Really This Post is A Cry For Help

There was a time, not long ago, when I could put my feet behind my ears and walk across the kitchen floor using nothing but the strength of my giant arse cheeks to propel me forward.

Take your time to paint that mental picture, I'll wait.

Sexy, right?

But since my back injury last year and the repair this past January, I'm about as pliable and bendy as a cement block. Even Jumby, who has spastic Cerebral Palsy and routinely imitates an unbendable wooden plank, is more flexible than I am.

My new reality is he sits and chews on his toes and I tell him to stop showing off.

Oh, how the flexible have fallen.

These days I'm lucky if I can put my own pants on, one leg at a time without toppling over like the wood pecked poplar tree out back.

Since I'm not particularly in pain any more; it only hurts when I breathe, I count myself lucky because it could be worse. At least that's what my surgeon says, and since he keeps threatening to rip out my spine and beat me with it if I feel sorry for myself, I choose to believe him.

But things aren't all rosy.

I can't cut my own toenails. When I was a child I used to sit on the couch and chew them off as my parents groaned in disgust but these days I would happily settle for making do with a pair of nail clippers. Or a hack saw if I had a steadier hand.

Instead, I'm forced to watch them grow and at night, as they scrape the sheets and take large chunks of skin off my husband's legs when he's home, I swear I hear them mocking me.

Their whispered taunts haunt me as do the yelps my husband yips out when ever I accidentally slice him with my deadly toes.

(Yes, I know, I'm killing any sex appeal one post at a time. All in the name of keeping it real.)

Heaven help me, I don't want my feet to look like this.

No one thinks about toenails when they contemplate back surgery. When you are flat on your back, counting the cobwebs, waiting for the pain meds to kick in and praying for your back to ease up on the aching, your toenails never once cross your mind.

Toenails are completely taken for granted in the grand scheme of things. That is until they start to rub holes in the tops of your shoes. And I'm here to tell you toenails are life's deadly weapons that the world needs to be more concerned about.

So last night, I had my children pull of my socks, hand me the nail clippers and watch as I attempted to contort myself into a position to reach the damn things. I briefly contemplated paying someone to make this their problem, but I'm still haunted by the memory of my last pedicure experience and quite frankly, I love humanity too much to burden them with my bare feet.

(My sympathies to all the nail technicians in the world who make their living carving off the dead skin cells off other people's feet.)

I'm sure the sounds I made as I bent and reached were not dis-similar to the sounds a dying elephant makes right before he goes to the peanut playground in the sky.

My children watched in horror as I cussed repeatedly and accidentally nipped the top of my big toe on my right foot. While they ran for tissue to staunch the blood I reassured them I was fine. "Don't worry about it! The couch is navy blue. It won't show the blood!"

"Doesn't that hurt Mom?" My daughter asked incredulously.

"Nah, it's the numb foot. I can't feel a thing. You could saw off this entire foot with a butter knife and I wouldn't notice."

It was right about then both Fric and Frac remembered they had homework to do and spent the rest of the night hiding in their bedrooms, trying to avoid the carnage.  I tried to woo them back with promises of an unending cookie supply and an eternal gas money fund but apparently, they'd rather pick up the carcasses of dead animals than help their poor crippled mother with a toenail problem.

Ingrates.

While my foot is numb, my back certainly isn't. Pain shot up and down by spine until my eyes almost crossed, and still my toenails remained a crack addict's dream. A flexible crack addict's anyways. Hard to snort coke off of long nails if your feet can't reach your nose.

In the end, I gave up. I quit. That's right, I stand before you all and admit my defeat. I can't cut my toenails. It hurts too much.

And according to my children, there isn't enough money in the world for them to do it for me.

Which leaves me with two options, either suck it up and get a pedicure (which would also mean shaving my legs because let's face it, I would already be dealing with the judgmental silence of forcing someone to deal with my razor toes, my ego would likely shatter if they commented on my leg hair,) or walk barefoot down main street and hope a homeless person is hungry enough to want to earn money to chip off my problems.

Either way, my dignity is in tatters, my back is aching and there isn't enough nail polish in the world to make my feet look cute.

Suddenly, the inability to swiffer the floor using nothing but my bum cheeks seems insignificant.

I really miss being bendy.

Some people dream of climbing mountains or swimming across oceans. Me? I dream of having longer arms and bending far enough to trim my toes.

Grace. They say it's in the small things. I say it's in the toenails.

I wonder if my husband would still think I'm sexy if my feet looked like this?

Chewing Off My Gag Order

I'm under a publication ban right now.

It's really cramping my style.

This week has been one of the toughest weeks my family has ever faced since the unexpected death of my son Shale and I can't write about it.

I want desperately to share the tribulations my family has endured but I more desperately want to remain out of the clink and avoid wearing a prison jumpsuit. My husband insists there is no money in our budget for bail. He's a bit scrooge-ish like that.

So I can't tell you about the tears and triumphs of this past week. Not yet. I will. When the gag order is lifted and emotions have settled.

But I can tell you how proud I am of my child, for standing up for truth and justice and fighting demons while I sat helpless beside my husband and relived the horror they had to face.

As a parent, it is our job to protect our children from all the monsters under the bed, to clean the boogeymen out of the closet and to cast light in the darkest shadows.

More than once now, in this gig of parenthood, the batteries in my flashlight have run dry and I've failed to chase the demons away. I will carry this guilt and pain with me until the day I die.

But somehow, despite my fumbles and failures, my children are growing into amazingly strong people. At this moment, they can't be getting their strength from me, because honestly, I am tapped out. I have no more strength. I feel like a hollow shell and as though the slightest breeze will shatter me at any moment.

But my children, they shine like the brightest beacons on a foggy night off a rocky shoreline.

I have never been more proud to call these small humans my own.

Their grace and strength amaze me and I am completely awestruck that somehow, through all my fumbling and errors, these children are growing into the type of people I wish I could be.

I don't say that enough on my blog, but the world needs to know that these children have each walked through hell and survived, brighter and more beautiful than I could have ever possibly imagined.

They continually humble me and they are the reason I will try harder, aim higher, and reach further with every breath I take.

No publication ban in the world will prevent me from telling you that.

For my kids, I'll happily wear stripes.

Bring On Grade One

There are moments when parenting a special needs child kicks you in the arse. With steel toed boots.

Today was an unending series of those moments.

Any parent who has ever had to sit in a small room discussing your child's school plans while surrounded by teachers, administrators and more therapists and specialists than you have fingers on both hands, knows this pain.

There is just nothing quite like listening to virtual strangers who have spent a handful of minutes stretched over the course of the entire school year tell you how your child is limited or not meeting expectations.

Or better yet, having to listen to these well-meaning professionals try and set limitations on your child's expected development.

Nothing sets my blood boiling faster than someone telling me what my child may or may not accomplish.

Luckily for both Jumby and my blood pressure, the team involved in Jumby's education is a spectacular group of articulate and passionate professionals who have his best interests at heart and really want to see him succeed.

It also helps that they tend to be a little scared of me. Heh. I'm not just feral with P.R people it seems.

Still, after spending an entire afternoon in a windowless room, squished in with all these well meaning people, I realized something.

I sweat when I'm nervous.

And I really need better deodorant.

It may be time to shave the pits.

*A big thank you to BlogHer for re-publishing my post on carpeted underarms. Go on over and re-live my fuzzy glory. At the very least it'll remind you to buy a pack of fresh razors.*