Clayton scored the winning run at his softball game last night. After starting out a few runs ahead, Clay’s team quickly lost their lead and found themselves down 6 runs in the 7th inning. At their final at bat, the boys rallied and tied the game with two outs and Clay on second base. After a great line drive to the outfield, Clay rounded third and came charging into home to win the game.
But not before getting beamed in the calf by the ball.
Apparently the left fielder on the opposing team thought he could make a heroic throw from the outfield all the way to home plate and have Clay tagged out. He threw the ball hard enough, that’s for sure, but he threw it directly into my husband’s leg. It didn’t even bounce. It was a cannon of a throw directly into Clay’s body.
Standing in front of the bleachers with my hoodie pulled over my head to escape the freezing drizzle the ball fields were plagued with that night, I got into huffy wifey mood and almost started screaming at that left fielder. I know it was an accident, but when you see someone you love get hurt, all bets are off. I felt animalistic pacing back forth at the fence, almost like a caged tiger at a zoo waiting to pounce.
If I had a little less common sense and slightly more primal instincts, I probably would have went charging out to the field and peed on Clayton to mark my territory and then growled at anyone who came within 10 feet of him.
The place of contact on his leg swelled instantly and I initially feared Clay might have fractured a bone, but he was able to walk on it. He got congratulatory high fives and slaps on the back from his teammates (boys are so weird) on our way to the parking lot and I think I may have even noticed his chest puff up a little bit with pride. He limped around the rest of the evening and was admiring the many shades of purple and red his battle wound is starting to turn, but I think he will be good to go in a few days.
Nothing some cookies in my new KITCHEN AID MIXER won’t fix!
(Sorry, I’m still on a mixer high from my birthday.) (P.S. I’m not really sorry.)
We are moving in less than 7 days and we are so unprepared it’s ridiculous. Every night Clay and I look at each other and say, “Wanna pack up [insert random items that need packing here]?” And every time the other person says, “Sure!” But then we end up just sitting on the couch watching Dexter and by eleven o’clock I’m yawning and making promises of “We’ll do it tomorrow”. But tomorrow has come and gone like 15 times and we have nothing to show for it. Our apartment is a disaster and we don’t even care. We’ve basically stopped doing dishes, laundry is piling up, and I’m caring less and less about the ghastly mold on the shower curtain liner because hey, we’re leaving in less than a week.
But the reality of the situation is that just because we’re leaving doesn’t mean the dishes are going to magically wash themselves and skip over to our new townhouse, the laundry isn’t going to fold itself and spring into our new closet, and moving does not make my old shower curtain liner any less moldy.
And I find our whole lackadaisical approach to the move odd because I’ve talked and thought about little else these past few months. I’m so excited about moving into our bigger space and starting the next chapter of our lives that I can hardly sit still anymore. But when it comes to packing up our current apartment, I just can’t get motivated. I remember this past summer when our move-in day seemed like light-years away and I couldn’t wait to start packing, but now the big move is less than one calendar week away and I’ve become suddenly lazy.
I know I’m not avoiding packing because I’m having some sort of emotional reaction to moving out of not only the first and only place Clay and I lived together, but the first and only place we’ve lived together as husband and wife. Sure, Clay and I have had a few brief moments of, “This is where we’ve been for the last three years. Sad!” But we got over it quickly when we started reminding ourselves of the extra bathroom and bedroom we will be inheriting in our new townhouse. We’ve all but outgrown our currently one-bedroom, and the feeling of being cramped and crowded has become overwhelming. We’re ready for the change. We’re ready for what’s next.
Moving said boxes down the stairs.
Putting said boxes in the car.
Driving said boxes over to the new place.
Hauling said boxes into the new place.
Unpacking said boxes.
Yup, you get the idea.
Moving blows. It just does. And I’ve moved a lot in my lifetime. 11 is the number of times I’ve physically packed up my stuff and went to live in a different place. Just seems a bit excessive for only being 26 years old.
Clay and I even decided we are NOT going to paint our new apartment because we’re already thinking about how annoying it’s going to be when we have to paint our old apartment walls back to white. I understand that the apartment complex wants everything fresh and clean for the new tenants, but hey, couldn’t they at least ask the people who are going to move in next if they want to keep the cappuccino-colored accent wall in the kitchen? I mean, who doesn’t want charcoal gray walls in their bedroom? I clearly did.