Category Archives: Ode to Embarrassment

Oh, Shuttlecock!

My husband and I have a badminton net in our backyard currently, which is terrific, except that it required two master’s degrees, a fair amount of duct tape and an afternoon of misery to set it up. Confession: We probably could have used a marriage counselor or two, but none were available at the time. Truth be told, the net that is now up is a new one we purchased because we gave up on the possibility of ever successfully assembling the old one—last year’s model, dredged from the depths of our pitifully disordered garage.

Naturally, we didn’t accept defeat immediately upon learning that things weren’t going well. No one ever said we were gifted. Instead, we soldiered on, struggling in the heat for what seemed like an eternity, wrestling with a tangled mass of string and a net that was evidently too heavy for our flimsy poles. Never mind our pathetic arsenal of metal stakes—the ones that warped irreparably as we attempted to hammer them into the impenetrable ground. But because the gods were smiling ever so slightly, no one smashed a finger. I suppose I should be grateful for small mercies.

After a time, it became apparent that we would fail in our quest to set up the wretched net. I’m not sure if it was our collective realization that the plastic poles would continue to bow and eventually snap no matter how hard we tried to prevent that from happening or if it was the way the net kept sliding to the ground despite our best efforts to tie the aforementioned string into knots at the top of each post. Hence, our ill-conceived need for duct tape. Note to self: It’s always a bad sign when, in desperation, one resorts to using duct tape. When all was said and done, perhaps we acknowledged that our labors would ultimately fail when we discovered the ends of the segmented poles were damaged beyond repair after having hit them several dozen times with a 5-pound mallet. Again, I can’t emphasize the degree of idiocy that was on display that day. In a word, it was epic.

As our hope began to fade and our bodies literally baked in the sun on that fateful afternoon, I began to wonder just how many neighbors were witnessing our exercise in futility as it unfolded there in the lawn in all its glory. It had to be comical to watch, much like a circus governed by Murphy’s Law—only there was a lot less skill and far more cursing. I’m quite sure a number of people chuckled at our profound stupidity as we darted back and forth between the poles like fools, eventually throwing the mangled stakes and jumble of string to the ground in disgust.

I never remember my dad having such issues, although it’s likely he did given that he wasn’t especially mechanical and often relied on a hammer to fix just about everything. As a kid I suppose I didn’t worry much about how the badminton net would be set up—only that it would be set up. Magically, it seemed, the net would appear in the lawn each summer. And it didn’t matter to me that it might have been crooked or drooping in the middle, although I can’t reliably recall that bit of detail. I only remember being immersed in the game for hours on end, whacking at shuttlecocks with my brother as night fell, fireflies blinking all around us, the cool grass beneath our bare feet. It was our summertime ritual.

Every kid needs a summertime ritual like that—even if it requires parents to lose their collective minds in the process. Looking back, I can fully appreciate the sacrifice my parents must have made, as well as my husband’s since he not only toiled in the yard, but also spent an entire afternoon in search of a reasonably priced replacement for our misfit-of-a-badminton-set. Seventeen phone calls, four stores and one meltdown later, he succeeded.

But it was so worth it.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, probably playing badminton. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

Copyright 2018 Melinda L. Wentzel

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Filed under "N" is for Nostalgia, Endless Summer, Ode to Embarrassment, Rantings & Ravings, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

Namaste for Dummies

namaste_in_bed_today_classic_white_coffee_mug-r3a7ad3e8c55d48a1b37200459f7dfe7f_x7jg5_8byvr_325.jpg&max_dim=325&square_it=trueHere we are, in the thick of February—a time at which I should be comfortably settling into the exercise routine I ostensibly adopted on New Year’s Day. But such is not the case. For whatever reason, I found Groundhog Day to be a more inspiring square on the calendar—possibly because Groundhog Day, the movie, made me realize what a horrible rut I had fallen into with regard to my physical self. Each day I repeated the same bit of idiocy—that of exercising an undying devotion to being sedentary. More specifically, the pathetic nature of my fitness program had come to be defined by walking my dogs, followed by the rigors of channel surfing.

