More from Gimpy McGee

I am still With Boot.

I am not by any stretch of the imagination a Shrinking Violet, but I swear on all that’s good and holy I hate attention for attention’s sake and walking around on crutches with a bum foot is just that. Just now, in the line at the Jimmy John’s in my office building, a woman in front of me, a woman I do not know and am pretty sure does not work for my company, turned around after ordering her Club Lulu, looked at me and mewed, “Awwwww.”

Seriously. It’s annoying. And it happens all of the time.

One of my bosses the other day suggested something brilliant: get a cane. In various incarnations, canes can be bad-ass and it can be assumed that if you’re With Cane, perhaps you have something more chronic at work, and asking you “what happened” would be tacky and open up the doorway to a really uncomfortable discussion that would only serve to remind that person of his or her own mortality.

At least that’s how it’s playing off in my head. I’m still on crutches for the time being.

I started swimming immediately. I’ve never not liked swimming – quite the contrary, and at the triathlon in 2003 (yeesh, has it been that long?) it was my best event. But the truth is, and I think most who have entered a pool will probably concur, there is a difference between those of us who swim as an afterthought, and those who really swim. Those who really swim are really fricking good at it in a manner in which those of us who run will never really be. Swimming is awesome in that it’s really equal-opportunity. You have to practice, and keep at it, but you don’t have to look like Dana Torres to be a great swimmer.

My issue with that, of course, is that those folks who swim are not at all patient with those of us who don’t. Well, not everyone, just a handful of folks who swim at my neighborhood’s park district pool. I’ve swum in public pools during lap time, so it’s not as if I don’t know the etiquette.  I do. I’m just not a great swimmer, a fast swimmer. I really want to get better, and practice different strokes, but for now, I’m just slow and steady and trying to match my pace with lanes containing similarly slow-paced swimmers.

And not knock anyone in the face.

And for what’s worth, I ended up losing another two pounds this week.

There is so much I know I’m not doing. There’s plenty I am doing, of course, but all of a sudden it’s Friday night, a week has gone by and there are a zillion things I meant to do but lost time and energy.

I’m tired. I’m stressed out and preoccupied at work. I’m just trying to get through the day.

There isn’t enough bandwidth to remember to track down that book about super babyfood meals or something. The funny thing is that I know that it’s going to be Spring before I know it and the opportunity will be gone. She’ll just be eating what we eat, though with the occasional strike for one toddler-centric reason or another.

(Will it matter that I’m not feeding her flaxseed oil every day? Probably not. But still.)

I have so many intentions when it comes to my kid. I meant to bake sweet potatoes again for her this week. I meant to read her another story at the day’s end, as she drifts off to sleep. I meant to put socks on her feet. Mostly, though, I consider it a win if I don’t put her in her crib with her snot boogers all crusted up around her nostrils. Seriously. The absence of dried up bodily detritus hits the win column on the parenting scorecard for me.

(I suspect I’m not alone? Probably not. But still.)

Some days, when I’m lacking in every humanly way possible, emphasis on “human,” I think the best I can do is just roll around the floor for a few extra minutes, grab her tight, zerbert her belly and make a promise to myself that I’ll remember to make it up to her somewhere down the line, remember she doesn’t notice one way or the other, probably would hate flaxseed oil anyway, and remember it’s the times we’re knocking down foam blocks that nurtures her more than anything else.

Mom-ing is tough some days.