Grace is not my middle name.

I fell down yesterday.  Like seriously. fell.the frick.down.  I don't remember the last time I just fell down.  I wish I could watch a replay.  Picture me walking down the sidewalk, basking in the glory of a smidgen of sunshine with Tula in the ergo on my back... sunshine and prancing ponies, birds chirping, waving fields of grain... cheesy Canadian Mento's commercial and... Whammo!  I.Am.Ridiculous.  There's no explanation.  Simply walking down the sidewalk!  I'm just that good.  I felt like a little kid.  My hands looked liked I lost a fight with a cheese grater.  My knees bruised.  And (!) ugh, because I fell with a 27lb preschooler on my back, my hands bracing my fall weren't prepared for the extra weight and... I scraped my chin.  Low of the low.  I had to laugh.  What.The.Hell.  My grace is not my strongest gift.  From what I could tell, other than a confused Tula, there were no witnesses to my humiliation.  (Until this confession, that is.)  However, I was on my way to school to pick up Gwen... where understandably there would be a mere thousand people offering assistance to my bloodied self... I was not about to have that.  I called Matt.  He picked up the kid.  He knows I'm graceful.  I hope my hands are repaired before Friday when 36 hours of hand gel await me at the hospital.  Ugh.  Ridiculous.  I think I'm going to go buy a lottery ticket.

A child of five would understand this.  Send someone to fetch a child of five.   -Groucho Marx