June 3, 2006

End of Week One Vacation Recap & Injury Report

Tonight is our last night in the hotel. Tomorrow we move to the beach house for a week. I’ve spent the night packing up all of our stuff. (I think I’ve added another vacation manager job requirement.) By the way, thanks to all applicants; but unfortunately I highly doubt I’d be able to pay what a good vacation manager would deserve, so until I win the PowerBall, I’ll have to suffer on my own.

Since this marks the end to the first week, I think it’s only appropriate to give a brief run down of the weeks main events (and injuries).

Me: Concussion from beginning of trip head injury is healing nicely. (I don’t really have a concussion, but the headache was wicked for a good day and a half). Now I am recovering from a bruised hip and knee. Both injuries came from different instances. The bruised hip came from carrying way too many things, including Lil C which resulted in me trying to use my right hip to catch a heavy door from closing. Metal door knobs do not feel good on hip bones. Not at all. I should know this considering the fact that my body has been designed so that my hip bones are always at the exact height of counters, door knobs, etc. since the ripe old age of about 13. So, what’s one more bruising encounter right? I’ll live.

The knee injury is more interesting. I haven’t driven a go-cart for years. I haven’t made a habit of driving them since the last time that I rode them with the male members of my immediate and extended family. We, as families go, are pretty competitive; as in, out for blood even if it’s a just an innocent game of Scrabble. My Dad thinks nothing of running people off the track or giving them a little tap at just the right angle so as to send people into a tailspin. Of course he always apologizes after the fact, but it’s not pretty. My Dad must always win; I must always win; my husband must always win because he is now related to me and it’s contagious, this competitive nature of ours. We can’t all win, but we’re all willing to get bloody trying.

So, Big I was determined to get me to ride a go-cart with her the other night. They had both single and double carts. How could I say no? My parents stood by with Lil C and my husband, daughter and I went for a ride. My dad whispered some tidbits of winning advice before I stood in line. "Don’t let your foot off the gas," he whispered. He started to tell me something else, but I cut him off. "Dad, I’m your daughter, remember? It’s in the blood." He smiled a knowing smile. I went off to make him proud.

The whistle blew and Big I and I tore out of the starting lane. We made it about a half lap around the track when I must have just tapped the side of the raceway. Another car was on my tail, tapped the back of the car, and then t-boned us. We were stuck, and because I didn’t have my left leg all the way down in the go-cart (I have ridiculously long legs.) my knee slammed into the steering wheel when we got t-boned. The race car supervisor guy had to come over and move our go-cart out so we could get going again. I knew he was probaby thinking it so I said it for him, "Damn women drivers." He stopped rolling his eyes for a moment and cracked up laughing. Twenty laps later, Big I and I had won, beating nine other cars. Who cares that all the other cars got one lap up on us while we were being removed from our t-bone position on the race track? If I’m not racing, it’s a warm-up boys. The race starts when I’m ready. (We competitive people are also good at making up our own rules.) All that really matters is that Big I was thrilled; and I made my Dad proud, what with my skilled passing techniques and the fact that I not once let up on the gas.

After climbing out of the go-cart, I noticed my knee: two little cuts and an area that would surely hurt the next day. Today is that next day and I was right. Ouch. My one cut has a nice black and blue mark under it; but it was worth it.

Mr. B: Sprained ankle that is swollen to cartoon character proportions, which he obtained when jumping into 4′ deep pool water is the shape of a cannonball. Yes, he is 33 years old; yes, he is 6’3"; yes, I said cannonball. Despite him being a valedictorian, he does occasionally have a dense moment or two. This was certainly one of them. He’s hoping he can hobble around well enough to play tennis during this second beach week. It’s nothing short of an all out tournment competition when it comes to my family, vacation, and tennis so he better just suck it up.

