In previous posts, I have relayed a couple stories documenting my lack of gracefulness. It is actually an ongoing joke with my husband and kids because I am constantly displaying evidence to support the theory that God simply didn't endow me with that particular quality. Ironically, I am quite athletic...but it is more of a "bull in a china shop" athleticism than anything else. It is a good thing I breed little boys, because most have them have been blessed (or cursed as their daddy would say!) with the genes of their mother.
With that background information, I can now proceed with divulging one of my most painful, albeit hilarious, series of unfortunate events. I bring about most of my trouble (and bumps and bruises) myself. After 30+ years of knowing myself, one would assume that I would have "learned my lesson". Alas, I am a glutton for punishment...or so it would seem.
When moving into our first home, my hubby was already in Iraq which left me in charge of "the move". Unfortunately, I had just given birth to little boy #2 and the idea of moving - even out of my rocking chair- was more than a little overwhelming. Luckily for me, my mother-in-law organized an "army" of sorts to coordinate and execute the details of getting my little family from point A to point B. I was merely put in charge of directing traffic. God bless a MIL on a mission!
I didn't care where any of our stuff went except for my devoted rocking chair, kids' necessities (which really was a lot) and my breast pump. Everything that I didn't feel that I needed immediately was designated to the newly-purchased storage shed. Included in these un-necessities were ALL of my hubby's possessions (he was going to be gone for the next 12 months...I had plenty of time organize it....later). And as you can imagine, when working with a crew who I've never met and didn't know me from Jane Doe down the street, none of my possessions sparked an emotional connection or feelings of protection from our "moving crew". Items were piled, stacked, shoved, pushed and tossed into the storage shed. I loved having all of the help, don't get me wrong, but the mission was "move" not "careful". But in that moment of relief, I didn't care how they got our stuff into our new house or storage shed.
Fast forward a couple months and I am feeling a little more ambitious and wanting to tackle the nightmare we so lovingly called "the storage shed". Maneuvering wasn't easy or tactical. The stuff I really wanted to get to was at the back of the shed. So of course the most logical way of getting to it.....was to scale the mountain of our items. In my mind that was obviously the "path of least resistance"...or physical exertion.
Now, I was a young strong woman (read determined and stubborn). I was confident in my physical and athletic ability to not only scale the rickety mountain of things, locate and rescue the desired treasure and then jump (yes, I said jump!) down the precarious mountain and out of the shed....successfully. Unfortunately, scenarios that I envision in my head don't always play out as planned (you've read All the sexy mammas, right??)
As I negotiate my take off, descent, and landing I apparently didn't factor in the trajectory and unstable terrain. Not only did I have to jump down and out at an angle, I had to make sure I didn't hit any part of the door frame, or land on the toys that scattered the ground like land mines waiting to join in on my demise. None of this crossed my mind before attempting my exit. Hind sight is 20/20 people!
I take off (I'm strong and athletic, right) certain that my landing will score at least an 8. My feet get tangled in some piece of crap that was sticking up which deters my original flight plan causing me to make an emergency (read devastating) landing on top of the "Riding International Tractor with scoop" that grandpa so lovingly bought my son. Despite my obvious pain, I was too worried and horrified that any of my new neighbors may have witnessed this failed attempt at flying and wander over to check on my status. I jumped up threw the assaulting toys back into the shed and walked ever-so-delicately into my house where my 2 sweet boys were none the wiser to mommy's "accident".
In the house, I proceeded to lay on the floor in a heap of bruises, scrapes, damaged ego and what felt like brokenness everywhere and cried my little heart out. I had to call in sick to work the next day because not only was it painful just to breath, but my face, neck, and shoulders were black-and-blue. I was certain someone would report my poor unknowing, out-of-the-country hubby for suspected spouse abuse all because his overly confident wife had a moment of disrespect for the laws of gravity.