At any rate, seeing the movie sparked within me the impetus to put down the remote control and to crawl out of the burrow of blankets I had built on the couch so that I might unearth one of 17 Yoga-for-Beginners DVDs I currently own but have rarely viewed. Of course, I chose yoga because apparently I enjoy pain. And I chose to work out in the privacy of my own home because I’m enough of an embarrassment to myself, let alone to others. The struggle is, indeed, real. I don’t need an audience to attest to that fact.

To say that I am inflexible and ill equipped to bend and twist in a manner that many would consider insufferable is an understatement. My limbs are decidedly defiant and my muscles practically scream in protest each time I reach for my toes. Admittedly, I’m a poor tool when it comes to contorting my body into that which is suggestive of a pretzel. What’s more, I’m unbalanced, I don’t breathe properly and I incorporate far too much wincing into my half-hour routine. I’m quite sure that yogis everywhere cringe as I lurch around my coffee table, attempting to clear my mind of distractions. What am I saying? I AM A DISTRACTION. I think about the mounds of laundry I ought to be sorting, the toenails I should have trimmed and the fact that I’m out of ideas for dinner. Again.

Besides, who wants to deal with the misery of pushing one’s body to the extreme and far beyond its comfort zone when one can instead Google the bejesus out of absurd Super Bowl commercials? Confession: Each time I haul my yoga mat from the bowels of the closet, I have to walk past my computer and fight the very real urge to sit down and type in the words PUPPY MONKEY BABY. Clearly, it’s tough to compete with the allure of a creature that is as mesmerizing as it is disturbing. But I digress.

Let us just say that sticking to my daily yoga regimen has been difficult at best. But I’m managing so far. Today will mark the 15th consecutive day I’ve hit the mat and groaned audibly. Meanwhile my dogs look on from their perch on the couch as if to say, “Enough with this foolishness. It’s time to turn on the tube and spoon with me.” Likewise, my cat monopolizes my mat space, deciding it’s a fantastic place to loll around and give himself a bath—never mind that I’m busy failing at yoga here.

And because I’m completely mad, I invited my family to practice the routine with me one morning, thinking they might make the experience less of an effort and possibly more fun. When they finished rolling their eyes and/or laughing hysterically at the suggestion, my husband agreed to humor me, “…just this once.” Of course, he divided his time between mocking the instructor (Gumby Man), blowing in my ear to derail my tenuous state of concentration and moaning in pain. Admittedly, however, it did make me feel better to know there was at least someone on the planet less flexible than myself.

Namaste.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, failing at yoga much of the time. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

Copyright 2016 Melinda L. Wentzel

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Filed under Me Time, Namaste, Ode to Embarrassment

Great Expectations

www.melindawentzel.comIn the dark of predawn I lay in bed, tucked snugly beneath my downy comforter, sleet pinging against the windowpanes in soft yet fitful waves. Against all odds associated with parenthood, no one under the age of eight burst into the room to announce that the sky was falling. Translation: my husband and I had had the presence of mind to skip setting the kids’ alarm the night before, in anticipation of inclement weather almost certain to arrive by daybreak. So for a time, all was silent in this good house—except for the ticking of clocks and the tiny taps at the window.

As the not-so-surprising news of yet another school cancellation reached my ears in the wee hours that day, I was filled impossibly with hope. Hope that I would enjoy a morning devoid of the madness I had known all too well since September. Hope for a day abundant with hot cocoa, kindness and good cheer. Hope that I might finally summon the strength and ambition to take down the blasted Christmas tree. The one that had been standing very nearly straight in my living room for 63 days, mocking me as I addressed my cache of shamefully belated holiday cards.

The tree had to come down. It would come down. It was January 28th for Pete’s sake. Besides, I was tired of its condescending glare, as if it were looking down its boughs at me, judging my every deficiency. Shaming my inadequate core.

