Ouch

I realized yesterday that I’ve had a clumsy stretch the last few days. This dawned on me as I sat down on the beanbag next to the dog to give him a good scratch behind the ears, and he slinked away to take cover underneath my husband’s legs under his desk. After having been poked in the eye, knocked on the nose, stepped on, and tripped over in the last 48 hours, even the dog, bless him, has realized that it’s best to give me a wide berth.

I think it’s become a household phenomenon, actually. My husband smashed one of his more useful fingers in the shower door yesterday, and cursed a silent blue streak through gritted teeth for a good ten minutes. In retrospect, as he’s showered once a day for most of his adult life, he was bound to run into trouble sooner or later. And then there’s the 6-month-old, who is learning to do all kinds of new tricks, like crawling, and sitting up, but hasn’t really mastered any of them, so about twice a day loses control of these various limbs that she’s only just discovered. Because babies, it seems, can’t really multi-task. So when called upon to shake a rattle while sitting up, well, it doesn’t always work out so well, and like a tree falling in the forest, ka-thunk, little baby coconut drops like a stone to the floor. Crying ensues.

So three out of four members of our household are wearing Band-Aids (or, in the case of the dog, think that they damn well deserve one.) What this means, of course, is that I’m next, and it’s anyone’s guess what it will be. But there’s little doubt about one thing: undoubtedly self-inflicted.