I have a black eye. Courtesy of Walter the Wonderdoodle.
He’s a baby. And he weighs 60 pounds. And he isn’t quite sure what to do with his body. And he is only moderately well-behaved, for which I take at least partial responsibility.
But I was trying to be a good mom. Really, I was. He’d been cooped up in the house all day, so I got some tennis balls out. Of course, all of our dog toys are stored in the refrigerator. It’s the one place where Walter and Li’l Frank are all, “Oh, so, shit just got real. That’s really put away.”
So, I got two tennis balls out so that the kids could run off a little energy before going to bed. And since it was late and I’ve all but given up on keeping our wood floors nice, we played ball in the house. As you do.
I grabbed at Walter and caught him … but he didn’t stop. He kept running, bringing me along with him. What stopped my forward trajectory was an upholstered dining room chair.
You know what part of an upholstered dining room chair isn’t exactly upholstered? The top corner. Yep. That part of the chair may look upholstered, but it is pointy and hard. I hit it with my eye socket.
Now, I love me some Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. He is funny and self-deprecating and his Instagram feed is kind and inspiring.
But within about 10 seconds of ramming my tender eye area into a chair, I thought, “The Rock is a lying liar!”
In his movies, if he gets partially blown up or breaks his entire body, he’s still all, “We’ve got to save the kids” or whatever. And he keeps moving. And he always has some sort of cut that really needs stitches but he keeps going and you think, “Oh, it’s not that bad.”
But within 10 seconds of my Major Facial Injury? I was crying like a baby into my icepack and asking my husband to take the dog outside and beat him. (My Guy demurred because he’s not a monster.)
Y’all? My face hurt so badly. And if you saw me, you’d be all, “Yeah, you’ve got an inch-long bruise on your face. So … what else is new?” And then I’d be all, “YOU MUST RESPECT MY DEBILITATING WOUND!”
It’s a few days later and I’m still amazed by how tender my delicate ladyeyeball area is. And although the black eye is fading into yellow and green, I still feel like I was somehow treated wrongly. The bruise should have been bigger, darker, or perhaps accompanied by flashing neon lights so that people would understand the depths of my suffering.
I would make a horrible action star. I am the anti-Dwayne. Instead of running off to save the kids from the earthquake or whatever, I’d be all, “Uhhh. You guys? This really hurts. Can someone tend to me? What? The dinosaurs have hijacked the Pentagon? But I’m actively bruising …”
I guess we all have our special gifts.
Oh no! My son Reggie shot me in the eye with a toy penguin popper thing that Santa, yes – me, gave him in his stocking. OK, so it doesn't sound lethal, but that damn thing had some serious power behind it! I was laying on the couch on Christmas day. I was half asleep. I had just finished a steroid pack for a nasty bronchitis bout and I was left feeling like a noodle. I could not keep my eyes open – until I was shot by the innocent looking penguin. OK, so I shouted 'God damn it!' There were children present. Have I mentioned that it was Christams? Oops. There were no marks, which of course was a good thing – but I had a hard time convincing the fam that my reaction was justified. They are still giving me a hard time about it and laughing at my expense. Did your dog laught at you?
Ouch! That hurt just reading about it! Hope you feel better soon.
Ouch. At least you have a good story for how you got the black eye?
I am sorry you were bruised and beaten and almost bloody. But you know, you could have totally rocked an eye patch….. pirate style. Just sayin.
I am still on the refrigerator as storage safe! 😉
That fridge storage idea is BRILLIANT! Like, SO SO SMART!
Nothing like a face injury to hurt like the dickens. Don't feel bad that the Rock is better at taking the pain, though. I hear he's trained professionally.
I firmly believe that The Rock would have stopped and given you appropriate, empathetic attention for the injury to your "delicate ladyeyeball area." (Also, that phrase has me snickering with tears squeezing out of my own "delicate ladyeyeball area" because I am secretly a 14-year-old boy.)