Moreover, with my army of helpers that would likely be at my disposal ALL DAY (since no one wanted to frolic in the freezing rain), I banked on being able to pack up and stow away each and every jingle bell, snowman, Santa likeness and string of garland-y foolishness in the entire house. To reclaim my space. At least until Easter.

Needless to say, lots of people here agreed that it was high time. “Mom, you know we’re going to get arrested, don’t you?”

“Arrested? For what?!”

“Because January’s almost over and we don’t even have our Christmas tree down yet! We’ll all be thrown in jail!”

“Whaaaaat?! Who’s going to throw us in jail?”

“The Holiday Police.”

“The Holiday Who?!”

“The Holiday Police. They arrest people who don’t do stuff right—like taking Christmas trees down BEFORE Groundhog Day. Helloooooooooo.”

She had a point.

All I had to do was glance at the calendar and then at the muddled mess surrounding me. Remnants of the holiday season were everywhere. The Christmas lights were completely shrouded with ice and fused impossibly to the trees and shrubs outside. The stockings were still hung—and shockingly, still laden with beloved items that had been tragically forgotten since Santa’s celebrated arrival. Gifts of every size, shape and hideous stage of disarray lay like carnage throughout the house and under the aforementioned evergreen, gloriously bedecked with enough ornament-age for a forest. Legions upon legions of festive-looking dishes, alarmingly bare except for the smarmy trail of cashews and the red and green fleckage of holiday M&Ms, still rested upon my tabletops, whispering without end, “Cleeeean meeeee.” Santa’s cookie plate begged to be returned to the cupboard, the crèche longed to be back in the attic and quite frankly, the mistletoe was tired of hanging around.

What’s more, I noted that the kids had been swiping stuff from the tree for weeks—like the reindeer, now chummy with Barbie’s horses and sharing a corral, and the snowmen, warmly adopted by a family of Lego people. I even discovered a few sparkly ornaments dangling precariously from the rooftops of doll houses. Icicles maybe?

That said, it was way past time to begin the arduous process of un-decorating. Clearly, the snow day that had been bestowed upon us was a window of opportunity and perhaps the spark that would ignite my drive and determination to succeed in spite of myself. At least that was the plan.

But it was not to be. My great expectations for the day were shot by 10 am and my hopes for a tidier living room were all but dashed. For all intents and purposes, the thorny pine had become rooted there, a glaring reminder of my ineptitude as a putter-away-of-holiday-wares. Instead we frittered away the time, putting six puzzles together, littering the house with Barbie dolls and dresses, devouring books, stuffing ourselves with chocolate-chip pancakes and lounging in our pajamas till it was almost evening—at which time I sent my brood outdoors to play in the snow that had FINALLY begun to fall in big, feathery flakes. A consolation prize for my efforts.

Then again, maybe my reward was the delicious chunk of time I spent fishing for puzzle pieces with my kids, eavesdropping on their Barbie powwows, listening to the ice hit the windows—safe and sound in this good house.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (and where the Holiday Police routinely arrive each year).

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel

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Filed under Love and Other Drugs, Ode to Embarrassment, The Natives are Decidedly Restless

And on the Eighth Day, God Created Tactless Children

“Mom, do you have any clothes that are snug?” one of my brood tossed out as she snacked on a slice of pizza the size of Connecticut.

Snug?” I asked. Could a wispy second grader fully and completely grasp the meaning of a word like snug–as in, “My pants are so fucking ‘snug,’ I’m going to EXPLODE if I so much as entertain the idea of breathing right now!”?

“Yeah. Like stuff that fits you too tight.”

“Yes, Hon. Virtually everything I own.”

“No, that’s not right, Mom. What you’re wearing right now isn’t too tight,” she corrected.

“Okay.” That’s because I’m so pathetic I happen to be wearing your father’s khakis with the waistband rolled over so they won’t fall to my knees in the grocery store–oh, and an enormous t-shirt so no one actually sees the hideous waistband-rollover-dealie. “ALMOST everything.”

