A Minor Fall and a Mini Meltdown

At my best, I can be described as clumsy. Breaking glasses in the kitchen, bumping my shins into hard objects and running into walls are not exactly rare occurrences. Add pregnancy to the mix, and I'm a danger to myself and my unborn child.

I'll start by saying that I went to the doctor today, and all is well with The Little One. But I'm sure The Little One is mighty glad that he or she is well protected within my womb because the poor thing has taken a few hard knocks. I've been falling since even before I knew I was pregnant. Alan and I went skiing on Christmas Eve. I took a hard fall down the mountain. Got my positive pregnancy test just a couple of days later, so I was glad the jarring I took from the fall didn't knock a mini baby loose. Then, at about 5 weeks pregnant, I bit it going downstairs to do laundry. Then, a week ago, I fell going down the stairs and caught all of my weight in my hand and wrist. No harm, no foul.

But then yesterday...well, I don't know what happened. All I know was that I was going down the stairs and then all of a sudden my ankle was bent in an unnatural position, my back was jammed into the staircase railing, and Marti was looking at me like, "The hell!?" Once I'd determined that nothing was broken, I started doing my "falls during pregnancy" research.

Because I didn't really fall hard on my ass, and because Google and What to Expect When You're Expecting both said that it takes a serious injury to the mother to injure a fetus, I wasn't really worried, but called the doctor just in case. I could tell the nurse wanted to be like "You're fine," but there's that whole fear of lawsuits thing. So all she could tell me was to go to the emergency room to get evaluated for my injuries. Not happening. But to ease my fears, I rescheduled my appointment for next week to today. And all was well. Baby's heart was a-thumping away. And I was told to be more careful. Never mind that I'd already given myself a prescription for "Hold the Handrail When Going Up or Down Stairs." With a dose of "Slow the Bleep Down."

After my fall, I carried on about my day with no problems. It wasn't until many, many hours later, when Alan and I sat down to watch TV, that my ankle stiffened up. By bedtime I was hobbling around, unable to put any weight on it. Alan had to help me to the stairs, and then I had to do the crawl of shame up the stairs to get ready for bed.

So Alan and I are brushing our teeth, and he goes to throw away an empty bottle of medication. And misses. So the lid falls into the toilet. He fishes it out and a few seconds later I'm like, hang on, did you wash your hands? Because I hadn't noticed the thorough hand-washing that should ensue after fishing something out of a toilet with your bare hand. He had only done a quick RINSE of his hand. A rinse. So, of course, I yelled at him to please wash his hands because that is GROSS. And what does he do? Takes the offending hand and rubs it on my bar of face soap that is in the soap dish.

Oh.

No.

He.

Didn't.

So here I am, in pain and already near tears because of my ankle, and my dear toilet-germ-infested husband rubs his hand on my soap—soap I use on my face. Naturally, I start to cry. Like, flowing tears and shoulders shaking crying. And Alan knew right away that he'd gone too far. Miraculously, with my anger also came the ability to walk briskly down the hallway. I hightailed it to the bedroom, crying, to take some Tylenol to ease my physical pain. And by the time I was taking a swig of water to take my first pill, I was laughing so hard I about choked on it. Alan came into the room, and I had to wave him away so I could take my second Tylenol without spitting the water out.

So my first true pregnancy meltdown was short lived. But now at least Alan's had a preview into the crazy nature of pregnancy hormones. It may have been the first meltdown, but I'm sure it won't be the last.