There are days when the last thing I want to do is write.
Today is one of those days. I would love a nap. My head is throbbing and I ache every where below that. Las night, I fell down the “stairs of doom”. Yes, I am a klutz (this makes three injuries in a week), but I am going to lay the blame for this on the stairs.
Since we moved in here two years ago, these stairs have taken down four of us. My husband was the first to fall, taking the railing down with him, leaving gouges in my freshly painted walls. And yes, I was more worried about the wall. He was walking just fine and managed to go to work. He left me to deal with broken, jagged railing hardware jutting from the wall (keep in mind we have children in the house). Since he wasn’t unconscious in the stairwell and I had removed the child maiming hardware from the wall, I felt justified crying over my gouged wall. However, when your husband gets home, it is best to ask him if he is okay instead of starting with “What did you do to my wall?” Lesson learned.
My oldest was next. Running down the stairs, he slipped. He finally came to rest in the beanbag chair five feet from the bottom of the stairs. According to him, he pinballed off the stairwell walls. I am glad I did not witness this, as I am known to laugh at inappropriate times. (I have a long history of this with this particular child. I’m pretty sure his future psychiatrist will hear all about the swing incident when he was three.)
I was there to witness my second born slip and thump down every stair on his butt. Other than a bruised rear, he was more freaked than hurt.
Note: I accused all three of them of not paying attention and being careless.
Then at 8:55 p.m. (yes, I know the exact time, it was traumatic. Actually, I was about to leave for my writing group, so I’d just looked at the clock.), I was airborne. Then I was at the bottom of the stairs with the wind knocked out of me. How in the heck I had managed to bruise parts of the right side of my body (lower back, thigh, ankle, head) and then still managed to include my left side (shoulder, neck, all the fingers on my left hand) still mystifies me. I am pretty sure I landed on the middle of my lower back and stayed there the whole way down, but I am getting a different story from my body.
So, tonight I will apologize to my husband (who has an amazing gift of not saying he told me so), for not showing proper sympathy. Then I will sit in the recliner with an ice pack, wherever I feel like I need one at that point, and I will write.
Now, I just have to decide which of my characters to throw down a flight of stairs. I’m pretty confident in my ability to describe this event. I survived and my writing content can benefit, as long as I don’t attempt to become an expert on the subject.
Previous days word count: 670