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How lucky are we?! Natural beauty blogger, naturalista, mom to a super curly cutie, and all around awesome lady, Gina, at Natural Belle, is hosting a “Maggie Sinclair, Will You Please Fix Your Hair?!” Giveaway via Instagram.
Gina (@naturalbelle) has one signed copy of “Maggie Sinclair, Will You Please Fix Your Hair” by Hilary Grant Dixon and illustrated by Gabrielle Howell to give away!
“Maggie” is inspired by Hilary’s real life experiences, showing how a young girl uses her creativity and imagination to celebrate her amazing hair all while sharing a lesson about self love. Definitely one for your little ones book self.
To enter:
1. Follow @curly_girlie78
2. Repost this image in your IG and tag @curly_girlie78 and @naturalbelle using the ‘tag people’ option. Comment below when you’re done! [please@comment ‘private’] if your account is set to private so you can be followed and your entry seen.
T&C
This giveaway is international. @curly_girlie78 and @naturalbelle are not responsible for any customs charges or items lost in transit. Giveaway ends Sunday 24th May 2015.
Good luck!
When you’re wearing a multi-strap, black and metal orthopedic boot from your knee down, people are genuinely curious to know what happened to you. It’s not like you’d voluntarily slip into a boot for grins and giggles. After having worn a boot from September to February in 2012, I was ready to set some matches to it when it outlived its usefulness. Fortunately (I can’t even believe I just typed that), I didn’t, because here I am. Wearing it again.
I’ve been stumping around — yes, stumping, because that’s the sound I make as I navigate around the house, the grocery store, and Target — being met with heartfelt concern and question. Trying to explain how while I had surgery in April, I actually lacerated my ankle in September of 2012 is time consuming and frankly, more information than anyone really wants. I need to come up with some short, to the point explanations for why I have the boot.
Here’s what I have so far, but I welcome any and all suggestions. The more outrageous, the better.
1. Got run over by a Target Cart during the Lilly for Target frenzy.
3. Workout related injury, Option 1: Thought I was on “So You Think You Can Dance”, when I was really just in Zumba.
3. Tried to re-enact the finale from Dirty Dancing with the Hubs and #failed.
4. Tried rafting in the James and #failed.
5. Went running with the bulls and didn’t run fast enough.
6. Bought a Groupon for a trapeze lesson and got tangled up in the harness.
7. Thought I was Black Widow, tried to re-enact some of the fight scenes, and #failed.
Ka-pow!
8. Workout related injury, Option 2: Zigged when I should have zagged during Cardio Burn.
9. Thought I was Gabby Douglas, but forgot to stick the landing.
I am one with the beam. I am one with the beam.
10. Bitten by a dog while delivering Girl Scout Cookies.
I have a new approach to recuperation.
Seeing as this my third time at this dance, it occurred to me that I need to do things differently in order to get back to to 100%. The first go-round, in 2012-2013, I followed what my doc said while I was wearing the soft splint and the hard cast. I used the crutches. I went up and downstairs like a toddler — on my backside. I didn’t put any weight on my leg at all. September of 2012 through February of 2013, that was my life. Then I got a walking boot, and the sweet taste or mobility was intoxicating. I walked all over the place, doing the most, like normal.
That probably wasn’t a good idea, but at the time, what did I know. The doc had surgically repaired me. The physical therapists had pulled me and pushed me. My leg was still attached and I was walking. Why shouldn’t I get back to business? I was running my household again, full steam ahead. I started planning a trip to Vegas with my girlfriends. Things like #FOMO were for other people.
Several months later, I began to notice that the site of surgery was a little puckered. It didn’t feel like things are sliding smoothly when I would point and flex. My leg ached a bit, but nothing that was intolerable. I called my doc to ask his opinion. He wanted to see me and have a look for himself. He didn’t say specifically, and I’m not even sure that this is the case, but maybe I pushed myself too hard, too soon. The tendon was moving, but the movement was impeded. Normally, organs and tissues in your body are able to smoothly shift around each other due to their slippery surfaces. Your stomach and intestine are static in your gut; when you move, they move due not only to the fluids in your body, but also the slippery surfaces they possess. So, when you’re injured or if you have surgery, adhesions can form and prevent this movement. For some reason, I see adhesions and think “glue dots”. Glue dots have been sprinkled all over this lacerated tendon. The way things healed, the tendon and the underlying (or in this case, overlaying) skin was sticking together. It was moving, and when I pointed and flexed, the entire scar would pucker and shimmy. FYI: you’re not supposed to see that.
We talked options, my doc and I. In all honesty, I believe that my doc did what he determined to be the best course of action for me, for my situation and for his ability. I don’t blame him for anything. Point of fact, I still sometimes blame myself for being so careless with the glass pitcher that got me into this jam in the first place. That’s another story for another day (and probably another type of doc). In any event, my doc suggested another surgery, less invasive this time, to clean things up and help the tendon slide more smoothly. So, of course, my first question was, “What about my trip?!”
Hey, there were deposits on the line, people.
I had reached out to him in enough time that even with a few scheduling snafus, I was back in the OR well in advance of wheels up for Vegas. The surgery itself, while it did require anesthesia (bye-bye, brain cells), the recovery was significantly irksome. I made it to Vegas and had a great time.
So, between then and now, it had been business as usual. I continued to do everything that I’ve done before, until the aching returned. Until I fell that November day. Until I realized that I needed to have a doc take a look.
