As part of my punishment for hurting my back, I am supposed to walk "vigorously" for forty-five minutes every single freaking day. When I raised my eyebrows, the universal sign for "ain't nobody got time for that," the physical therapist responded "You need to make time to take care of yourself" and I responded (in my head) "I've been trying to find an hour to go to Whole Foods to get a coffee and browse the batik print leggings for the last six months."
But as fortune would have it, Wes and James spent the entire four to six o'clock period screaming incoherently because the kids next door had company and were not available to play and by the time Ryan got home at six I WAS READY TO MAKE TIME TO CARE FOR MYSELF. UN-fortunately, I'm pretty sure the physical therapist didn't mean "Walk ten minutes to your friend's house, drink a glass of wine with her on the porch, then walk ten minutes home" even though the accompanying stress reduction that would result from that would arguably do at least something to relieve the tension in my back.
Before she prescribed Olympic race walking and prohibited me from lifting anything for the next four to six weeks, the therapist and I played twister for thirty minutes or so while she tried to figure out the source of my pain. She finally hit paydirt when she stabbed her thumbs into the vertebrae adjacent to Super Knot and I yelped in pain. DING DING DING WE HAVE A WINNER. It would appear to be some kind of disk problem, she said. Physical therapy twice a week, lots of rest and ice, and also I need to do cardio and work on my posture because swimsuit season will be here before you know it.
Other interesting factoids from my physical therapy visit today:
I am not supposed to lift any of the kids except for Mary and only in and out of her crib and car seat. Which basically means I can't take Wes out in public ever.
I have to drive with my right arm resting on a pillow in my lap. Because my right arm is kind of a diva.
I am not supposed to sweep or mop. This doubles as exposure therapy for my compulsive need for crap to not stick to my bare feet.
I should "give myself a break" and "only bathe the kids every other day" and "not change the sheets so often." Um, yeah, I'll *start* giving myself a break on those things. (NOTE: I just changed James's sheets in the middle of writing this because they were wet, yes, but also because I am a REBEL)
I am supposed to "get the eight year old" to bring the groceries in from the car. Still considering this one.
I should teach the kids to load the dishwasher and also buy all new Fiestaware when that goes horribly awry.
Then there was the oddly specific "Don't drain the pasta water if you use the big stock pot. Get someone else to lift that thing." So that means no pasta except on weekends when Ryan is home, I guess.
Also it looks like my Bermuda scalping, shoveling, and carrying dorm fridges upstairs days are over permanently, which means we can never move someplace where it snows which is FINE WITH ME.
I will leave you with this picture I took while lying on the floor with my feet on a chair watching The Daily Show, another recommendation of the therapist. She said to do it for thirty minutes, but HA HA I fell asleep and was there for forty-five. I'm an overachiever.