Adam ate a penny, again.
The car dealership is holding my van hostage and won't release it until they can figure out the terms for their ransom note. I can only suppose they have become emotionally attached to my vehicle and have no intentions of returning it for ransom or otherwise, since it is nearly a month since they acquired it. Kind of like a reverse Stockholm Syndrome thingy.
I started physical therapy for the foot I injured while breaking my car. The therapist told me almost gleefully "You have ZERO range of motion!" She is enjoying the "rehab" - me not so much, I am out of Vicodin. Ice I have in ample supply.
I have a six pack - wish that were abs. No, I have a six pack of kids. They are the cheetahs circling the herd and I am the weakest Gazelle in the bunch. When I was on crutches the week before Christmas (oh so fun when you're 39 and decrepit with a six pack, not abs) - they delighted in turning them into weapons and carrying them off so they were never around when I needed them. Seeing mom crawling around on the floor prompted more than one gleeful shout of "Horsie!" from my 2 year old. I probably need rehab for my back now too. Then it was "the boot" and now the "brace". The boot was heavy and clunky and made me jerk around like Lurch, but I had the use of my arms back. The brace is lighter, basic black, so goes with everything and has enough velcro on it to attach my 7 year old to the couch. I do not exaggerate - we literally velcroed Garrett to the couch. Was seriously tempted to duct tape the entire six pack to their beds for bedtime tonight. Seriously.
I made a lovely Minestrone for dinner. It was poked, prodded and eyed very suspiciously - but not ingested. All the garlic toast - nary a crumb left over. I have a gallon of Minestrone with penne rigate going seriously soggy in the fridge.
Do you think they would take a trade - the Minestrone for the van? Then I could get back to the business of driving around lots of people like a crazy woman.
How did I break the van in the first place you may ask? Driving to the post office to mail Christmas packages. In over 15 years of marriage, I have not once sent Christmas packages to my siblings. The first year I do - bitten with a large dose of Christmas spirit, I pay for it with a broken van and a mangled foot. So much for the joy of giving. Though, really, it was all Garrett's fault. No - he wasn't driving like another child (who shall remain nameless but HE**cough**trentschuck knows who he is and why he won't be getting his own car at 16) of mine did a while ago when he was 7. He just was bouncing around in the back seat not strapped in appropriately. Mom had to verify he was firmly anchored to the van. Gee, look away from the road for one measly second and someone changes lanes in front of you. The funny thing is - the van I hit was the same color and model as my own van. Guess it is true, run around enough like a crazy person and eventually you will run into yourself. This caused all sorts of confusion and distress for the insurance company and police officer on the scene who had trouble figuring out which driver belonged to which identical green van. The insurance agent who called afterward was prompted to ask, "just how many green vans were there?!" I wanted to ask if it really mattered, since the same insurance company insured both green vans - either way, they got stuck with us both! Of course the better half was out of town on a business trip. Nothing quite so festive as a trip to the ER with a seriously bored 7 year old and being told to stay off your foot for at least a few days and handed a pair of crutches - and now, Happy New Year! I still don't have a vehicle that seats even half my six pack. The last time I tried to fit three carseats in the back of Matt's Neon, the doors wouldn't close. Too bad I didn't have the foot/ankle brace then - I could've just velcroed Garrett to the seat and saved myself a lot of hassle and pain. They treated Garrett like a prince at the ER - they brought him two cans of soda, dinner, cookies and a room with a TV. Lovely, they give him sugar and me crutches . . . sadists!
Yes, the van was showing it's age too - and starting to look like the Partridge Family bus with the customized paint job rendered by my 4 year old budding artist. However, it turned on, turned off and got from point A to Walmart and back to point A again fairly consistantly and reliably. So now it is day 23 sans van. I feel like someone ripped my foot off and then stapled it back to my ankle. I sent the little ones to bed at 8, the shrieking and cacaphony died down around 10:15. Now I sit here, a quarter to 11, M*A*S*H reruns in the background, enjoying some hard earned silence - silence meaning no childlike voices to interfere with my reminiscince of being footloose and fancy free with a van that seated 8 and a foot that didn't require a mile of velcro to hold it together.
Ahhhhhhhhhhh, the good old days.
To be Continued . . .
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