A No Good, Very Bad Date

It is a rare opportunity these days when the husband and I get to go on a date. And, even then, we take the little Jdog because he doesn’t like eating from anything but his momma--but, it is a date nonetheless. All week I had been looking forward to Saturday because not only were we going on a date, I had convinced the husband to do something besides dinner and a movie. We were going power tumbling.

After successfully leaving Atrain with a babysitter, we headed to the tumbling gym with my sisters, Banbie, Katydid, Allerina, and their significant others. When we walked into the gym the familiar scent of chalk and body sweat sent my mind reeling back to my gymnastics days. I couldn’t wait to try out the ski floor and see if I still had it. We paid, signed the waivers and removed shoes. But before we stepped out on the floor, Jdog howled. He was ready to eat again. So, I headed back to the car to give him a little privacy while he chowed down.

I sat there in the dark while Jdog ate wondering what the others were doing: if Allerina needed a spot with her back hand spring, if GAP had successfully landed his full twisting back flip, if the husband was enjoying himself. Then, just as I imagined how awesome my athletic hubby must look springing into the foam pit, there was a knock on the car window. It was Katydid. She had bad news.

“Your husband has hurt himself,” she said. It took me a moment to register what she was saying. She said it with such a strange expression—mixing her grief with a slight smirk. “Is he alright?” I asked as I unlatched the Jdog, who began howling again. “Yeah…I think…something with his leg…but he’s really hurt,” she responded.

Shoot. The husband was hurt. It was all my fault. I pictured him lying on the ski floor with his bones contorted, sprouting from his leg. If only I had grown up learning to love a hobby that was more refined and useful. That way when I got nostalgic and wanted to relive my glory days I wouldn’t put my husband’s life at risk. Nope. Not me. I’m a flippin’ tumbler.

I walked into the gym, gave Jdog to Bambie and rushed to my husband’s side. He was lying on the ground with his left foot propped up by a spring board. He was very calm, trying to joke with his in laws while his foot swelled in two different spots: his ankle and his fourth metatarsal. It looked like his toes had somehow ingested a couple of golf balls. As he explained what happened he began to shake. He was in a lot of pain.

“I jumped on the edge of the tramp, but it doesn’t have any support there. It’s just concrete below,” he explained. “Too bad we just signed the waiver,” I said, trying to break the tension—a stupid idea. As if anything else needed breaking. “I’m so sorry. I drug you in here. Let’s get you off the floor and call Dad and Pollyanna,” I said. It’s wonderful to have relatives who save people’s lives on a regular basis.

The husband was carried off the floor by the brother-in-laws. “At least you didn’t break it while spitting a grape,” Gap said, poking fun at my last broken bone. Very funny. As we sat on the sidelines deciding what to do the husband examined himself, estimating which bones he had cracked. All the while my worry wrinkle is digging deeper into my forehead. “I just hate that I’m on my Rad Onc rotation right now,” he said. “I know. I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault,” I replied, feeling so badly that I wanted to burry myself in the foam pit and never surface. I knew that’s what he would be most concerned about—the future of our family hanging on the balance of his broken foot. “Everything is my stupid fault,” I confessed.

The husband looked at me and grinned, “It’s not your fault,” he said, “it was the trampoline…no wonder we had to sign waivers.” “Nope, my fault again,” I replied. “If only I had gone to Law School instead of getting an MPA…I’m useless.” This time he laughed. “You’re so dramatic you should have been an actress,” he said. He was right. And I needed to get my act together to take care of him. I dialed his dad, who said we needed to wait until Monday to get an x-ray at his office, but we could splint it until then. We called Pollyanna, who said we could come in the ER tonight and he could check it out. I voted for Pollyanna’s plan. The husband voted for dad’s plan. Jdog voted for more food. The husband won.

We stole my sister’s car and I rushed the husband to my mom’s house. We stopped at my Grandma’s on the way to pick up a pair of crutches. Once at my mom’s I got him ice, ibuprofen, and left over lasagna. Then I started digging around for an ace bandage: nothing. “Are you sure you won’t let me take you in to the ER?” I said with my best pouty, pleading whine. “Yep, I’m sure,” he responded as he held ice on his ankle. “You medical people,” I said angrily, “you would make me go in.” He shrugged me off and said all he really needed was a splint for now. So, Jdog and I were back in the car to pick up a proper bandage.

I rushed to the local drug store just in time to see the owner shutting down 15 minutes early. At least I tried to buy local. Wal-Mart was the next best option. Poor Jdog was crying in the back, still upset that his dinner got interrupted. Of course there was nowhere to park when we arrived. I wondered if all these people went on dates to Wal-Mart on Saturday night and began to feel a little better about myself. I made a B-line for the pharmacy, settled on a nice Ace wrap, and then went strait for the check-out. I was horrified to find them stretching all the way to the jewelry counter. And, for a brief moment, I honestly considered stealing the ace bandage. My conscience and ingenuity convinced me that the customer service desk was a better option. It was—even if the teenage worker acted like I asked her to shave her head and paint the Wal-Mart smiley face on top.

Jdog and I escaped from the Wally Maze and snagged Atrain from the babysitter. I explained to Atrain that Daddy had broken his foot during our “meeting” (the vernacular we usually use when we leave him with the babysitter…somehow I think it takes the sting out of leaving him with a responsible stranger while we go have fun). He thought long and hard about the information. “Diva’s dada didn’t breaked his foot at the meeting?” he asked. “Nope, not Diva’s dada,” I confirmed. “Just my dada hasd a broked foot?” he asked. “Yep,” I said. “What was Dada doing at da meeting?” he asked. “He fell off of a trampoline,” I explained, realizing how confused Atrain will be when he grows up and realizes that trampolines usually are not at meetings.

When we finally returned to the husband I found him nestled in front of ESPN with his crutches at bay. He answered all of Atrain’s questions as I wrapped an ice pack around his foot. “Are you going to be ok?” I asked. “I’m going to be fine,” he said. “Maybe it will help you stand out during your rotation?” I suggested. “I hope,” he responded. “Can we go out again some time?” I asked. “Maybe if we stick to the theater,” he said with a smile. I agreed...at least for the next few months.