Weekend mishaps

With three kids, three cats, three horses, five sheep, one wayward Border Collie and 10 acres, Martin and I barely manage to feed everyone and keep the house in working order. And that’s on a good day when we’re happy, healthy and hopped up on caffeine.

When one of us gets sick, however, things fall apart fast.

On Friday Martin mentioned that his back hurt. He hobbled about, wincing with each step, but by Saturday it was clear that something else was amiss. He was really fatigued; he couldn’t finish mowing the back field without stopping three times to sprawl out on the grass and rest.

And in the house I noticed Martin had slithered off his normal perch. From here:

to here:

In fact he spent most of the weekend on the ground. Two hours after the photo above, he showed little improvement:

Normally, I’d offer a couple of aspirin and some cheerful advice — something like, “buck up and deal…you’ll be fine” but this time I got no response from his lifeless body. Not to mention that I kept tripping over him.

That’s when I reevaluated the situation and made a preliminary diagnosis: extreme exhaustion and crippling joint pain sounded like Lyme Disease to me.

But lymie or not, I still need help, especially when Mom’s car broke down. I loaned her mine and asked Martin if he felt fit enough to pick me up. He swore that he could drive and drive he did — right over a sign in a parking lot. By Sunday evening I was cooked. The kids were wired, the Barbarian was exercising her right to be a Terrible Two, and Martin was no longer sick, he was sick and irritable. After finally getting everyone to bed, Brynn tuned up and as I held her in my lap, she unleashed a diaper… of volcanic proportions. Let’s just say that she got lava all over my shorts, my shirt and me. After much shrieking (from both of us), I bathed her, scrubbed our clothes and calmed her down.

Around midnight I stepped into the shower to wash away the day. With my hair shampooed, I glanced for the soap and realized that I was sharing the shower with a colony of wasps. They were perched on the soap, climbing the shower curtain and buzzing around.

Martin was in a Lymie coma but even he couldn’t sleep through all the hollering. He hobbled in and dispatched of the wasps while I fled the scene.

By then it was 12:01 — the beginning of a new day. A better day, I promised myself, free of explosive diapers, fender benders and wasp attacks.

And with this new day, Martin will see the doctor and we’ll ignore the dent in Big Rig.

And I’m going to stock up on wine.