It's official. My mother-in-law is trying to kill me.
You may or may not recall my post on May 8th entitled Near Death Experience. It recapped my very unfortunate experience with my mother-in-law's bathroom, a feisty hemorrhoid, and a poorly placed container of Lysol wipes. She came darn close to doing me in that time, but holy heart attack, she came a whole lot closer last night. I never should have trusted her when she sweetly uttered the words, “Have a seat on the porch swing, Amy. Really, have a seat.”
Well, I did have a seat on the porch swing—and about four minutes later I had a very painful seat on a triangle shaped rock, which makes me think: Maybe Meredith's not trying to kill me dead, maybe she just has an issue with my buttocks-region. And believe you me, if that woman ever decides to buy me a 12-pack of cotton briefs I'm throwing them over my shoulder and running the opposite direction. The last thing I need are 12 pairs of 'factory reject' underpants with Brillo pads 'accidentally' sewn into the crotch.
That's right Meredith, I'm totally onto you.
Yesterday afternoon, we spent some time at the in-law's house. James and his cousins were riding their bikes in the driveway while a few of the adults watched from the front porch. As more and more grownups filtered onto the porch I graciously gave up my sturdy seat in a rocking chair for a somewhat questionable seat on the porch swing.
I should note that this was only the second time in five years that I had the courage to sit on that quaint little swing. It's always looked sort of rickety and fragile to me—like if I ate one too many chicken nuggets the whole thing would come crashing down. But I chose to live by faith rather than fear (mistake number one), sat down, and chatted with the family as I cautiously swung back and forth.
A minute or two later, James and his cousin Carson barreled up onto the porch, crawled onto the swing and insisted that we go higher. Never wanting to miss the opportunity to claim my spot as 'the favorite aunt' we swung a little harder. And a little faster. And a little higher.
And then, as the chains broke loose from the porch ceiling we were swinging just about as high as you can get on one of those things.
The next few seconds were a complete blur, but I was snapped back into the present when I realized there was a rock up my bum, I was pig-piled under two little boys, and my skirt was bunched up around my waist. On a side note, I have gained a steadfast testimony of the old advice to 'always wear a clean pair of underwear.' Because seriously, you never know when your father-in-law is going to see 'em.
I made sure the boys were okay, and they were fine. Luckily they were still wearing their bicycle helmets. I, on the other hand, was not wearing protective body wear of any type. I came away with a bloody head, two big bumps above my eye, some double vision, and a bruise on my hip that's the size of Minneapolis.
I do have a few nasty pictures of the bruise, but you're only allowed to see them if we're related, we're real-life friends, or you're willing to pay me a-hundred-and-ten bucks.
And seriously, don't worry about me. I'm fine. You know what they always say... “There's nothing like a six-foot fall to cap off a lovely spring weekend!”
Or maybe that's the mild concussion talking.