I went to the doctor this morning, who told me that everything looks fine and that it'll be three more weeks before I can put any weight on my left foot. I had told myself while brushing my teeth this morning to prepare for disappointment, because I knew I couldn't stop myself from hoping the news would be better than that. Even still, I took "3 more weeks" like a bit of a blow.
James dropped Edie and me off at home, and, after an hour of coloring and an hour of Charlie and Lola, I started lunch. Edie was blowing bubbles in her chocolate milk and determinedly not eating her falafel when, kneeling my left knee on my rolley stool, I took a step back to help her.
Onto my left foot.
I think I must have forgotten for a second that I'm not fully functional, and was overtaken by muscle memory. I love muscle memory--the idea that your body knows you and you can count on it to guide you. Unfortunately, that memory has no strength of its own, so once that fleeting moment passed I was on the floor, falafel and hummus in my hair and on the floor, a bruise forming on my right knee, and breathing through the pain in my left ankle when I heard Edie's tiny muppet voice saying, "oh, sorry".