TJ is doing great. Really great. He’s back to laughing and joking and sitting on my lap while I’m at the computer and playing this very delightful game (to him) called, “You can’t see anything!” The downside of his super quick bounce back is that physically, he still has to move slowly. His stitches have to heal, his body has to recover, even if he wants to go to the park and launch himself into the air. The surgeon said he shouldn’t do more than walking. I hate having to repeat over and over, “Your tummy!” but I don’t want to be back at the hospital again.
I tell him that if he runs, his doctor is going to be mad. He loves his doctor. He respects his doctor. I’m not a medical professional I don’t have much in my toolkit and what I’ve learned from a life of Catholicism is that fear works really well. Here’s hoping for a quick six weeks.
How I know I’m old: I had this glorious dream. I owned a huge mansion that had a McDonalds on the first floor. My own McDonalds with people working round the clock to make my egg mcmuffins whenever I want! My kingdom! But then my decrepit Old Lady Mo brain took over and I started calculating how much this would all cost me! The power bill! The health insurance! They all want $15 an hour!
My 12-year-old self would be a queen (with early onset diabetes) but my 32-year-old self can’t even enjoy something that is not even real and will disappear when my real children get in my face to wake me up and make them something to eat.
I like to play this song and imagine that Rihanna and I are in a girl gang and she’s the leader (obvs) and I’m the fat funny friend and we storm into a party because RiRi’s going to get her money and I try to act tough to another girl so I spit out, “What!?!” And the girl lunges at me and I start crying and my teardrop eyeliner tattoo smudges off and RiRi goes, “This is why I told you to stay in the car, RAMONA!”