My conscience phoned me this evening.
My conscience is, of course, a dear friend who knows me too well. It was early suppertime, and my father was being Super Grandpa and making french toast for the kidlets, and I was merely taking bacon out of the package and spreading it on a paper-toweled plate in readiness for the microwave. Then the phone rang.
“Are you taking it easy?” she demanded. There I stood in my kitchen, phone in one hand, plate of bacon in the other, trying to open the microwave with my elbow.
“Yes, of course. We’re just making dinner for the kids.”
“We? I bet you anything your parents can do that themselves. You cannot push yourself! You need to be taking it easy! What are you doing?”
“I’m… uhhhh…” I slammed the bacon in the microwave and used my free hand to drag a chair over to the phone. I dropped into the chair. “I’m sitting down! I’m fine!” Now my dad was laughing at me, and ever the ham for Daddy, I stuck my legs out straight in front of me. “It’s okay! My feet are up!” Now my father was in virtual hysterics, I was giggling, and my conscience lectured on about how I will regret it if I do not take the proper care of myself during my convalescence.
Can I tell you how much I hate it when my conscience (real or imagined) is right?
It is 10:30 PM, and I haven’t had a nap today, and I should be asleep. But I am awake, and writing this entry, because I had a fabulous day with my children and my dad and my stepmom, and I feel like I hardly did a thing other than sit or stand around, maybe the stairs a few times, maybe some very light lifting, maybe a little more walking than before, I don’t know, and sweet lord Jesus I am in so much pain I cannot sleep.
So along with the 72 other little informational stickers on the bottle about not operating heavy machinery, drinking alcohol, or driving while taking vicodin, they should add another little cheerful sticker, perhaps with a keyboard icon, stating that the amount of time for it to take effect so that you can close your eyes and rest is just long enough to write in your blog.
And I thought, when I came up here to put my jammies on and such, that I was just imagining things or being a big wussy. (Both of which, by the way, may still be true.) But then I was getting changed and uhhhh… hmmmm… how do I put this delicately and in such a way that Genuine doesn’t start begging for a picture of my pubes, again? Well, when in doubt, out with it. Okay. I have several new bruises in my incision area. And as my dear sweet Monkey only used me for a fulcrum once today in a way that brought tears to my eyes, and the affected area is not one sporting a new mark, I can only conclude that my extended time today upright and in motion caused some bleeding… uuhhhhmmm… somewhere under there. Which is disturbing, to say the least. But does perhaps explain the excrutiating pain.
So now I am just completely screwed, because my conscience was right, and at some point my parents will read this and yell at me. But it is too much fun having them here and having the kids home to just lie around like an invalid! *grumblegrumblegrumble* *ow*