If my son 'blessing' my jeans and flip-flops in the recovery room post-op was any indication of how the next five days of recovery would be, I should have made a mental note.
My days have been filled with Popsicle chopping (cause that's the way he likes it), pain med dosing, tantrum soothing, juice refilling and countless hours of watching Monsters vs. Aliens. My own hygiene has been sorely neglected (I know, T.M.I), the dishes are piling up and the clean laundry is screaming my name to be folded...or maybe it's Brent screaming my name as he sorts through the endless baskets of clean laundry searching for his socks.
Either way, you get the point. Recovery has put daily tasks on hold. Brent escaped to work this morning with both kids having a melt-down and me pleading with him not to go. Bribery didn't work. So, we're left to our own devices today. We're in survival mode in the Jackson house. If he wants ice cream, it's his. Another movie? You got it. Pajamas all day? Done.
We're choosing our battles to avoid his transformation from sweet Ethan to veins popping from the forehead, clothes tearing, green-eyed monster Ethan. So far so good...but, it's only 10am.
In four days the little Mr. is slated to be in his uncle's wedding. We're playing that one by ear. In pure Jackson offspring style, I'm sure it will be a day that lives in infamy. Or, by the Lord's divine intervention, Ethan will be fully recovered, wearing a tie, delightful and gleefully bounding down the aisle with his little sister in tow. This is the request I earnestly lay before the Lord each night. Heading down the aisle would be quite a task for my willful first born aside from having his tonsils freshly removed.
Well, I should wrap this up. It's time for some cuddling on the couch and the third installation (today) of Monsters vs. Aliens.