I am a clumsy and accident-prone chick. Ordained before time immemorial. What toddler you know breaks her leg learning how to walk? My mother photographed me, knock-kneed, standing next to an ottoman with a purple cast binding my leg. I am reminded of this when I wonder why I walk into walls.
It only got worse as I grew older. I actually tumbled in tumbling class. Poised to be the next Judith Jamison, I took the stage at my ballet recital…with no poise. My construction paper apple flew from my hands when my legs zig-zagged beneath me. The audience tittered and I scrambled up from the dusty floor, rushing to point the right toe with the other little girls. I crushed my silver sparkle tutu and my ballerina dreams. I quit ballet dancing at age five only to doom myself to a life of no rhythm. (I chose rhyme instead!)
My husband returns today after a two-week stay in California for a STEM Conference. My relief cannot be expressed in mere words but I will try. People appreciate their partners for all sorts of reasons. Mine: I am a clumsy chick and I need someone to catch me.
During his absence, I have done the following ridiculous things:
- Hit the side of the garage with the car mirror (AGAIN! The last time, I broke the mirror and had to replace it).
- Knocked the baby over with the stroller.
- Almost backed into the daycare assistant’s car.
- Left the refrigerator open at 3:00 am.
- Forgot the vanilla caramel creamer on the counter (Sob).
- Jammed my elbow on the sill trying to open the window.
- Took the baby to daycare with shoes on the wrong feet.
- Overslept for work 3 or 4 times (I forget; those were bleary mornings).
- Sounded like a complete idiot to the A/C repairman.
- (Me: So we need to change the filter once a year? Him: Ah, no, every 30-45 days.) #Fail
I have learned to poke fun at my awkwardness, to stave off jokes by lobbing them like boomerangs to shield me from stinging barbs. Luckily, the only person who caught me doing all this clumsy stuff was the baby and she ain’t talking.
Hubs has witnessed me trip up and downstairs (with baby in arms), skin my knees on concrete steps and baseball fields, and cut gashes on random pieces of my body (my tailbone, though?!). And the best part is that he catches me in both senses of the word. I can be my clumsy self because I know he will throw a hand out before I crush my tutu.
I’m glad he’s coming home. But most of all, I’m just relieved I can stop praying I won’t burn the house down.