Um, yeah. So. Despite my best intentions to write here...you know, GET BACK AT IT, and stuff...it seems my concentration has been compromised and I"m much less likely to post to my blog than I am to take a nap or eat another Tootsie Roll.
I often complain, "Why am I so tired? Why do I sleep so much?" to which Gray responds, "I don't know, but that's what you're supposed to do. That's what the doctor's told you to do," to which I respond, "I hate the doctors."
Because really? REALLY? Sleeping 12 hours and then needing a 3 hour nap? And I don't mean just because I'm at home with nothing to do (although now I'm allowed to go online or read books or watch movies, whereas the first 4 weeks were "rest only" orders). If I get up and take a 10 minute shower, it means I will inevitably need either to hit the sack for the night or a really long nap. FROM TAKING A SHOWER. It's physically exhausting, just taking clothes off and putting them back on, standing in the water (now that I've outgrown the shower chair, that is), brushing my teeth.
So while I'm reading like my life depends upon it, and I'm doing all kinds of junior-high level cognitive worksheets (like, there's a map where all the streets are numbered and you have to name the streets based on vague clues), I'm having a hard time writing. Being creative in general, really.
I really hope it comes back, because I am noticing other subtle changes in myself that I do NOT approve of.
For example, Gray came running out of the bathroom yesterday exclaiming that he had a poop story that I would love, and he told me that his very own giant poop had clogged the toilet, but he was unable to bring himself to plunge because of the turds which remained in the bowl (it was "gross" he said, as if the plunger would otherwise be a showpiece), so he grabbed a doggie poo bag, two of them actually, and plucked his own shit from the bowl, disposing of it as he does Bampa's waste - it the outdoor garbage can. THEN he plunged.
The whole time he told the story, I was cringing away from him in disgust, adamantly wondering, "DID YOU WASH YOUR HANDS?!" and wishing he hadn't told me. (After he left for work, I had to go and scrub the damn thing down.) He responded that "of course" he washed his hands, and sulked away saying he thought I'd love a good poop story, which normally I would. Like this one.
Minutes later I couldn't resist warning him, "I'm going to have to blog about that."
"I figured you would," was his reply.
It appears that my injury has inflicted at least a temporary aversion to poop stories. ON ME! It's bad enough I can't tell a banana from a sirloin, a bottle of water from a bottle of Ensure. It's unjust that I can't enjoy so much as a glass of wine until next summer (which means it's a perfect time to get pregnant) but I also can't safely conceive while I'm on the medication I'm taking to help my brain recover, plus I couldn't taste the damn wine anyway!
There's something horrifying about the idea that I've literally knocked the love of a really good poop story right out of myself, and I hope desperately that it doesn't extend to my love of writing and blogging and making threatening phone calls to nursing homes...erm, forget that last part.
What I'm saying is SHIT.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go lay down.