“Like your wedding dress?” she offered casually (How could a puny and oh-so-unworldly kid zero in on THE most significant piece of garmentage I own as it relates directly to my hopeless and eternal struggle with weight since the advent of motherhood?! Needless to say, I was stunned and amazed to learn that she possessed such painfully accurate knowledge).

“Yes, like my wedding dress,” I answered through clenched teeth as I peeled the umpteenth carrot at the sink, wondering where this exercise in humiliation could possibly be headed.

“Can we play dress-up with it then?” she asked offhandedly.www.melindawentzel.com

NO. You can’t play dress-up with my wedding dress! That’s…that’s…just not…it’s just not…appropriate,” I stammered and fished for the proper wordage to protect and defend what was rightfully mine–as if I might need it for a third trip down the aisle at some point in the future. Besides, I didn’t want dribbles of pizza to sully its pristine surface. Or the purplish hue of lip gloss they were sure to smear on it (“…because lipstick makes us more be-U-tiful, Mommy, so we can get married”). My dress was perfectly perfect shrouded in plastic, hanging for all eternity behind the rest of my wardrobe-that-was-too-stinking-small-for-me.

For the record: I made two trips down the aisle.

But in two completely different dresses. In two completely different cities. In two completely different decades.

And, of course, I exchanged I-Do’s with two completely different men.

That said, wearing the same dress twice would have been tacky. And no, I couldn’t have poured myself into the first dress for the second wedding anyway. Not on a bet.

____________________________________________________________

Just then, her partner in crime (i.e. the equally wispy twin sister) joined us in the kitchen to listen in.

“Just where did all this snug malarkey come from anyway?” I had to inquire. Did my ass really look that big? SO big that my soon-to-be-eight-year-old daughters felt compelled to address the issue face-to-face?!

“We saw an ad on TV,” Wispy Girl One answered.

“Yeah. It was about how you could fit into all your old clothes again,” Wispy Girl Two added.

“Oh really,” I said, cynicism oozing from my pores.

“Yeah. It only takes like a day, Mom, and then the man said you could fit into your old clothes. Isn’t that cool?!” Wispy Girl Two further explained.

“Very cool, Hon. Very cool. Although I doubt it would work in just one day.”

“Yeah. It might take you a week because you really don’t get how it works, do you Mom?”

Apparently not.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (in my husband’s khakis…but it’s not what you think). Oh, and you can buy Jen Lancaster’s book here, Such a Pretty Fat and Kim Brittingham’s literary gem, Read My Hips here. Perhaps I ought to zip to the bookstore myself with my tactless children in tow–who will undoubtedly mention to the nice saleslady, “Mommy’s clothes are a bit snug, you know. But she’s working on it.”

Copyright 2009 Melinda L. Wentzel

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Filed under Kid-Speak, Ode to Embarrassment

Dear Mirena

Firstly, as a mother of three, I’d like to thank you for sprinkling a little amusement atop my harried-with-children sort of world. The television commercial for the birth control product you market is hilarious, depicting with remarkable accuracy the inexorable chaos that is parenting. That said, the grocery store scene was classic, wherein you nailed the idea that kids are kids are kids, and inherent within each smallish being is the irrepressible desire to poke and prod fresh produce until it topples to the floor. The watermelon was a superb choice, incidentally.

However, your writers crossed some sort of line between that which is refreshingly funny and that which has led to a profusion of child-generated questions for which I have no answers. Shame on you for that, my dear Mirena.

__________________________________________________

Imagine, if you will, my husband, our twin daughters (Seek and Destroy, who are soon-to-be fourth graders) and myself plunked upon our couch watching television one afternoon while an ad for your lovely product aired. Of course, we were greatly amused by the aforementioned supermarket circus as well as the other just-shoot-me-if-I-so-much-as-THINK-about-getting-pregnant-again portrayals.However a seemingly innocuous snippet of speech (i.e. “…you can try to get pregnant right away…or not…”) apparently piqued the interest of a certain nine-year-old, causing her to launch one of the most feared inquiries known to the parenting world.

