Calamities of various proportions

Nothing untoward happened on Monday...except that several of us got a little too much sun. But Saturday, Sunday, and Tuesday have certainly had their moments of excitement!

On Saturday, Grandpa bent over to get something out of the fridge and when he stood up he bumped a shelf with his shoulder and sent a jug of orange juice crashing down to the floor. It split open and went all over the floor. It took two full bath-sized towels to mop it up (and then some). 

I was just glad it wasn't my kids who made the mess. 

On Sunday, Darla went to get a bowl out of the cupboard and the shelf—which was missing one of its pegs—tilted and an entire set of dishes came crashing down. Honestly, I'm a little vague on the details here because I was in the bathroom when I heard the crash. 

My first thought was, "I hope that wasn't my kids!"*

*Technically my first thought was, "I hope no one is hurt!" But that thought quickly passed because there wasn't any associated screaming. So it was clear that something had broken and not someone. So my more permanent thought was, "I hope that wasn't my kids!"

I was more than happy to help clean up; I just didn't want to be responsible for causing the chaos. I'm not sure why...but perhaps it's because I'm quicker to forgive others than I am to forgive myself. 

On a somewhat related note I was meeting with my PhD advisor this spring and I mentioned about how I understand so much better what academic writing "should" be now that I have a year of experience under my belt. I understand better, for example, the difference between a literature review and a theoretical framework and what is "supposed to" go in each of those sections, whereas before the distinction between the two felt rather murky. 

"It must be frustrating to have to teach that over and over again," I said. 

And she looked at me a little shocked (probably because we're in the school of education) and said, "No! It's exciting!"

Ideally, learning should be that way—for both the students and teacher. And I get that. I do. It is exciting when principles click and a child understands how to read or why multiplication works or how to control their arms and legs to propel themselves across the pool. 

I've taught so many kids to swim and I'm never annoyed that they don't know how (because why should they know how?), but am always excited when they figure out how to float on their back (or whatever new skill they've been needing to learn). And somehow I've never gotten bored of teaching kid after kid after kid how to swim. 

So I suppose it's the same in graduate school as well. My professors are on my side, rooting for me, excited for me to figure things out. 

I'm the impatient one. 

I don't like not knowing things. I don't like feeling confused. I don't like breaking things. 

I don't like making mistakes.

And that's...dumb...because life is full of opportunities to make mistakes and no one is keeping track of how clueless you are...except yourself...probably. I may have a reel of my most embarrassing moments that plays on repeat in my head, but no one else sees that reel, do they? So why should I pay so much attention to it?

It's just the way I was wired, I suppose. I mean, I believe such feelings, such memories, are to help us learn, to help us figure out how to grow and avoid repeating mistakes. But I don't think we necessarily need to sit around feeling guilty about every little mistake we make.

I'm working on that—having learning be exciting (it is) rather than embarrassing (it shouldn't be—because there are so many things to not know).

All that is to say that while I was relieved it wasn't my kids who spilled an entire gallon of orange juice or broke an entire set of dishes...I should probably approach such incidents in my house with the same amount of emotion...because I just didn't care about it happening.

It was a mess that needed to be cleaned up. That's all. 

A neutral thing. 

These little calamities taught me that spilling orange juice and breaking dishes is morally neutral. They're things that can happen to anybody. They're not shameful because literally no one is keeping track of these things.

Except for me...right here on this blog. 

*****

Today we had a red flag on the beach, which means that conditions are hazardous but that swimming is still permitted. And this was good because the waves were really quite spectacular for boogie boarding.

Now, I don't mean to brag or anything—because many of us had epic wipeouts—but I had the gnarliest wipeout of all. 

Rachel and I were out in the waves together—but apart so that we were less likely to crash into each other. She caught a wave that I missed and sailed off to the shore. I caught the next wave...and was careening into shore when the undertow knocked Rachel off balance. I was already cutting it close to her and tried to steer behind her (instead of crashing into her), but when she lost her balance she stumbled backwards directly into my path. 

We collided, she tripped over me and landed on top of me...but before she did, she also somehow kicked me squarely in the jaw. 

You know how in movies when people, like, get punched or whatever and they just shake it off and keep fighting? And you know how I said that if I had to be in the trenches of WWI I'd just curl up in a corner and cry? 

Yeah, so one good kick and I was out of that fight. 

I tell you—my ears were ringing, I was dizzy, seeing stars. 

"I'm not okay!" I said, grabbing my jaw, which had already started to swell. 

Rachel came and patted my back. Darla helped me stand up—and helped fashion an ice pack using a ziplock baggie and some ice from her cup...which was full of lemonade...but I didn't care what that ice was flavoured like—just put it on my face!

Andrew asked how I was and I said something like, "My house hurts."

And he was like, "Uhhh...so that's a problem. Who's the current president?"

And I was like, "I prefer not to say. Plus that doesn't count because I know I said house but I think I was trying to say head...and if you know you said the wrong word then it's not a concussion."

"Oh. Is that how it works?"

"Maybe," I said. 

"Does your head hurt?" he asked.

"Incredibly," I said, holding my lemonade ice to my jaw. 

It still hurts an incredible amount. And also my back (which is a real shame because my back was just feeling normal again after straining my back in April...though now it's my lower back instead of my traps). And also my left knee. And various other body parts.

Here you can see that it's Rachel's heel (I think?) that connects with my jaw:

Obviously this is a morally neutral event as well—an accident. I'm not mad about it at all. 

I'm sad about how sore I already feel and am a little bit dreading how I might feel in the morning...but fingers crossed I'll simply wake up feeling better instead of worse...