Allow me to explain before you burn me at the stake. I had just been in the other room doing some preschool work with Alexander when I felt a little tickle on my foot. I looked down and there was a spider on my foot, so I shook it off and was still suffering from the heebie-jeebies a little bit when I went into the dining room to see how the older kids were getting along with their schoolwork.
That's when I felt another little tickle on my foot.
Instinctively, I gave my foot a good shake and...nailed the cat right in the nose...for she had simply come to sniff my toes (as she's wont to do) and her whiskers were the tickle-y culprit, not a spider.
She ran off to angrily cower somewhere and I pretty much just started crying on the spot because I had just kicked my cat (in the face, no less!), but hadn't meant to at all!
I texted Josie about it because she's a cat owner, too, (and a very sympathetic listener) and she assured me that these things happen (cats are always underfoot, it seems). She admitted that once she was trying to put something away in a cabinet but the door wouldn't close all the way, so she just kept repeatedly trying to close it. She rearranged the items she just put in the cabinet, and tried the door again. No luck. So she opened it again and made sure everything was tucked in nice and neatly and tried the door again. No luck.
And then she realized that her curious kitten had popped into the cabinet as well and had left some little body part dangling, which was propping the door...that my sister had been repeatedly trying to slam shut...open.
But her kitten is fine.
And our cat is fine.
She even seems to have forgiven me, though it did take her awhile to resume sniffing my toes.
Accidents happen.
This morning I was lying in bed, scrolling through my phone, trying to convince myself to get out of bed after a rough night with Alexander. Andrew was up rearranging our bedroom to make room for the bassinet to go where I want it to go (we collectively decided I'm too far along—and also not far along enough—to risk helping with things like moving furniture; we take things easy at this house between weeks ~24 and 36...just in case). He unplugged the lamp and moved it to the other side of the room, then he vacuumed where it had been (because he's thorough like that (I'm going to honestly say that...I'm not)).
Then he picked up my exercise ball, which I've been trying to use more to open my hips and allow this baby to drop headfirst (since we're currently breech). And I have been using it in place of my office chair a lot more, but the thing is, I absolutely cannot write when I'm sitting on that ball. Oh, I can do a few things—like, send emails, sit through Zoom lectures, minimal typesetting projects—but I can't seem to write unless I'm curled up in a ball. I type with my legs tucked up in front of me, arms on either side of my legs. This is my thinking position.
How can one think while their feet are sitting on the floor?
You never know what might happen...a spider might crawl across your foot...or worse! A cat might sniff you!
Okay, these aren't actually real fears of mine, but for me to really write, it's a tuck or nothing. I even (often) sat in my desks like that in college and probably high school, too. Again, it's my thinking position. So I can't always use my exercise ball as a chair because I simply don't have the balance to pull off a tuck up there (I can do criss-cross-applesauce, but not for very long).
Anyway, Andrew picked up my exercise ball and...chucked it at me from across the room.
He "meant" to have it land on my legs.
It did not land on my legs.
It slammed onto my bulbous belly and ricocheted into my face (yay, physics).
Now, remember that I had been scrolling through my phone?
Yeah, so the phone clattered out of my hands and slammed into my face as well.
I'm...not a name caller...as a general rule...but I may or may not have called my dear, sweet husband (whose birthday is tomorrow) "an absolute moron" through my tears.
In his defense, last night I did the a similar thing to him. We'd just exhausted our pillow talk and said our bedtime prayers when I noted that I'd need to use the bathroom (again) before bed. So I got out of bed to do so and he grabbed his phone to do some scrolling, himself. It's a good thing he did because he noticed that I put down Irie's baby blessing at 9:30 am on our calendar instead of 1:30 pm (it's at 11:30 am MST and I did the whole two-hours' time conversion...just...in the wrong direction). He was like, "Her blessing is at 9:30?"
"Yup."
"On a Saturday?!"
"Well, I think it has to do with Austin's parents' schedule. Nothing wrong with a Saturday."
Usually baby blessings happen on Sundays at church, but that's more "tradition" than anything.
"But 7:30 on a Saturday morning?" Andrew wondered.
"7:30?" I wondered back. "It's at 11:30."
"That's 1:30 our time. We're two hours ahead, not two hours behind."
I knew that...deep down inside...somewhere. I just did it backwards when I put it on the calendar. So we got that figured out while I was up to use the bathroom.
When I came out, Andrew was (importantly) lying on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, still using his phone. So I grabbed the exercise ball, tiptoed across the room and (importantly) dropped the exercise ball on his rear end. As one does.
"What was that?" he half-gasped, half-shrieked.
And it was very funny.
It also inspired him to "pay me back" this morning.
Unfortunately for him, he hadn't read the warnings in the owner's manual about not throwing the ball (because it's bouncier than you expect; which is why I didn't throw the ball and was right there to catch the rebound). He's always making fun of me for reading owner's manuals. But I like to know things, okay?
So...in retaliation (hours later) he chucked the ball at me from across the room and thus was not there to catch the rebound—the absolute moron (happy birthday, my love)—so my face did that instead.
As of right now, my face is doing fine. I have a bit of a swelling above my right eye, but no discolouring so far (Andrew is very worried about this because when I bruise my body tends to be rather dramatic about it and he really doesn't want his pregnant wife walking around with a black eye (however accidental it was), but I suppose only time will tell).
I suppose that will teach us to stay off our phones in bed.
Who am I kidding? It probably won't...
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