Muddling

#2
There is a policy theorist named Lindblom cataloged somewhere in my grad school brain who pointed out that muddling through was a method of change--policy change to be exact. This muddling theory is more of an "evolutionary" approach to change, but it is change nonetheless. He also claims that we’re mostly all just muddling. This means that if I’m mostly muddling, I merely relying on external forces to change me (not the most inspiring theory for personal change). I would just have to take whatever comes in life and react to it—if I can. Today, I couldn’t. And, I got hit in the face by a trampoline.

Of course it’s funny now—whose face gets sliced open by a spring-loaded trampoline? I guess mine does. I read something the other night that said if you decide to have a great day before 10:00 am, you don’t need to worry about it (or something ridiculous like that). I guess that guy’s never been walloped by a trampoline at 1:45pm.

A-train’s AVT therapist was over and he was SO excited to show her his new train set. So, I started clearing space, which meant that the mini-trampoline had to be folded in half and shoved in its appropriate apartment-storage-worthy size. Just before I put pressure on the opposing ends of the spring-loaded hinge I told the therapist to watch out because it shuts quickly. Then…THWACK! And, it took me a few moments to figure out what had just happened, and if I still had teeth, and why my face was aching in the strangest place, and why she just said, “Wow-you’re bleeding a lot. Do you want me to watch Atrain for you while you go to the ER?”

I smiled stupidly. What else do you do when you’re not sure if you’re really hurt and you don’t want your boy to panic when you have blood all over your face? Then I saw the deep gash just below my eye. That’s also about when Atrain grabbed his plastic sword and began repeating, “I will high-ya the doctor! They do not hurt my momma. I will poke them in the eye!” My hero.

After a few phone calls and a quick decision based on ability to drive with a bleeding face to the nearest, nimblest medical hands I was headed to the closest ER. With both kids napping I carried one while pushing the other in the stroller, hoping my wound wouldn’t scar because I didn’t have an extra hand to keep it closed in the mean time. Thankfully the med student hubby is rotating with a very kind (very rare) chief resident who let him leave to see his wife in the ER. It felt so nice not to pretend I was tough when he showed up. Even though I hated admitting to my inner wimp that maybe I didn’t need to be in the ER—especially after checking out my company in the waiting room.

But, that feeling quickly fled when the doc told me that there could be a fracture on my facial bone which would cause my cheek to sink into my face if left unchecked. One unremarkable CT scan later, I was a room with my cheeto-faced toddler, breast feeding baby and scrub-wearing hubby waiting for someone to glue my cheek back together. The hubby suggested that I request that the Doctor do it—not the PA. I thought it was a wise call. So, I told/asked the PA in a discrete, stupid way if the doctor would apply the derma-glue to my gash. I think she thought I thought she was the nurse, and thus dually offended at my request.

That’s when I realized that I’m a snob, a medical snob to be precise. Why did I listen to the hubby? I just hurt her feelings and made myself look stupid and ignorant (as if the trampoline story weren’t enough). I’m sure she could apply skin glue with the best of them. As I sat there regretting my snobbish behavior she sent the EMT in to clean the wound, and before I knew it, something was burning. The EMT was gluing my face back together again. I guess that’s what I get for being a snob.

I left the hospital today feeling stupid and snooty. My man was the angel on one shoulder, helping me feel better, and the devil on the other telling me to make people feel worse. My son was my cheeto faced high-ya-ing hero. And my baby was my sweet, sleeping, plumping saint. I guess my day wasn’t so bad after all. It could have been worse. Maybe that 10am guy knows what he’s talking about. And, if tomorrow I find myself agreeing with Lindblom, I’ll try to muddle through my day a little faster next time I’m putting away a spring-loaded trampoline.