Things started out with me finally giving in and seeing an Orthopedic Surgeon about my knees.
|The Oh-So Stylish shorts I got to wear at the Orthopod's office. You know you want some!|
The next day I went to a regular doctor to find out why my antidepressants don't seem so anti anymore. We switched meds and now I'm in the wonderful transitional phase where I am having withdrawal symptoms similar to Heroin addicts (but never got to have the high to go with it. I feel somehow gypped), and severe ups and downs until the new stuff kicks in. Basically everyone in my house has literally mentioned in prayer that they hope "the new medicines will help Mommy/Nicole feel better."
Later that week in the middle of my "poor me" slump Ethan brought home some homework that he struggled and struggled with until he finally asked for help. This is that problem:
This wouldn't be a big deal but Ethan's teacher is not exactly...nurturing. I wrote a note explaining we were a little confused but he tried his best. We then got the next homework...not good. Basically it was a triangle made of 9 littler triangles that each had different types of sides (squiggles/dashes etc). The first problem on the page had a triangle that DIDN'T EVEN EXIST on the big triangle so I wrote another letter to the teacher saying that I thought maybe they should screen their homework better (remember I am having withdrawals at this point) or at least explain what they are looking for. We then proceeded to exchange a series of emails that were less than friendly and me pointing out that "YES, actually I DO have a teaching degree and YES I think her homework is stupid." I have basically turned into the parent that turned me off from teaching in the first place. Fabulous.
I know my pain will never rival that of people who have serious problems or horrible accidents occur in their life, and the shooting in Connecticut truly was a reminder of that. So much so, that I spent most of the weekend crying. Crying about painful knees, crying about stupid medicines, crying about how Ethan's teacher retaliated against him because of me (put him the lowest math group even though he is well above that), and crying about scared kids and families missing their little ones on Christmas morning. Crap, crying again. These meds had better kick in soon!
On the 17th I was running around like a chicken with it's head cut off going to therapy and trying to get us packed for our upcoming trip to California, get Livi ready for her school program that night AND finish the teacher gifts I was making. So of course this happened:
I was making hot chocolate on a stick for the teachers, and thought it would be fun to make homemade marshmallows to go on top. (I know, I know, Who makes homemade marshmallows? I've heard that about 50 times in the last 2 weeks). I was pouring the 240 degree corn-syrup/sugar mixture into the main bowl when said bowl slipped and I poured it on my hand instead.
On the bright-side most of the hand only got small 1st degree burns. Also on the bright-side I didn't even feel any of them, because my ring finger was not so lucky. Running a hand covered in molten stickiness does nothing but solidify the stickiness and fuse it to your skin. When I ripped off the goo of doom I ripped off some of the skin too.
|The day after it happened.|
|Today. I call it "Kentucky Fried Finger."|
So basically January is going to be filled with a double delight of painful physical therapy. Awesome sauce. I do have a lot of bright-sides, though, and hope to highlight a lot of them when my finger stops aching from writing this novel-of-a-post that was suppose to be short and I feel up to typing some more.