Broken Ass but Solid Vows

My husband gets all the Mother’s Day awards this year: I get nothing but cortisone in the ass, Valium, Prednisone, and a walker. I have a walker. Not forever, but for now.Here’s the short story: I herniated a disc in my lower back – aka ass – and went from jogging, working, driving carpool and making pork chops one fine Monday, to pissing on/in/somewhere near a bedpan. Most of the time.

Just. Like. That.

In the scheme of cancer, stroke, dead dads, tornadoes, floods, dying kids, I hate to even blog about something so trivial, but for the last 4 days, I thought my days of bitching and tweeting and kvetching about the life I live was over.

But it’s not, and for that I’m forever grateful.

After a hurt back exasperated into a complete collapse on the bathroom floor convincing me I’d be that dead mom in the morning, too dumb to call 911 the night before, hence I decided I didn’t want to go out that way.

So I yelled for Kid2, but Kid4 awakes instead, comes downstairs, steps over me on the floor of the bathroom and proceeds to take a crap.

“Why are you on the floor Mommy?”

I asked him to please get his older, more mature sister, Kid2. Which he does. After he flushes and washes his hands. A solid win for the mom.

Kid2 arrives, like 6 days later. Told her calmly not to be afraid, my back was hurt, and I was calling 911 to get some help but didn’t want to worry her with lights and sirens.

She wasn’t worried. She got me upright, sort of, then the phone, where I called from my precarious perch on the shitter, handed her back the phone, which she promptly hung up.

I explained to my darling teenage #2 that our town EMTs volunteer, and most likely were kids or parents she’d recognize, so she immediately rushed upstairs to get dressed, and I’m while I’m not positive, I think she did her hair. And quite possibly a little make up.

The little EMT boys took me to the hospital, breathing a little too hard in my opinion loading my broken ass into the bus, and 4 hours later, I texted my rather attractive husband to let him know my heart was awesome, “a runner’s heart” and while back was screwed, I thankfully I wasn’t dying.

He hadn’t a clue.

Kid2, the social media Facebook queen, never called him. Never text. Tweeted, facebooked, poked, AIMed, skyped. Nothing. She went back to bed. She was tired.

But my husband, got my 4:00 am emergency room, and made it from Richmond, Virginia to my bedside 5 states away in 3 hours to wipe my tears, pluck the hair from my chinny-chin-chin, and become mission command.

He didn’t flinch or leave or hesitate. Except, you know to drive to lacrosse, soccer, grocery stores, school, and carpool. And solicit the town I love to fill in the blanks. Which they did. Because they always do.

It’s a new corporate world out there, and his company, like all companies, are looking for heads to roll. To which he said, “Fuck ’em. I’m not leaving.”

I love this guy. A lot. He makes pretty obtuse kids, but he’s a keeper, without a doubt.

So my ass is broke, my kids rather aloof, but my marriage is good. And that is a Mother’s Day worth celebrating.