Two days after Scott started his new job, he walked on something Megan left in the hallway, slipped, and essentially did the splits. An out of shape, 46 year old man should NOT do the splits. Great pain ensued, but what choice did he have but to pop a lot of Ibuprofen, ice it, then rub some arthritic cream on it? It was getting better, but while at work he slipped a bit and tweaked it. So at a touch over three weeks, he was about 70%. I feel I showed great restraint in only mentioning twice that two weeks after a c-section I was painting the basement walls, but I digress.
As an aside, I went on full on strike last week. I had tired of no one picking up the most basic things after themselves. I was certain all would see the error of their ways and reform within a day or two. No. In fact, they professed a relief at an end to my nagging. I regrouped, recommitted to nagging, steeled myself to complaints and cleaned the living room with assistance. Crumpled papers, books, binders, outer coats, too-small clothes, dolls, art supplies, they all found homes or were discarded. Windows were cleaned, furniture polished, rug vacuumed. It was immaculate, nothing on the floor.
It was not long after this Scott wandered into the living room for something, and a loud BANG was heard. We all went running in, and there lay my husband, writhing in pain, having injured his leg AGAIN! He'd fallen AGAIN! All I could do was ask ON WHAT?! We're all still unclear.
To be specific, he had, for the previous week, navigated a living room with crap everywhere, sometimes at night, with no light on. But a completely cleaned floor in the middle of a sunny day, with the curtains opened proved to be a tripping hazard. I don't get it.
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