“So how do you try to have a baby anyway?”

Stupidly, my husband and I sat there in stunned silence, slack mouthed and pitifully unprepared to respond with any semblance of coherent thought.

Again with the question–only louder and more insistent this time, “SO HOW DO YOU TRY TO HAVE A BABY?”

 

We glanced at each other with a look that shouted, “It’s your turn to field this one,” shifting uncomfortably in our seats and wishing like crazy the awkwardness would dissolve into our less-than-pristine-looking cushions. But it didn’t. If anything, it intensified. Like fools, we simply sat there and waited for a nugget of wisdom to fall from the sky–much like the time we expected the Difficult Question Fairy to swoop down from the clouds and address our child’s very real concerns (i.e. the much-heralded demand to know if daddy’s vasectomy involved removing all or part of his brain). Seriously. One of our dear charges actually asked this.

“Hey, guys!” I shouted, tripping over my pitiful inability to change the subject, “Look at the cardboard boxes! They’re MOVING! Doesn’t that look like fun?! Maybe we should scrounge around in the garage for some big boxes, and then we could cut windows and doors in them like we used to!”

Our less-than-delighted progenies promptly rolled their eyes and attempted to redirect the discussion, “Did you guys try to have us?”

“Yes, yes we did, in fact,” my husband offered, hoping to steer the conversation into the realm of that which was answerable. “We even went to a special group of doctors (Translation: we trekked to a faraway fertility clinic each and every time your mother so much as whispered the words, “Honey, I might be ovulating…”) and they were enormously helpful–those doctors–enormously helpful. So yes, yes, we DID try to have you and we couldn’t be happier about it!”

“Why’d you do that? Were you guys bored or something?”

Needless to say, the Difficult Question Fairy was nowhere to be found and nothing seemed to be falling from the sky–least of all wisdom. Ugh.

Copyright 2010 Melinda L. Wentzel

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Filed under Ode to Embarrassment, The Natives are Decidedly Restless

It’s Likely I’m an Ass

For whatever reason, I sometimes forget that I am an ass. Not to worry, subtle (and not-so-subtle) reminders abound. This morning was no exception.

Firstly, we missed the school bus…a not-so-ordinary occurence with my wily brood, although we seriously flirt with the possibility nearly every morning. Of course, we missed the bus because I am a sorry example of a mother (i.e. I failed to see to it that my children finish their homework the NIGHT BEFORE, so they were forced to complete it as they shoveled Lucky Charms into their faces and slurped orange juice ad nauseam). Ergo, my two dandies became “car riders” on this less-than-stellar morning which, apparently, was a good thing since “all the cool kids are car riders, Mom.”

Who knew.

Secondly, my ineptitude as a dropper-offer-of-kids-at-the-elementary-school is unrivaled in the Northern Hemisphere. Translation: I suck as a chauffeur of smallish creatures that are known to wield backpacks and lunch boxes. Further, my brain simply cannot fathom the driving-on-the-left-side-of-the-road thing whilst traffic whizzes past me ON THE RIGHT, winding in and around an exceedingly large parking lot and buzzing up to the double doors for the celebrated and markedly expeditious deposit of children-ish entities. Everyone but me, it seems, grasps the inherent logic behind said circus-like pattern.

“It’s like the (fucking) Autobahn! With ONCOMING TRAFFIC!” I shriek to my charges, as if they could offer a modicum of support as third graders.

“A) This is COMPLETELY INSANE! B) You’re LATE for school! And C) This is COMPLETELY INSANE!”

A pregnant pause ensues, followed shortly thereafter by Thing One’s expressly pointed commentary from the back seat, “You’re not doing it right, Mom…but I still like being a car rider.”

Joy. Glad someone can see the bright side of my disaster-in-the-making.

“Mom, just follow the arrows and go where that man in the orange vest is pointing………then we won’t crash into Kevin’s mom,” Thing Two instructs, ever the practical child.

