her baby. Don't go over there.", you can get it in about 6 strides, and leap, and 3 more strides.

Unless, that is, you are me. In which case, it happens more like this:

Seeing the baby 6.5 seconds from pootastrophe, your voice hits panic octive as you talk-screech out, "LUCA! DON'T MOVE!", you run like a fat person, unceremoniously jump over the steps, catch a foot in the loose hem of the opposite pant leg, fly through the air, shoot one leg out in front of you, smash it into a solid wood piece of furniture, wrap your arms around the baby while attempting unsuccessfully to muffle the "FUUUUUUUCKKKK!" that is uncontrollably ejected from your mouth, slam a shoulder into the wall, and grab at your foot just in time to see it rapidly swelling and to feel your middle toe pointing off into never-never land at what you are SURE is not a healthy angle.

Instant blinding pain. Toes unable to move, red and swollen and throbbing. Husband semi-sympathetic but sure I'd just jammed a toe or two. Baby looking at me like I am a crazy person, inwardly saying to herself, "THIS is my MOTHER? I am doomed."

I tried to get up, only to discover I could not walk, because pressure even on my heel shot pain through the whole foot. Darrick retrieved the baby as I hopped over to the steps on one foot. Then he had to help me up the steps and over to the couch, where I propped my foot up and he put some ice on it. We were sure it would be fine, but an hour later I tried to stand and could NOT put any weight on that foot.

I called my mom, a nurse, in the hope that she would have a spare crutch or something in her house, which I could borrow to get around until my foot felt better. Instead, she told me to report to Urgent Care. So, I did. Except, we hadn't had dinner, it was almost 8, and the place was closing in 10 minutes. So Darrick dropped me at the door and took Luca to get some food. I hopped in, and up to the desk, then sat and waited in a chair that was probably covered with more germs than anything I've ever touched in my life. I was called back and, hopping on one leg, tried my hardest not to give the nurse a death glare when she asked if SOMETHING WAS WRONG WITH MY LEG. Really? Really. Where did this woman GET her degree anyhow? Did she mail in box tops from Shredded Wheat and Malt-o-Meal for it?

Resisting the urge to be a smartass, I said, "That's why I'm here." So I was finally offered a wheelchair, which I accepted, and was wheeled back to a room. One very brief exam and 3 x-rays later, another (much funnier) nurse sent the PA in to confirm that I had a broken middle toe. Of course, there's jack you can do, aside from wrap it, ice it, and wear some ridiculous blue contraption made for Fred Flinstone on it. So I was sent home to recover.

And there it is friends. One for the baby book, no doubt. Many moms torture their children with, "I was in labor FORTY SEVEN HOURS with you, and you came out SIDEWAYS!" tales. Not I. Not I, indeed. Instead, when Luca gets older, I plan to tell her how I sacrificed my toe to avert pootastrophe and save her from danger.