Comedy Sitcom

I swear I do not live in a comedy sitcom. I can’t make up the stuff that actually happens to me. Here is an example:

 

Last weekend I was home alone with the little ones on Saturday night. I had spent most of the day Saturday nursing a terrible hang-over (I don’t drink much, but I went out Friday night and had mostly wine until someone bought me a mixed drink and well, I paid dearly for drinking it). The kids came home early from their visit with their grandmother because it snowed more than we thought it was going to and the roads were getting slippery. Primero went to a friend’s house and didn’t plan on coming home until 11 pm. I took the little one’s into Chica Marie’s bedroom to get them into their pajamas since it was already after 8. My house is on the older side, not cool old with a neat history or quirky qualities, but older than new homes. So lots of things don’t work like one would hope they would. Like the door knobs. I have replaced them, all of them, but they keep stripping causing the handle to pull apart. Chica Marie’s bedroom door knob is frequently pulled apart because her and her brother pull on it incessantly. So, I stopped replacing it because it became a near weekly endeavor. Usually, this isn’t a problem. Last Saturday it was. Love Bug shushed the cat out of Chica Marie’s room. I turned as he pushed the door shut, but I was like a cartoon character comically moving too slowly and he had the door latched before I could reach it to stop him. My phone was in the living room, of course. I tried using the small stub of the handle sticking through on our side but I couldn’t get enough traction to pop the latch. We were stuck. Chica Marie immediately began panicking, nearly hyperventilating in fear of being trapped in her room. I really saw only one solution, that was not sitting in her room until 11. I would send her out the back window. Our house is all one floor, but it’s sort of strange in that the front is closer to ground level, but the back is a little steeper. Still, it wasn’t more than 8 feet or so and even less because the basement door was under her window. My idea was to dangle her out the window onto the basement floor and she could come in the back door (which I believed to be open because the kids had let the dogs in and they don’t usually lock the door like I do) and free us from her room. She cried and trembled as she put on her shoes so I decided it was better that I go out the window. Now, I’m not in the best shape on a good day, but this day I was certainly not in top form. Still, I shoved one leg out the window and, with Chica Marie shoving my other foot, I managed to find precarious footing on the top of the basement door. In an awkward split, I tried gently putting my right foot on top of the air conditioning unit until I could jump down onto the grass. I don’t know what went wrong, but I suspect it had something to do with the slippery snow. I fell. And slid down the basement door, landing on my back in a pile of freezing fluffy snow missing one shoe. I flailed around a bit until I could stand up and stagger up the back steps, praying the door would be open. Thankfully, it was and I was able to free the children from Chica Marie’s bedroom before running to the bathroom to strip naked and stop shivering in warm, dry clothing. While changing I discovered I had somehow cut my left elbow. The extent of my injuries were not evident until the next day when a huge black and blue mark blossomed on the top of my right thigh. I also discovered a few black and blue marks on my right elbow. My mom wisely advised, via a comment on my Facebook post about the event, to stop climbing out of windows. I plan on following her sage advice. I also plan on replacing Chica Marie’s bedroom door knob. And, maybe next time I can get a stunt double?

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