Help Wanted: Picker-upper/Retriever of Fallen Items/Mess Manager/Spill Cleaner

 

 

It seems I have lost control of my grasping abilities and my clumsiness level is at an all time high. I don't mean to curse, but sometimes those words just come out as I am faced with having to pick something up I have dropped for the thirtieth time in one day. Bending over is enough to make me scream sometimes, yet I can't stop dropping things to save my life. Not only is my mammoth stomach difficult to lean over, I feel like I am crushing our poor baby each time my hands have to reach below it to collect something I have knocked to the floor. Don't get me started on the head rush or the fact it is beginning to take my breath away. And why when I am trying to get my shoes on or help the girls' with theirs do I not remember that though it may feel more comfortable to do it while dropping my booty to the floor, I still have to get that booty back up to a standing position? I can't stand it when I do that! It feels so good when I am down there, but gravity does not want to let me up come get up time. I yearn for a tow rope as my girls look on - unsympathetically and a tad scared - as my graceless body hits a wall on its way up.  

 

I learned my lesson to move the breakables of my daily routine to a place that is above carpet after fumbling my coveted belly oil onto my bathroom floor, shattering it into dozens of pieces. I cried hysterically (and in hindsight, irrationally) when my nearly full bottle went down (not out of my hands, but somehow I was responsible) and all of the oil enveloped my feet. I tried desperately to save anything I could, but every pool of oil was entirely peppered with shards of glass. I don't know if I was more upset about the frustration of it hitting the floor or because I could salvage none of it. Regardless, I lost it. My mind. Thankfully my husband was there to calm me down, clean up my mess and order me a new bottle that very day. (What a guy!)

 

Tears may not always be shed, but what is becoming common is the annoying tennis player like grunt that comes out of my mouth each time I am forced to pick up an object from the floor. It's an unattractive, angry sort of grunt. If it's not the grunt, it's the, "UGH!" with a very bitter delivery. Darn you, butterfingers! Be gone, flailing spaghetti arms! "Don't cry over spilled milk," I say (or chant repeatedly in my head) as I literally spill the milk...or water, or coffee, or most recently, limeade. The chant usually keeps me from crying, but it never takes away my irritation. 

 

 

 Mirabella and Vivi have been excellent fetchers, but even they are tiring of the constant requests for help from their mama now. So, if anyone feels like:

• picking up an eyeshadow brush, lip gloss, toothpaste container, hairspray, ponytail holder or other health and beauty item from a bathroom rug
• scooping up a random piece of paper, sequin, toy, earring backing, pinto bean, hanger, pillow or remote control from carpeting  
• wiping up a tipped over full glass of liquid something off of a hardwood floor
• kicking up a dropped cell phone to hand level using a fancy soccer move
• buckling a pregnant lady's sandals, or the sandals of pregnant lady's children
• retrieving fallen soap, razor or shampoo bottle from shower base
• diving into the bottom of a tall laundry basket, deep washing machine or dryer for clothing, bedding, towels, etc.
• painting a toe nail or ten