Adaptation

My foot is still hurt. But it might be getting better. Maybe.

The chiropractor thinks it's a sprain under the transverse arch. All I have to do is keep it taped and rested and in a shoe with proper arch support.

Taped I have figured out (after a few very messy first tries.) Rested is harder. Doing the dishes and the laundry and the necessary potty runs is still just a little more than qualifies as rest. But not nearly enough activity to keep me feeling like a rational human being. I was not born to be a couch potato.

The kids are trying to help out, of course, and doing extra chores (liberally bribed with computer games). But I find there is a sequence to new chores.

Stage 1 (Novelty): Oh, yes! We can definitely do that! We are so competent! We will be running the whole house for you soon! Is there anything else we can do?

Stage 2 (Reaction): Gahhh! Not that again! We just had to do it yesterday! My leg hurts! And my arm! And several other body parts I only just found out I had!

Stage 3 (Routine): OK, fine, let me finish this chapter first. And maybe the one after that. But definitely before supper.

We have been at this long enough for Stage 2 to appear.

Granted, the foot might have gotten better if I had not compromised on several things over the weekend, specifically in cleaning the whole house for company on Sunday and in wearing shoes that were not tennis shoes to church. And then wearing other shoes that were not tennis shoes for family pictures.

So now I have vowed to ignore both cleanliness and fashion until the foot really is better.

DOB has been helping out by taking the kids grocery shopping. (Which means they do the grocery shopping while he follows along in the riding cart.) It's still an arduous undertaking, especially after work, and especially since there is no way to bring a car close to any door of our house. This week he had them load up the wagon repeatedly to unload the car. We eat a lot of groceries.

DOB has also resolved the lack-of-physical-activity problem by putting me on his YMCA membership and sending me off to swim. Swimming is not my sport of choice. I *can* swim, in the sense that if I fell out of a rowboat I could remain on the surface for some time, but I cannot swim in the sense in which people who swim at the Y regularly swim. My attempts at the crawl stroke resulted in a large lump on the head, collision with the far side of the lane (miraculously not the swimmer using that side), and a whole lot of lungfuls of wet hair (my hair mocks at restraint). My attempts at using the kickboard took about five minutes each direction. Apparently I have completely forgotten how to kick. Meanwhile the small children and elderly zipped past me on either side, leaving me feeling like a lobster among porpoises. I finally discovered that a (probably dreadful) breast stroke allowed me to see where I was going and progress at a reasonable speed.

But I did swim, and it did make me feel better. So I shall persist, for now, until I can walk again. I like walking. The scenery is better. The coordination is less. And I don't have to drive to get there.