I took a bit of a tumble last week and cracked my elbow. I say cracked, but I really am not sure what the actual damage is. But oh my, is it ever sore.
Here’s my story.
It was 5am and very dark and I was executing the obligatory transfer of Bibsey from her bed to ours for early morning cuddles, fidgeting and 12-hour-dry-my-arse nappy seepage in the family bed. Instead of lowering us gently on the bed, as is the customary procedure (or crustimony proseedcake for fans of Pooh), I missed it completely. We both landed on my right elbow. The floors here are very terribly hard. And I, as it turns out, am made of quite soft stuff.
Bibsey was absolutely fine thank goodness. My elbow was excruciating. I have carried out this maneuver so many many times before, so what went wrong? 5am is just a little bit too early (normally the call comes from the Bibsey boudoir around 6.30am) and it was so bloody dark. I think that I might have even had my eyes closed, half asleep, but even then I should have made it to the side of the bed. It was one of those moments when you know that you have hurt yourself and you just wish you could rewind.
When the commotion had died down, and we were all safely back in bed, Bibs, who usually snuggles under my wing, dug-in with Mr B and we tried to get back to sleep. As I lay there wincing, and packed with cushions and ice, a little hand reached out in the darkness and gave my arm a gentle stroke and a reassuring pat.
A broken Mummy needs this kind of support occasionally.
Three days later and the novelty of poor mummy has worn off of course. I can whistle for my sympathy. “Ah well” as Mr B pointed out “there’s a blog post in that elbow”.
What misfortune have you turned into blogging gold recently? Does anyone know anything about cracked elbows? And where can I find a wife? This one-handed mothering is quite difficult.