Lovely. Crashing into Kevin’s mom sounds like something I’d like to avoid at all costs. I shall heed the orange-vested gentleman’s signals.

Crash or no crash, it’s still entirely likely I’m an ass.

Thirdly, somehow I’ve fallen down on the job of imparting crucial tidbits of information to the impressionable youth in my charge. More specifically, I neglected to inform my kids of the protocol for disembarking during the drop-off period. That said, Thing One tried (and thankfully failed!) to leap from my vehicle as I slowed down to take my place in the endless procession ahead (aka the Escalade Parade).

“No, no, no! You can’t get out HERE, doofus! Wait till I get all the way around to the sidewalk. Then you can hop out, Hon.”

She then fumbled around with her stuff and inadvertently shut the door on her backpack, beside herself with glee over the delicious reality of being a bona fide CAR RIDER instead of a lowly bus goer. “Terrific,” I thought. “She’ll miss the bus INTENTIONALLY tomorrow morning.” As I wended my way through the line (trying like crazy not to rear-end anyone in the process), I quizzed each kid as if they were preparing to parachute into a war zone.

“Homework?”

“Check.”

“Lunch?”

“Check.”

“Agenda?”

“Check.”

“Library books?”

“I don’t have library today, Mom.”

“Oh. Hey, it’s time to get out! GO! GO! GO! There’s a gazillion people behind me! Have a great day!” I shouted after them as they piled out of my Jeep and raced to the school, jackets flapping in the breeze.

“Whoa! Wait a minute!” I rolled down the window and hollered to Thing One, holding up the precious line in the process. “YOU FORGOT TO SHUT THE DOOOOOOOR!” Naturally, she forgot to shut the door because I forgot to quiz her on this all-important sequence of the drop-off event. To make matters worse, I couldn’t shut the stupid door myself (though I tried like mad), nor could I GET OUT and shut it. I feared such action would be viewed as unforgivable by the vast majority of those waiting in line. Further, I assumed the Drop-off Police would then cart me away to be flogged or something equally horrible.

There would be no exiting the vehicle.

So, like a fool, I continued to yell. And in a moment of sheer panic entwined with supreme idiocy, I laid on my horn. Again. And again, not once thinking about the ramifications of my infinitely obtuse actions. I’m certain the people ahead of me in line pegged me for an ass. And rightly so.

“Who honks their horn in the drop-off line?!” they likely bellowed. “My kids are moving as fast as they can, you idiot!”

Needless to say, I wouldn’t blame them for chiding me. I deserved it.

Finally, Thing One realized the mad honker woman was, in fact, me. She then returned to close my door. “Whoops,” she said with a smile. “See you at the bus stop, Mom!”

Indeed, it’s where I belong, ass that I am.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live.

Copyright 2010 Melinda L. Wentzel

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Filed under "S" is for Shame, Ode to Embarrassment

The Purple of Penance

Lisa Belkin, of NYTimes Motherlode fame, suffered unmercifully this past weekend, breaking an ankle in numerous places while wreaking havoc upon a handful of ligaments and bones in the other. Her sons rushed to her aid and used a cell phone to hail an ambulance for her, as one might expect. However the irony with which the aforementioned debacle unfolded (and was subsequently documented and shared in all its digital wonder via text messaging and eventually the Motherlode Blog) might not have been expected.

You see, Belkin had made a solemn vow to “unplug” for 24 hours, to resist the urge to check e-mail or the status of anyone’s Facebook, to text or tweet to excess, to Google the bejesus out of anything and everything from sundown to sundown. Impressive, no?

Needless to say, her efforts were valiant as she attempted to reconnect with her family and to do so in a manner completely devoid of electronic devices. Lo and behold, the gods of technology laughed at such foolishness, perhaps causing said vat of horribleness to befall her and, hence, her reliance upon cell phones to surface. She’s scheduled for surgery to repair her ankle et al. on Tuesday. Be sure to visit Motherlode to wish her well now and during the sure-to-be memorable recovery phase.

