January 18, 2011


So while I clearly love the idea of being an invalid, I'm not very good at all of its practical ramifications. And lucky for me, I don't have to be anymore.

Also, I'm not an invalid. Just wanted to throw that out there.

 My appointment with the surgeon yesterday confirmed that I'm allowed to pick up my son again (a phrase I never thought I'd even think), and that I just have to take it a little easy, not the full on "peel me some grapes, Mr" mode that we all thought we'd have to endure for two weeks.

I can't be the only person with this problem, can I? You know the problem I mean: the one where you relish the idea of being waited on hand and foot, but when it has to happen in real life all you want to do is run around the house picking things up...and daydream about polishing the stove.

Friday after the surgery, no problem. My parents were here taking care of the kids. My mom made supper for us, and helped Mr put the kids to bed. My dad did the dishes and tidied up the living room once Miss the mess-making machine was asleep. Saturday, I contained myself. I was pretty much glued to the couch. Mr did everything. By Sunday morning, it had gotten old. I wanted - desperately, mind you - to stay on the couch and be served, but felt terrible about it.

It wasn't like I had broken my arm. Or lost the use of my legs.  Or had a hernia operation. (Or am a genuine invalid). So with full use of all of my faculties, and only the surgeon's admonitions to guide all of us, it was a little tough to ask someone else to pick up my son for me.

Every morning, Miss looks at me and says "you're all better now"  And while I still can't see anything out of my left eye except a blur with yellow and purple flame effects, I'm feeling like I'm all better now. So I get to act like it too.

Mr would like to ask the surgeon about the flame effect. He's concerned that I'm seeing crappy Minnesota Vikings flame effects, when Philadelphia Eagles green and black would be so much more appropriate.