Big I: Despite nothing less than at least 30 SPF, Big I has a lovely case of what we think is sun poisoning on her cheek. I have rashy children. They are always coming up with some weird skin issue that sends me googling all kinds of strange things, before calling the pediatrician convinced they have measles or mumps or something worse. No matter how much sunscreen I used as a kid, I used to get sun poisoning, or "sun bumps" as I affectionately called them. It appears that Big I will have yet another reason to sue us some day for not having genetic counseling before deciding to bring her into this world. The poor kid has red bumps on her one cheek; red bumps that hydro-cortisone, benadryl (liquid and cream), and cool compresses won’t take away completely. She doesn’t have a spot of sunburn and hasn’t all week despite a beautiful beach week and tons of hours outside. This child’s body is just determined to make me stress about something at all times.

Lil C: This child has not a single injury, sun bump, or problem to report. She has been the perfect little beach bum. She’s on a better schedule here than she is on at home. At soon as she hears the ocean waves each day, she falls asleep. She wakes up ready to walk with our help in the sand and waves. She has been a perfect little angel at each meal, sitting in her high chair, people watching and trying to make friends. We are learning that she is quite the little social butterfly. She has been enjoying swimming in the pool, floating around in her baby float, and doesn’t even complain that much when we put sunscreen on her, as long as we give her what we call "contraband," as in anything that she’s not supposed to have such as TV remote controls or a toy that would make Big I just scream because Lil C is "not ‘apposed to have it." Lil C has been such a dream child here that I am totally plugging in that ocean sounds thing I have at home, the minute we walk in the door. At least one of us is happy and 100% healthy.

My Dad: I may have neglected to mention that my parents are on vacation with us this week and next. They have been a HUGE help to us since they are completely up for building sandcastles for 12 hours straight; and they don’t have a problem with the fact that it takes us four hours to be ready to go out to dinner.

My Dad decided to pay the fitness room a visit a few days ago and hasn’t been the same since. Blame it on that competitive gene I suppose, but the man ran on the treadmill on a serious incline and pounded away until he had hurt his back so badly that he can’t tolerate standing for very long stretches. It’s also made it kind of hard for him to give airplane rides to the girls, which has been disappointing to all of us, but mostly to a 40-something lb. Big I. He is also hoping he’ll be able to play tennis this week. I’m slightly annoyed with the fact that he’s injured because now, even if I do beat him in tennis this week, there will be a built in excuse as to why. So frustrating.

Back aside, the most startling injury comes from what we can only believe is biting fly venom. Today, the winds were blowing from the west, which meant that the biting flies were coming off of the sand dunes and onto the beach. If you’ve ever had an encouter with one of these flies, you know they hurt and badly. We quickly packed up and headed off to the pool today to avoid the little buggers. My Mom followed us. My Dad decided to tough it out. A few hours later, after he had not joined us at the pool, my Mom went looking for him. She found him on the beach, wearing his flip flops on his hands, swatting wildly at the flies as fellow beach-goers watched in awe. The cooler which contained their drinks. . . nothing short of a bloody battle ground, one that ended in a fly massacre with the score being Man: 30. Fly: 1. It only took one bite to send my Dad into a fly killing frenzy. My Mom said he probably provided good entertainment on the beach today: the crazy man killing flies with a vengence.

My Mom: Like Lil C, my Mom has remained injury free, besides the occasional sore back from holding an 18.5 lb. grand-daughter on a fairly regular basis. Come to think of it, maybe she has orchestrated this all, in an attempt to be the best tennis player of us all. . .

Probably not though.

I will sign off on this final night of what I’ll call "the relaxing part of the vacation." Our beach house week, which starts tomorrow, tends to be full of hours of slamming tennis in 90 degree heat, ocean kayaking beside the dolphins, beach volleyball where the object is as much to take an opponents head off as it is to win, power walks on the beach, and vicious card games. The injury recap at the end of next week with surely be littered with black and blues.

Thanks to all of you for your comments (and your patience in waiting for them to appear.) When I return from vacation, I promise to turn back into the addicted blog reader that I am and catch up on all my regular reads and a few news ones whose writers have been stopping by here.