YES, BABY, I DO.
Job? What job?
As I headed out the back door this morning, the first order of business was to trip, at 7 ½ months pregnant, over a hose of some sort. It’s this bright yellow monstrosity that hooks up to an air compressor in the shop at one end and a nail gun or something on the other. B’s been using it to work on the baby’s room. It’s been there for weeks now.
And did you catch the part about it being BRIGHT YELLOW?
And I still tripped over it.
It was only a matter of time; it’s inevitable that I will trip and fall over whatever I can. The day he strung that thing out, I actually thought to myself: “I’m going to trip over that.”
And here we are.
I got one skinned knee (blends right in with my last knee-skinning), two grass-stained knees, and one muddy coat sleeve out of the deal. My co-workers were dually impressed by how put together I looked.
All I really wanted to do as I plowed down the driveway was cry like a baby, but my girl was at the dining room window, waving and blowing kisses, so I grinned and never let on. I was fine by the time I got to the post office, where I needed to pick up a package that had been sitting and waiting on me since Monday.
Or so I thought.
A little background: last Saturday, as we headed to town, we passed our tiny, local post office. It was surrounded by yellow crime scene tape, a sheriff’s car, and a woman dusting for fingerprints on the outside door.
Obviously, this did not bode well. This is a big deal for our corner of the world. I bet the news travelled fast enough to cause sparks.
I went up to the counter and dinged the bell. (This always makes me sweat…what if I annoy them by dinging the bell?!) The friendly counter girl came forward, took my pick-up card, and said, “We were wondering when we’d see you!”
I apologized for the delay, explaining that, when you’re chronically late, sometimes the mail pick-up has to suffer. Alas, this is not why she mentioned it. She mentioned it because my package was one of the ones stolen over the weekend.
Because of course it was.
And then I got stopped by a train.
Which in and of itself is not such a big deal, but TRIPPING GRASS STAINS STOLEN PACKAGE end of the world as we know it.
I wish I could tell you that the morning before was better, but I’m afraid that’s just not possible. Because that’s the morning that I backed into B’s truck.
My Suburban of Steel didn’t so much as flinch, but the bumper of his truck – made of Play-Doh, evidently – bent just enough to keep the tailgate from opening.
I don’t guess I have to articulate how incredibly pleased he was with this turn of events, or how much Katie learned that morning about backing into trucks before 8:00. In my defense, the truck isn’t usually parked there, but the day before, B had to unload a new rocker/recliner for the baby’s room. He didn’t want to have to lug the giant thing all over the backyard, so he parked the truck half in the yard and close to the back door.
And I never looked back. I’m not even gonna pretend.
Don’t be sore, B. Remember this day?
It’s blurry as all get out, but you liked me that day, and I’m pretty sure I distinctly remember Dr. Bane saying that you had to love your wife forever, whether she drug your air compressor hose all over the yard with her swollen feet or backed into your new truck.
You remember that part, don’t you?