Flat Out

There’s an old saying: be careful what you wish for…it just might come true.

As a mother and stepmother, with two out of three children classified as ‘special needs’, you don’t really get a lot of time to yourself. Even husbands take their fair share of work.

But there’s a big difference between wanting some down time and being forced into it.

10 days after I blew my back out I’m getting a touch of cabin fever.

And I’m fast running out of ideas here.

I’m trying not to get stressed about the mess that’s sitting there staring me in the face waiting for me to get to it. I’m trying not to feel anxious that there’s people to see and places to be. And I’m trying not to anticipate more pain from simply doing the basics of childcare and housework. But there’s really not a lot one can do when one is forced into staying still.

So I go from lying flat out on the bed, to being strapped to a TENs machine, and moving slower than a turtle (and way slower than the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles my son so loves) from room to room.

This evening my Beloved thought I was up to a bath, so he turned on the taps and sloshed in some special stuff in a bid to help me unwind.

Unfortunately he was a little too generous with the bath products, probably thinking the more the merrier.

If you’ve ever seen pictures or those TV shows where someone adds a little too much laundry powder to the washing machine, you can guess what happened next.

With the spa jets on full, and my back frozen into position once more, I found myself slowly disappearing beneath a white wall of froth. And with the sound of the motor echoing around our miniscule bathroom, it seems no one could hear my pathetic little pleas for “Help!” from their spot in front of the television.

To make matters worse, when I finally was able to break through the pain barrier in order to make a desperate lunge for the ‘Off’ button on the spa, I sloshed enough water up the sides to promptly douse the candles my Beloved had ever so thoughtfully lit to set the mood, and upended my little tipple of Baileys by the bath. The sight of the ice cubes disappearing beneath the waves brought back memories of the ‘Titanic’, destined for a similar fate to Jack (for the solitary soul who hasn’t seen James Cameron’s version, rent it when you get a spare three hours or so and you’ll know what I mean).

I could only console myself with the thought that if milk baths were good enough for Cleopatra, they’re good enough for me. (Not sure about any beneficial effects Baileys Irish Cream® might have on the skin, though.)

It was at this time that the children decided Mama needed company in the bath, and I was joined by two slippery little critters amidst the bubbles.

After 15 minutes of this I was given permission to leave them to it, and hauled myself out of the tub and into standing position, flailing about for the towel which was just out of reach, before I finally caught hold of a thread on the corner and attempted to dry myself off.

Sadly, the entire episode didn't quite have the desired effect of relaxing me, and I shuffled to the bedroom and crawled under the covers, completely exhausted and still slightly damp around the ankles.

Luckily it was my Beloved’s night off and there was sufficient food in the freezer for him to rustle up some grits for himself and the kids. I was also in prime position for the regular bedtime story then simply bid them all goodnight, took my evening dose of painkillers and drifted off to sleep.

With a bit of luck this bad back will all be behind me soon enough (pun intended) and it’ll be business as usual before too long (minus any scrubbing of showers for the foreseeable future).

And if I happen to notice any significant improvement in skin tone- who knows, milk might make a regular appearance in my bathing beauty routine. But I think I'll keep the Baileys out of the bubbles just the same.

Jx
©2010