Tuesday, June 28, 2005

Belly Flops are a Bad Idea...

I've been a klutz for as long as I remember. I'm sure that when I was growing up, the adults around me would think "she's growing up and trying to get used to her growing body, it's a phase that she'll grow out of." But I only grew to be 5'3" (161 cm for those of you who don't understand that other non-metric system, like me). Actually, I recently found my Canadian citizenship card which was done when I was 13 years old. Let's forget the fact right now that I had the worst haircut ever (no really, I look like a gay boy on it) and that I have a giant red zit on the tip of my nose so that I look like I could lead Santa's sleigh during a power outage (or whatever the reason for him using Rudolph was), but what amazed me most was that in the info section, it said that I was 159 cm at age 13.

That means that during the rest of my puberty I grew by exactly one inch or two centimeters. I guess the fact that I pocketed the lunch money my mom gave me by buying just an icecream bar and a small container of chocolate milk has come back and bitten me. Goes to show, you can't live on dairy products alone.

But I diggress... The point is that growing up with my bad hair cuts, awkward personality and passion for reading the dictionary (I'm not making that up. I started when I was 7. Yes, I was a nerd), I was also defined by my extreme klutziness.

Amazingly, I've never broken a single bone. My guardian angel has been trying to get unionized for years due to the extremely long hours and lack of vacation time this feat has involved. I've sprained one knee skiing, that's it.

Now, you probably think "oh catwoman, all kids are clumsy! That's part of their charm!"

But I tell you sweet reader, I am a whole new level of clumsy. When I was nine, I fell into an empty pool. In the deep end. No one to this day understands how I managed to do this. A friend of mine at the time was having a pool put in at her house (well, she was nine, so I'm fairly certain this was her parents' decision) and I was over there, obviously not to swim, I guess just to hang out or whatever nine year olds did back in the early 80s. We were standing in her yard and her large dog was standing beside me. The theory is that he must have wagged his tail (he was a mastiff in my defense) which the motion of that large tail either pushed me in or cause me to trip into the under-construction pool. The doctor claims that the only thing that saved me from paralysis, broken bones and death was my little sundress, which acted as a parachute.

All I got out of the deal were two VERY skinned knees. I had wounds the size of 45 records on my little bony knees.

I also have a history for running into door frames, as if I was 400 lbs and was too wide to go through them. I slam into walls regularly, trip over perfectly flat carpet, fall down stairs and the list goes on and on.

But being pregnant, I've been extra careful. Becoming a sort of bubble girl if you will. I mean, I've still managed to run into a number of door frames. But hey, no one's perfect.

But Saturday night, I managed to lunge myself over a box. I'm not kidding. I got more air than the Dukes of Hazard in General Lee.

Most people upon walking into a heavy box would stub their toe, curse, and move on. No, I take that back. Most people wouldn't even walk into the box.

Me, being the graceful creature that I am, when encountering a box, I manage to hit it in the right way so that I can be ensured to flip over like a politician during election season.

See, what happened is that earlier in the day, I'd packed a box since we're moving into a bigger house with all of my cookbooks and then some of my mixes that I know I won't be using before we move. This box is very heavy. I don't know how much, but I know it's too heavy for me to try to lift it. So I just pushed it out of the way, a.k.a. in the middle of the hallway and figured I'd get Sweetie Pie to move it into the garage. Well, Sweetie Pie either didn't see the box for the rest of the day, or just thought I was redecorating and wanted the box there. Either way, that night, I was carrying the Saturday newspaper's pieces, which as we all know is 1,000 pages of newsprint that won't fold back together and therefore you're forced to carry it in front of you and have no field of vision left. I was also carrying on a conversation with our dogs, probably finding out more about their new quantum physics theories or maybe about whether Beggin' Strips really do taste like bacon. Either way, I was distracted. And being forgetful, I'd forgotten about the 300 pound box in my hallway.

The next events are a little blurry. I'm thinking some part of my body caught the box, which somehow caused me to fly in the air and land gracefully draped over the box after coming down hard from 8 feet above (pregnant women can get major air). I was hurting all over and at first it felt like I'd landed stomach first.

Sweetie Pie who was happily sitting in his recliner watching TV heard the following: Me chattering to the dogs, thud, WAIL!!!!!!!

After rushing over (the dogs beat him to it even though they had no clue what to do) all I could say to him was that I'd killed the baby. I was pretty much inconsolable.

But the baby boy's fine and kicking up a storm. Although he's moved to the other side of my body, figuring that the left side is bad news. I managed however to get two gigantic bruises, both the size of a very large man's fist on my left inner thigh, which leads me to believe that I somehow managed to land on my thigh. How one accomplishes this, I'm not sure.

But if anyone can do it, I can.

So now Sweetie Pie is looking for an infant carrier that, like the IBM laptop, has "bracing for impact" technology that will protect the carrier (and the baby in the process) when it feels it's dropping.

And I have to say, I don't really feel like I should be offended by that...



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