My freakin' back!
L.E. got a new play kitchen for her birthday. It arrived on Thursday and sat in the box for a few days. Considering it contained a stove/sink combo plus refrigerator, the box was rather small. That only means one thing in baby-land: get out the screwdriver and try to decipher the 48-page, illustration-only instruction booklet.
This is the first really big toy T and I have had to put together since becoming Mom and Dad. At Christmas, my parents were here and since they were the ones who bought all of the crazy-big toys for L.E., they had to put them all together. T and I have been pretty lucky. Aside from the normal baby stuff like the swing, bouncey seat, strollers, etc there really hasn't been much assembly. (Except for the rocking chair which I wheeled into the house and put it together all by myself 3 weeks before my due date. Weird burst of strength and energy on that one.)
Here's the funny part. I LOVE putting things together! I single-handedly put our dining set together. When the crib showed up, T just stood there holding the heavy pieces. Last time we visited T's dad, I directed the two of them as they put a new gas grill together, otherwise it would have taken them a week. I feel like I should have been an engineer or something. Or else I'm just really good at following directions.
So T knows not to assemble anything without my being around to "supervise." But he still put the sink/stove together while I was out. The fridge was up to me. It surprisingly wasn't too bad. But about halfway through putting the door on it, I felt a pinch. OK, it felt more like the icy-hot grip of death on my lower spine, as if a glove with rusty nails pointy-end-out attached was being squeezed into me after I'd been beaten with a baseball bat. (I've never had a back spasm before). I seized up and pretty much landed face-down in a pile of unused screws. Two Vicodin later (thank you, c-section) I was able to at least move to the couch. The rest of the day, it was as if L.E. didn't have a mom to hold her. I tried to lift her up but almost dropped her. Twice. Of course, the side of my back that hurt is the same side I perch her on.
I'm not one for massages but I figured if I wanted to at least partially function, I better get one. I went to a chain massage place that's reasonably priced. But when they asked if I'd like to become a member and I politely declined, they turned bitchy. If I can't commit to a workout "program" of walking around the block twice a week, how can i commit to a massage-membership? They were super-pushy about it. Can't a gal just get a massage once in a great while? Why do I always have to commit to something? Like punch cards?
After the usual post-massage achey-ness, I finally can lift my kid up again. But I can't swing her or throw her up in the air unless it's over a soft, fluffy surface like the bed or dirty laundry pile. She appreciates that.
At least we finished the kitchen. It's actually pretty awesome. And the best part about it is it doesn't require batteries because it doesn't make noise!*
I guess the moral of the story is before you assemble your kids' toys, LIMBER UP.
*I would really like to hear about the kid who swallowed a battery and ruined parents' lives forever because the clicky thing wasn't good enough in keeping jr from eating some double-As. Now we need to use a screwdriver? Really? Did something like that really happen or is it all a conspiracy started by the screw makers?