I, myself, only ever broke a knuckle (in a shameful fit of rage) and a toe (in a deep chasm of stupidity), so I can’t wholly relate to the profusion of pain Belkin must have felt and is likely still feeling. In honor of that, I’ve re-posted “The Purple of Penance” for your (and hopefully for her) amusement…

It’s time to decorate Easter eggs—an age-old tradition symbolizing new life. An activity infused with color, the pungent aroma of vinegar and great swells of kid-inspired, eggshell-adorning creativity, all in the name of celebrating the long-awaited rebirth of the land. By contrast, I’ve been celebrating the rebirth of my stupidity.

More specifically, one of my toes—henceforth known as THE TOE—stupidly embraced this glorious festival of dyes and dippings, having adopted a whole host of hues this past week ranging from a lovely pool of blue/black at its base to the deepest and most profound infusion of magenta at its northern most tip—perfectly suited for the Lenten season, I’m told. The purple of penance.

My heathens, as expected, were beside themselves with glee upon learning of my unfortunate and infinitely obtuse shower-related toe incident (i.e. the whacking of said digit on the chair-like entity contained within, followed almost instantaneously by a profusion of swelling and an imbuement of color). “Kewl, Mom! It’s purplish and shiny and it has a really interesting texture!”

Yes, my third-grader used the word texture in a disturbingly appropriate manner. She also touched my toe. They both touched it. Again and again—compelled to poke and prod the bulbous head of my pitiful toe, thoroughly mesmerized by its curious and ever-changing medley of colors and reveling in its freakishly smooth feel. That said, it is perhaps the most repulsive-looking appendage on the planet. But it’s colorful. I’ll give it that. Just in time for Easter and its feast of pigmentation.

Barring divine intervention, however, I’ll likely be skipping Maundy Thursday’s foot-washing ceremony at my church, a spiritually stirring event I had planned to attend during Holy Week, that is, until THE TOE became such a huge and hideous issue. Indeed, it is a shameful spectacle and likely symbolic of the many and varied flaws present in my character. Besides, the mere thought of allowing someone to touch it—even someone who would exert the utmost of care and sensitivity given my sorrowful situation—makes me writhe in pain. Then again, my kids’ relentless pawing has been no picnic and somehow I’ve tolerated that.

I’ve also tolerated a vat of their foolishness.

Needless to say, Frick and Frack have been consumed with all that relates to my wretched toe of late, demanding comprehensive updates on its status the very instant they step off the school bus, insisting that I shed my sock and wave the horrible thing around like a flag. “Show Daddy!” they joyfully instruct. “It’ll gross him out!” Of course, I fear that one day soon THE TOE will surface in someone’s creative writing assignment, much to my chagrin and to their teachers’ collective horror. My weirdish children have even gone so far as to compose a song about my unsightly appendage. Tchaikovsky would be proud.

But not me so much. I’m embarrassed. And ungainly. And in agony (or some semblance thereof) much of the time. However, it can’t compare to what I felt at the moment of impact. And the sound—the UNSPEAKABLY HORRIBLE SOUND that reverberated all around when the bone actually snapped—made me slightly sickish within that tiny window of time sandwiched between the realization of what a stupid, stupid thing I had done and the onset (read: the MONUMENTAL EXPLOSION) of excruciating pain. Even still, I’m not quite sure which made me feel worse—knowing of my stupidity or suffering its ill effects.

As time goes on (and in my less-than-expert medical opinion), I presume THE TOE will not only heal, but undergo an impressive transformation of color, progressing from its current purplish state to various (and no doubt, vile) shades of green, yellow and, eventually, to the suggestion of ecru. With any luck, the nuance of crookedness it has adopted in the interim will abate as well. Otherwise it’s likely my kids will feel compelled to sing (and write!) about THE CROOKED TOE, serving as yet another reminder of my idiocy.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (with THE TOE).

Copyright 2010 Melinda L. Wentzel

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