Being shot by Hubs yesterday has led me to a bit of fame today, as it was the talk of the soccer game sidelines.
I’m convinced that Hubs was after my life insurance policy, and I said this to Hubs’ mama, who was at the game, cheering on the boy, as he attempted to kick the ball into a little net and score goals for his team.
On a side note, goals are what is necessary to win a game. In order to win, you must have more goals than your opponent has. We haven’t figured that out yet this soccer season, but it’s not for a lack of trying. Our boys are dedicated to the game; they’re diligent about running the ball down the field and attempting to kick it into the goal. But frankly? I suspect that a total lack of post-game snacks has caused them not to put their full heart into the game. Why work hard and run the score up, if no mother is going to bring orange slices or cheese-flavored crackers for afterwards?
At any rate, Hubs’ mama didn’t feel much sympathy for my shot wound; she actually called Brother to tell him all about it, and Brother may or may not have rolled his eyes when he heard. Hubs’ dad was a bit more sympathetic, and tended to smile and nod when I announced that I’d really like a Purple Heart for my bravery and ability to remain upright under fire.
My own dad exclaimed that without any real and visible (visible being the key word there) wound on my elbow, he was disinclined to feel much sympathy. I think he may have mumbled, “No blood, no foul” even, but perhaps he was referring to the wild soccer game in front of us. My mama was the only one who said, with shocked eyes, “What? He shot you?! With a nail gun?!” That’s the kind of reaction I was hoping to extract from people. My mama can always be counted upon to react with genuine shock and compassion; it’s what mothers do.
At any rate, my shot wound (which Hubs keeps dubbing, “The Scratch”) has healed itself plum up. Hubs told me that if I wanted to milk this story any longer, I was going to have to challenge Cat 1 to a little squabble and get her to rough my elbow up a bit, which I could then claim was my shot wound.
I am, however, grateful that things turned out so nicely, and that Hubs’ didn’t launch a nail at the speed of light through my elbow. Not only would it make typing a bit difficult, but the primary thought circulating through my head yesterday afternoon when I thought I’d been hit was that I would need surgery to reattach the lower half of my arm to the upper half, as well as emergency reconstructive surgery on the shattered bone, and I suddenly remembered, in the midst of my hysteria, that I haven’t shaved my armpits in more than 10 days.
And I didn’t want any surgeon to see that!
Thank goodness it was only a flesh wound that healed itself up in fifteen short hours, because I did not have the beautifully shaved armpits necessary for emergency surgery.
The only bummer is that superficial flesh wounds don’t actually win you any ribbons or medals or places of prestige at the President’s dinner table.
And this evening, I have to concede that I’m a bit worn out. Ben came home with us after school, as his mama was moving cattle from one pasture to another, and she wasn’t going to be around to retrieve her small fry off the bus, so we took over as his afternoon caregivers.
And care-giving for Ben means that I simply throw an apple at him and call it good. I also have to watch him like a hawk whenever we venture into a public place (like a soccer game) because this ranch boy is continually disinclined to look for cars in streets and parking lots. He’s accustomed to 900 acres to run around on, and the cows never threaten to mow him over. I’m always paranoid that he’s going to get run plum over on one of my shifts, so I am quite diligent about watching him whenever we’re around cars. So there. I throw apples at him. I watch to make sure he doesn’t get run over. And that is how easy it is to take care of Ben.
He and the boy decked themselves out in six layers of costume items after school today, and staged a battle on our front patio with a stick and a genuine, plastic light saber. I had all the windows opened in the house, what with it being one of the first simply gorgeous days of the season, and this is what I heard, while I was inside folding laundry:
“Die! Die! Die! Die!”
I learn more about little boys every single day that I own one.
Later, after insisting that no one could wear the big, tall, rubber pirate boots to the soccer game and insuring that anyone who cried about not being able to wear the big, tall, rubber pirate boots to the soccer game would be beaten soundly, I loaded the boys up, and off we went.
Where we tied, 2 to 2.
And maintained our perfect season, of never having won a game.
And then we came home, and we snarfed down dinner, which was the most incredibly delicious pot roast this side of the Mississippi River. I’m telling you, I can give you the recipe. It’s not my recipe, but still. I can tell you what to to throw together, but here’s the catch:
You’re going to need a Dutch oven.
If you want to cook the world’s very best pot roast which will make you weep with the goodness — the pot roast where your husband will rise up and call you blessed! — then you need to either (1) have a Dutch oven yourself, (2) know Cody and beg to borrow hers, or (3) steal one from your mother-in-law, which is the route I took this time around.
And then? After the pot roast was finished, and after racing like a wild woman with hair a-flyin‘ to clean up the kitchen, we zipped off to baseball practice tonight, because it’s May, after all, and we love to cram as many different activities into one night as we possibly can.
At baseball practice tonight, the boy was playing short stop, while Enzo played 3rd base, and the two of them got to laughing hysterically. They were laughing so hard, in fact, that they both needed to double over and hold their bellies, and soon there were people in the bleachers laughing right along with them, regardless of the fact that we had no idea whatsoever what had initiated the enormous guffaws from those two boys. Their laughter was contagious, and it was hysterical! Eventually, Enzo’s dad, who was coaching 1st base, shouted across the field, “Hey! You two need to quit giggling and pay attention to the game! You’re going to get beamed in the head with a ball, if you’re not paying attention!”
This wouldn’t have been nearly as funny if the following hadn’t happened:
The runner who was standing on 3rd base, right beside Enzo? The runner who was waiting to zip home when the batter hit the ball? Well, the batter hit the ball, and it hit that boy right in the head! Yep! Smashed his noggin, good and proper! Thank goodness the little man was wearing a batting helmet! He still went down, amidst a torrent of tears, but he survived the blow.
Naturally, I wanted to give him a Purple Heart for his heroic actions; people who have survived bodily injuries, like baseballs to the head and shootings to the elbow, should be rewarded.
At any rate, the boy and Enzo stared, with jaws gaping wide, when they suddenly realized that they could have been smacked in the heads just as easily, and that they weren’t wearing protective head gear at the time.
The laughter ceased immediately.
And now? Well, it’s post-9:00-PM, and the boy is finally in bed, wearing his footie pyjamas for the second night in a row (I washed them today!), and Mama is headed to bed herself.
But first I need to do my exercises for my elbow. Therapy, you know, to keep it limber and flexible.