Not long ago I fell down our house stairs and broke my foot.
It’s not often that I am sick or injured. I’ve taken two sick days in eight years of parenting—because my appendix was about to explode and, after vomiting all night, I thought it was time to have someone take a look at it.
As the only female in this household of eight, my boys form quite a force when it comes to taking care of Mama.
They fight over who gets to take the laptop up the stairs so I have a free hand to hold onto the stair rail while carrying the baby. They throw away dirty diapers so I don’t have to walk the thirty-seven excruciating steps to the trashcan. They draw me pictures and pick me flowers and leave sweet love notes on my pillow.
I appreciate their help and care. I really do. But, three weeks in, there are some things I can just do without.
For instance: the constant Shadow following me around, asking me if he can inflate my foot cast. Him, I can do without.
I let him do it once, and now, every time I take my cast off to rest my foot on the couch, he gets this excited gleam in his eye, because he knows, eventually, the cast will have to go back on. He knows, eventually, the cast will need inflation, because I have to walk to the kitchen to fix dinner.
I’m tired of being stalked by the Inflation Predator, son. Thank you for your help. But no.
There’s another predator who lurks in the doorway when I’m struggling in and out of the bath.
See, it takes me ten minutes to remove the cast and ease myself into a bath balancing on both hands and one leg, and it takes practice.
So my triceps weren’t as strong as I thought they were. So a few times I’ve slipped. Big deal. I didn’t cry out or ask for help or shout curse words like I did when I was falling down the stairs. I mainly laughed hysterically because I didn’t die in a bathtub.
I guess this boy thought I was weeping instead of laughing, though, because he’s always lingering just outside the door, close enough to hear my every move.
“I’d like to take a bath by myself,” I say. “With no one else around.”
“I’m just making sure you don’t fall,” he says.
I appreciate your concern, son. But please. Leave me alone. Let me take a bath in peace.
Then there is the predator who walks behind me on the stairs.
To be fair, all my boys are a little freaked out that Mama, normally so athletic and graceful (HA!) fell down the stairs and broke the second bone she’s ever broken. Even my husband reminds me, every time I approach the stairs, to be careful and take my time.
But there is one boy affected more than the others, so he has taken to walking one step behind me on my way up the stairs so he can catch me if I fall (as if I don’t weigh four times as much as he does and wouldn’t flatten him on contact).
This would be all nice and sweet IF he didn’t also feel the need to make comments about my appearance as we’re walking up the stairs.
“You wore those shorts yesterday, Mama,” he says. He laughs. “Did you?” He laughs again. “I think you wore them the day before that, too. Did you, Mama?”
Truth is, I’ve worn them for four days straight, because they’re comfy enough to wear to bed, and I can just roll out and not have to wrestle into new clothes while balancing on one foot.
“What’s that blue line on the back of your knee, Mama?” he says.
It’s called a varicose vein, baby.
“Why is it there?”
Because I had a lot of children.
“You’re really slow, Mama.”
Thanks for noticing, baby.
“And your booty is bigger than my face.”
Sometimes I think about falling backwards on purpose.
The twins have excused themselves from this “help Mama get better” phase. They actually are working harder to NOT make me well. They leave blankets all over the floor so I can trip over them. They “accidentally” step on the boot. They drop water on the floor without telling anyone so I slip and almost break something else.
The constant questions are another way my boys express concern.
“Is your foot still broken, Mama?” (I hear this a billion times a day.)
No, I just like wearing this good-looking boot.
“Can I wear your boot, Mama?”
Of course, dear. I’m only wearing it because I want to. Also, even though it comes up to your thigh, I’m sure you’ll find a way to walk with a stiff leg where others have failed.
“When will you get better?”
Well, kids, that depends a lot on you.
The predators and booby traps and questions can all get pretty annoying, but mostly I’m just glad they care enough to ask about my wellbeing. I’m glad they want to do what they can to help me heal.
Or maybe they’re just worried that we’ll have tossed salads for dinner indefinitely because I haven’t cooked a decent meal since it happened.
On second thought, that’s probably what it is.
