I had my first physical therapy appointment for my ankle this morning. I got to chuck the walking boot as of Tuesday. I'm now using an ankle brace when I leave the house, and I have to say it's wonderful to feel matching shoes on my feet for the first time in nearly three months.
My appointment was at 7:30 this morning in Queensbury, about 35 minutes away from home. I found a PT place near Jay's daycare, so we needed to leave the house by about 6:45 to execute the drop-off in time for me to make it to the office.
I got up at 6:00, pulled on a jacket, gloves, and a hat, and rolled out to feed the horses. I grabbed a water jug on the way out, since the water line to the barn is still frozen underground. I gave them their grain and hay, and topped off their water. The ground is still snow-covered, and it's just wet and mushy during the day. That early in the morning it's icy and pretty slick, and it's a gradual slope down and back. It makes for a sporty walk in the best of circumstances, and my recently-fused ankle wasn't helping. But, no excuses and no pity; just do the job. Everything here is the result of my choices.
I got back into the house around 6:15. It was time to start easing some stimulation into the sleeping boy's room. I opened his door and turned on the light in the hallway outside. I began making his lunch. Peanut butter and jelly, slice and peel an apple, plop some leftover spaghetti noodles into a cup with a lid. Yogurt, banana, milk and juice. Eventually Jay stirred, and Laura went in to greet him. He refused to let her change him, though; that honor was reserved for me. I peeled off his sleeper, changed his diaper, and started to slide some pants over his feet.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. I want SOFT pants!"
Sigh. These ARE soft pants, honey. Feel them.
"No, they're not. I want soft pants, daddy."
Yes, honey, volume isn't the problem. I can hear you. These are the softest pants that are clean.
"Laura, are there any sweat pants in that laundry basket?"
Oh. Okay. This is what we have. Or these. They're nylon. How about the corduroys? You LOVE your cords!
"SOFT PANTS, DADDY."
We looked in his travel bag, and there was a pair of sweat pants in the bottom, the "last resort" pants in the case of a diaper blowout of biblical proportions. They're size 18 months, which is what he was exactly a year ago. We gotta update this bag, and we gotta go shopping for some sweats. Salvation Army, here we come.
We squeezed his tiny ass into the sweats. He was happy, but despite all the noise he had made, still pretty sleepy. It was now about 6:40. Getting him out the door in five minutes seemed utterly ridiculous. We put on the full-court press. Laura and I put on our shoes and jackets (she decided to leave the house early for work, just to help get him into the car with me). He didn't want to go, but since everyone else seemed to be leaving, well, okay then. He stood up and stepped into his shoes. I velcroed them shut. He held out his arms like someone used to getting dressed by well-trained staff (that would be me). I slid his jacket onto his arms.
We walked out to the car. He climbed in, putting forth the effort and strain usually reserved for Himalayan expeditions. At this point he felt the need to remind me he had only really been up for a few minutes.
He squared himself into his car seat, and slumped into the "buckle me" position. He stretched, rubbed his eyes, and looked up at me. He sighed and said, "I need coffee."