Seems I’ve been walking around on a fractured foot for the past five weeks, so says a recent X-ray. My short-lived soccer career produced a bonafide sports injury, so now I’m rockin’ The Boot. Pretty, isn’t it?
I have to wear it for the next three weeks — at least — which is making life a little difficult. I lurch around the house like a peg-legged pirate and do a lengthy take-it-off-put-it-on routine every time I drive. My right foot is 20 degrees hotter than my left. I’m trying not to complain too much and I soothe myself with thoughts of gratitude (“I’m so lucky to have good health care!”). But truth be told, I’m a little cranky.
The bad news is that I can’t do as much around the house. But the good news is that I can’t do as much around the house. My darling family has rushed to my aid and there has been a decided shift in domestic duties. My husband is always willing to do his share, but the kids have a history of shirking. And I’ve let them, because it’s been easier to do stuff myself than fight about it. No more. The kids now have new responsibilities for cleaning up the house and seeing to the begged-for dog. So far, they’ve risen to their tasks (I do throw on an exaggerated limp to help motivate them).
The kids’ chore list is pretty light, but it’s made a huge difference for me. I vow that this will be our new normal, even when I shed The Boot. Because — surprise! — when housework is shared among family members, I have more time for my business. Pretty sad that it took a fractured foot for me to figure this out. Better late than never.