The other day Girl8 and I were preparing for our annual attendance at the Nutcracker. We always enjoy dressing up, and there is something about going to the ballet that makes us feel quite worldly. As we were going to my mom's for dinner, we wanted to take our clothes and change after eating so as not to soil our fancy duds. I told Girl8 to get her dress ready, figure out what shoes to wear, and we duked it out over the fleece-lined tights (she didn't wear them, I won't tell you who won the argument). Then I pulled numerous outfits out of the closet, trying each one on in front of the critical eye of Girl8, who was assuring me that she knows fashion. I reminded her that I do not have a desire to be dressed like a stylish 8-year old. Girl8 nixed several of my outfits with valid reasons ("are those pants on backwards?" being one of them). Finally we settled on some pieces that went well together. We packed our bags. I was saying all of the standard maternal figure lines, including "go to the bathroom before we leave", "did you pack your shoes?", "don't forget to bring your piano books!", and "put on your coat - it is Winter!" while loading myself with a bag of salad fixins, keys, and several electronic devices. Fast forward to after dinner. Girl8 transformed herself by donning her fancy dress and shiny Mary Janes. I was looking forward to putting on my skirt and sweater and completing the stylish and hip mother-daughter unit. AARGH! I had left my bag at home. I had to wear my coat buttoned all the way up to my neck to cover up my jeans and T-shirts. Yes, plural. Trust me when I tell you that I will be well dressed in public from now on. Girl8 will not allow me out otherwise.
The next day, we were rushing home between school and music lessons. Although the garage was dimly lit, I spotted a pencil on the floor. I bent down to pick it up and nearly poked my eye out with the Shop Vac crevice attachment that was sticking straight up out of the canister. As it is, I still may end up with a black eye. Needless to say, there was some disgruntled shouting heard in the garage.
Another unusual injury I have recently suffered is what my students have coined "whip-thumb". If you are familiar with wooden stacking dolls, you know that you twist one open and a smaller one is inside. Twist that one open and you find another smaller one, and so on. We have a set of stacking snowmen. The smallest doll is a penguin. Girl8 was playing with them one day. She couldn't open them, so I gave it a shot. Think about yarfing on a jar of pickles. I gave that snowman doll my all, and in the process hurt both of my thumbs. My left thumb healed quickly, but my right thumb is swollen and no longer opposable. I have been wearing a "thumb brace", which, as you can imagine, attracts a bit of attention. I will be telling people that I had a parachute accident, as nobody wants to hear about a Matryoshka doll incident.
Dear Reader, I know you now understand why I cannot yet wrap presents - my eye patch and thumb brace are bigger impediments than I expected. I am hoping that my holiday mojo returns soon and I can resume my preparations with both eyes and all ten fingers.
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