Looking at the title, you would be right to wonder if I had been having a tough time if it recently.
Please take the title in its most literal form as I am currently laid on my bedroom floor flat on my back and unable to move. Literally unable to move. I have just tried to put a hot water bottle under my back and failed, and there is even a cup of Yorkshire Tea sitting next to me going cold because I can’t sit up to drink it. Anyone who knows Yorkshire, knows that it is a sacrilegious act to allow a cuppa to go cold.Yes, you really have just looked at a picture of what’s under my bed as that is my current view and this is being typed up on my app. Modern technology. Great huh? I can type a blog post from the floor, but nothing in this house can aid me in getting me on my feet.
Yep. You guessed it.
My back has gone. I don’t know where it’s gone, but it has bloody buggered off and left me unable to bend, unable to walk, unable to clean and unable to parent. Which, today, proved to be a right pain in the back-side (see what I did there?) as Teaching Dad decided to go on a twelve hour bike ride.
Funnily enough, he is back now and it was he who suggested that I lay on the bedroom floor; he assured me that I needed to lay on something hard (eyup) in order to ease the pain. Then he brought me up the cuppa I can’t reach and ran back downstairs to watch his shows on the TV. I think I heard him cheer, but I could be mistaken, after all, the TV is on pretty loud at the moment.
Anyhow, Sunday started the same as any other Sunday. I awoke at 6am and darkness still shrouded the bedroom. My tired eyes hung heavy, but before my lids could close and carry me back to the wonderful land of sleep, my son whispered those special words into my ear:
“Fruit Shoot, Mummy,”
I pretended to be asleep.
“Morning Mummy. Fruit Shoot…peeease.”
Reluctantly, I complied and reached over onto the floor where I had placed a Fruit Shoot the night before, just in case, you know, he woke asked for one. (It’s a regular occurrence.) Please don’t judge. Well, you can, but please do it silently, I am in pain here.
As miracles would have it, I managed to get my boy to sleep again and we snoozed until 7.40am, which was the zenith of my Sunday because from then on in, the day declined in my many failed attempts to recline.
I genuinely do not know what I have done. I was cleaning the bathroom at 9am (I know – who does that?) and my back hurt a little. I text Teaching Dad, who was in the garage
First mistake right there. I made eye contact.
“Can I have some crisps please, Mummy?”
It was 9.30am.
I buckled. Whether it was from the pain or the death stare, I will never know.
“Mini-chedders or Chipsticks?” I asked.
Sensing my defeat, my boy chirped up.
“Fruit Shoot,” he said.
Just then, my phone buzzed and The Greatest Man Who Ever Lived called. It was Granddad telling me that he would come down and collect the kids for a couple of hours.
Every week I take this time to clean my house and mark a set of books. Today, I managed to throw some towels in the washing machine and pull/kick my ironing basket down the stairs (because I couldn’t lift it) before admitting defeat and confining myself to the sofa with nothing but 32 books to keep me company.
I marked six.
I needed a cup of tea, so struggled back into the kitchen.
A further three books were filled with red pen.
Tea only tastes good with chocolate dunked in it therefore I limped back to the kitchen.
It wouldn’t harm if I put on Grey’s Anatomy whilst I marked these books, would it?
And so, two hours passed and half a set of books were marked before the apples of my eye returned to me.
“Can Mummy just make you a sandwich for lunch because she’s in a bit of pain?” I asked my daughter in third person. (Why do we do that?)
“No.” That was her short answer.
Her elongated response was: “I want chicken dippers, chips, peas, corn and trees.”
“I love you, but I ain’t cutting down a tree for your dinner.”
Turns out she meant broccoli. (She could have pointed that out before I got the axe from the garage, but anyway…)
I managed to make chicken dippers a la peas, chips and corn, but it was not without its dramas. Because bending down is no longer I movement I can do swiftly, opening and closing the oven door took a lot longer than normal.
My girl, checking if I was okay, wandered into the kitchen.
“DON’T COME NEAR THE OVEN!” I cried.
“I am hungry,”
Perhaps it was the food she was checking on. Anyway, once the beige food was safely on the plates and served up, the house began to calm down again. My girl chewed happily on her food whilst my boy ate a chip, chewed and spat out a chicken dipper and then asked for a Fruit Shoot.
After lunch, I returned to my marking.
“Can I help?” my daughter asked in an angelic tone.
“No, these are Mummy’s pupils’ books. You can’t write in these.”
She ignored the fact that I, once again, referred to myself in third person, which means I mean business, and grabbed a book, a felt tip pen and wandered off towards the sofa, which, for me, might as well have been a million miles away. By the time I had made it over to where she was sitting, she had written random letters in the back of the book in red felt tip. (She had also suggested that he use a variety of sentences in his writing, but that’s not the point), so I wrote a little apology in the exercise book, which may go un-read with the rest of my red pen, and once again explained the fact that Mummy is in pain today and Mummy needs help.
I suggested we watch a film.
No sooner did I press play on ‘Frozen’ (again) and the toy basket was pulled over for at least the thirty-ninth time that day and the word ‘chocolate’ started being bandied around. Reluctantly, I agreed to a snack and slowly peeled myself up from the sofa and hobbled into the kitchen. Well, I must have been a long time, because by the time I had made it back with chocolate biscuits, Arendelle had thawed and summer was back.
If only my day would pass as quickly.
Dinner time eventually arrived and yet Teaching Dad didn’t. I cobbled together ham and crisp sandwiches because the ham added the splash of colour that lunch lacked and then bath time was upon us.
Once the children were washed, clean, dry and in their pajamas, the welcoming noise of a door opening sounded downstairs and my saviour was home. Dashing upstairs to see his darlings, Teaching Dad grabbed and cuddled his children, who, I admit, had not had the greatest of afternoons. It was then that he finally glanced at me in pain on my bed.
“That bad?” he asked.
I nodded, grimacing.
“Well, bed is the best place for you then. You putting the kids to bed?
I nodded and at his assumption, I grimaced.
“After that, I suggest you lay on the hard floor.”
And that brings us full circle. Here I am stuck on the floor unable to stand up, turn over or even put a hot water bottle under my butt. So what does anyone with a phone and an ailment do? Dr Google, that’s what. Do you know what the best thing to is when you have a bad back?
Yep, keep moving.
Oh, the irony.