Mistakes

After my surgery last week, the nurse sent me home with this strap-on plastic bootie, a bottle of pain pills, and a routine list of instructions that included the order to "walk to comfort." So, I figured, boot thing + pain meds + weird instructions = walk until it really hurts and then take drugs. I was never very good at math. Plus today I went for my post-surgery check-up and discovered that the nurse had forgotten to give me a pair of crutches and strict instructions to bear no weight on my foot. Oops. No wonder the damn thing has hurt so much.

Fine, then. I'm actually pretty good on the crutches, at least in short spurts, tho' I think perhaps watching my wine intake might be a good idea. And then there's the dog, who's terrified of folks with large stick-like objects in their hands, particularly large swinging stick-like objects that go Tha-ump!. It's so sad to see him so conflicted: "Danger! Danger! Enemy with Stick!" "No, no! That one gives Food. And Car Rides!" "But she has Stick!" Poor darlin'. Maybe I should rub the crutches with chicken broth or pork skin. He's used to me walking him every night, and now as night after night goes by, and Keith or Owen pull down the leash, I can see him looking at me and wondering where it all went wrong between us.

Meanwhile, Hugh has decided that he doesn't like the new Invalid Mom at all. At least the old Headachey Mom could drive him places and did her own laundry and vacuuming. This new version just has no point, no point whatsoever.

It's an unfortunate coincidence, then, that right before my surgery Owen convinced me to buy the new(ish) Morrissey album, which comprises nothing but Morrissey misanthropy. When facing sullen son who simply cannot believe you were so selfish as to have surgery and so ensure that you cannot drive him to the mall when you knew you knew you totally knew he needed to be driven to the mall and so you planned it this way because it is always about you and you rejoice in making his life hell and never never thinking about him, well, it's probably not the best idea to have these lyrics running through your head:

You hiss and groan and you constantly moan
But you don't ever go away
That's because
All you need is me

You don't like me, but you love me
Either way you're wrong
You're gonna miss me when I'm gone
You're gonna miss me when I'm gone

No, really, it would be much better if you had the lyrics to "O Holy Night" or "I'm a Little Teapot" running through your head. Or even the Stones' "Nineteenth Nervous Breakdown."
But Morrissey + horrid child + post-op = parental disaster.