Now, this is a story all about how ...

.... my life got flipped-turned upside down.*

Okay, so, maybe not my whole life. But most of my body anyhow.

Five days ago, I went outside to ask my kids (who were playing in the driveway) to feed the puppies. Just as the words were tumbling out of my mouth, I caught my foot on a wet spot on our stairs that pools water -- a spot where a bunch of slippery muck was growing. And I fell. 

Like my feet came flying out from under me up into the air, and I landed on my left hip and went rolling down the stairs.

(And in the midst of flight, I had about a thousand thoughts all piled into one millisecond of a fall. I truly wonder how that's possible, but it happens. Mostly my thought was: Please don't let me break anything. I've got sheep to move today!)

Within minutes, the outside of my left leg looked like this:

Here's Mermaid Barbie next to the side of my leg (for size comparison purposes) to show the size of the bruise:

Not only did I hit the side of my leg, but I hit my upper thigh too. Here is Mermaid Barbie (and her gag-me-perfect-self) showing how big (and dark) that bruise is. 

I also fell on my left knee which really is pretty unimpressive to even bother showing in a picture, but for the sake of my post, I'll document it (because photo journalism works like that. We've all tried to read a post on a recipe and they just keep telling stories and posting photos and you just want them to get to the darn recipe already!)

I also majorly pulled a muscle in my right groin. There's not really a picture that can show a pulled groin. (And if there was I wouldn't really want to post it on a Blog anyways) so I'll skip that part.

The next evening, while putting the dogs to bed, I tripped on the porch and cut up my toe. This made me really angry. I was just sick of hurting myself and I was just sick of bleeding. (Oh, and yes, I know my toe nails look horrible. I'd like to say it was the quarantine that's kept me from keeping up on my pedicures, but that's not entirely truthful. My feet are farming feet. They are calloused and slit, and I am just not going to pretend my feet are normally beautiful or painted to perfection.) 

But, I digress ... here's my toe:

Stay with me though. The story gets better. (I mean if this is where the story ended, I don't think I would bother blogging about it.) 

I've been training for a C25K with some friends virtually. I run three days a week. Because of my injuries, I decided to take four days off to recover. Then on Monday, four days after the initial fall, I decided I would run again. 

Now I already drag my right leg when I run. I always have. I think it's related to dislocating my tailbone playing volleyball in high school, but maybe I just say that to make myself feel better. In truth: I am a terrible runner, and I drag my right leg. Add to that a bad right hip/groin strain, and I was left majorly dragging my leg. But we are running a 5K on June 12, and I didn't want to get behind so I decided to go running. 

I get my cool C25K app. going, and I'm all dressed, and I have all the kiddos ready to be without me for a bit, and I head out and ...

Five minutes into my run, and I'm on the back road on our farm (which is quite rocky) when my right leg catches on a rock, and I go flying ... again. When I stood up, this is what I looked like:

 At this point, I just sat there on the dirt road and started sobbing. I'm sobbing for a variety of reasons. One was that I am 43-years-old. I once was an athlete, and now I don't really feel like one. I've put on some weight, and I haven't felt good about myself. 

(In the middle of sobbing, the computer voice of my running app. is saying: "You are halfway there!" in her sing-song voice, and I know she's full of it because I'm not running at all. I'm bleeding and sitting on a rocky road crying by myself with only my loyal dog next to me to keep me company who after checking me out, is just lying in a shady spot waiting for my sob fest to finish up so we can get onto the next farm job which is what she lives for.)

But I'm not just crying because I turned 43 last week. 

There's the fact that I am not sure the dogs know I am clipping my kids toe nails when they are barking at me so badly to let them out of their kennel. And another kid doesn't see me holding a pile of laundry while answering another child's questions about schoolwork. They just keep saying: "Mom. Mom. Mom." And I'm thinking: "Am I invisible? Do you see me holding all this laundry in my arms while trying to explain long division?" 

(I mean, this isn't happening while I am running. It's happening earlier in the day or week, but it might as well have just happened because it's part of why I am sobbing on the road.)

Even worse was that when I got back with my bloody knees, John told me he would have to perform some minor surgery on my leg because there were many rocks imbedded and there was skin hanging off and he couldn't stitch it because the pieces were so jagged.

Here is a picture of it two days later, healing nicely:

And here is a close-up of the whole kit-and-kaboodle (minus the bruises because I'm not that talented to get all of that in one picture.)

I just feel old. Being a Mama is hard. Trying to take care of yourself while raising (four!) successful humans is a lot of pressure. How do I possibly take care of myself and my Bible study and my relationship with my husband and my kiddos and my friends and my farm and stay in shape and not put on weight and stop drinking Mountain Dew because I just like them ... oh and those Oreo desserts in the cooler at Yoder's. I really need to start saying no to them. 

(But have you tasted them?! They are so, so yummy.)

I'm so, so far from perfect. And as I sat on that back road boo-hoo-ing like a ten-year-old, feeling sorry for myself, I realized that these moments are LIFE. Life is messy. It is far from perfect. My husband posts these idyllic photos like this: 

and this:

and this:

and this: 

But what you don't see is that in that picture with all the arrows, there should be another arrow with the truth of where I was sitting on the back road ....

 .... that's me, by the blue arrow on the back road ... having a cry-fest over the fact that my knees are skinned, and I'm 43 and I don't feel like sometimes people know I am trying to balance laundry and do long division while asking another kid to please stop saying my name ten times within four seconds all the while saying "Don't eat that Oreo dessert there Missie because your hips like it way too much.

Here's to my (sort of) beautiful life,

*Bonus points if you caught the Fresh Prince reference