Here we are, three weeks post-op. The first two weeks, I did nothing but lay up in the bed, my foot swaddled from knee to ankle in gauze and ace bandages. My mother-in-law came for a week to help with the girls and to make sure I was cared for. My parents came for several days. The Hubs worked from home for several days. It literally took a village, which surprised me and awed me. That it would take scheduling, planning, and a literal team of grown-ups to manage what I do everyday. . .that’s kind of amazing. I was am truly thankful for all of the support. I must admit, though, I watched enough television and surfed the Internet to last me a very long time. When my follow-up appointment came, I could not wait. I got my walking boot about a week ago this coming Wednesday.
Jumping back into the fray now that I have a boot isn’t an option for me this time. I don’t plan on having any more surgeries on this leg, so I’m following my recovery instructions to the letter. Deep knee bends five times a day for 20 minutes at a time? Bring it. Bear weight as tolerated. Done. I make one excursion or do one activity that involved being on my feet, once a day. After that, I’m sitting down with my leg propped on some pillows.
Today, I dropped the girls off at school and then went to Target for toilet paper.
Then I came home, popped V on the floor with some Play Doh, and put my leg up on a stack of throw pillows that, three weeks ago, would have gone HAM over if I’d seen them anywhere other than the sofa.
Incredible feats of strength? This right here. Not doing the most.
Of course, this is only day 1. Check back with me at the end of the week.
Back to the grind.
I’m two weeks post-op. My one job is to rest. I’m doing my best to be patient while things percolate under the bandages, but I’d be lying if I said I haven’t tried to still be SuperMom. For the past two weeks, I’ve been delegating tasks, coordinating schedules, and running my little empire from the prime real estate that is the sofa. There have been quite a few times when I’ve had to pull an Elsa and just let stuff go. Like when I came downstairs for the first time after a week of bed rest and found the entire first floor looking like the bottom of a backpack on the last day of school.
I am, however, trying to keep things in perspective. These past two weeks, as well as the next however many it will take to get back to business, are just a paragraph in this particular chapter of my life.
That’s kind of deep. It’s also one thing to say and quite another thing to believe it. I’m working on it, though. I remind myself to breathe. I remind myself to patient. I remind myself to be a little kinder to myself than I was yesterday. I make plans. I pin things to my boards. I organize. I re-post things on tumblr. I make lists. I read blogs. I read books. I make more lists. I take selfies.
I’m outlining the next chapter.
Last Monday, I went in for my surgery. Up until they wheeled me into the operating room, I was wondering aloud if even doing it was a good idea. Not because I didn’t trust my doctor or because I was thinking that my discomfort was blown out of proportion. It was because there was so much that had to be taken care of for the household to keep spinning while I recuperated. A cost benefit analysis was making things look bleak. I spent the days prior to surgery prepping the house like I was going away for a walkabout or something. Meals were made and frozen. Copious amounts of laundry were washed, folded, and put away. Playdates were lined up and carpools were arranged to get little biscuits from A to B. It was a herculean task — proper prior planning and all — for what I anticipated to be a week to ten days, but I used to be a Girl Scout, and like they say, “Always be prepared.”
9:30am on the 13th was go time. I remember the OR nurse telling me to get my bare buns up on the ironing board sized operating table. I remember the anesthesiologist saying she’d give me something to relax. When it got flushed into my system, it burned like alcohol on an open wound. I remember her voice above me saying, “Oh! Hang on, I’ll fix that.”
And then I woke up.
I’m bandaged from knee to toe. I’ve got crutches. I’ve got a collection of pills and meds that qualify for a pill minder. I’ve got pillows supporting my leg. I’ve got family and friends supporting the daily routine of life at home. My one job is to rest and get better.
I’m SO going to get fired.
I don’t make a good patient. I don’t have a lot of patience, either. Staying in bed, having meals brought to me, and being told to just relax, read and watch TV may sounds like a dream, right? And considering how much I’ve been bellyaching I’ve done about really needing a break, this seems like the answer. No, this isn’t an invitation to a pity party. This is just me being honest about life going from speeding down the Autobahn to slamming on the brakes, stopping on a dime. That’s exactly what it feel like.
I stink at being patient. I have trouble waiting for water to boil, for mail to arrive, for my nails to dry, so being told to wait 15 days to be seen by the doc to unwrap the bandages has me rocking in the corner going “buh, buh, buh, buh, buh, buh, buh.”
From what I understand, my surgery went well. I didn’t have to give up any tendons from other places in my feet in order to save the one in my ankle (yes, that was an option). There was enough useable muscle to re-tension the existing tendon, which according to my doctor, was pretty much a wet noodle. Think of it this way: the tendon is what attaches muscle to bone. It’s thick and stretchy like the rubber band around a bunch of asparagus. Imagine cutting that rubber band, then trying to tie it back together to bundle up the asparagus. The tension isn’t going to be as strong, right? That’s where I was two years ago. Two years of wear and tear on a tendon that was already kind of weak meant whatever was going to be discovered on the 13th was probably even worse for wear.
I won’t go into specifics. I don’t really have any details anyway. The Hubs attributes the ribbons of pain curling around my leg to the fact that the doctor “really got in there and worked things out”. Lord, I hope so. Already this recovery feels much different from the previous ones. I don’t know if it’s the invasive-ness of the procedure, the weakness that was present or what, but I’m drawing upon reserves of patience I didn’t even know I had. I’m calling in chits, asking for prayers and good wishes as I readjust my expectations about when I’ll be moving under my own steam.
Did I really think after a week I’d be moving around, back to business?
Yes.
Call me naive. Call me unrealistic. I have high expectations for myself, so why couldn’t, why wouldn’t that happen? Because, as the saying goes, Man plans and God laughs.
I’m not making any more plans. I’m taking it one day at a time. I’m tamping down the #FOMO. I’m not going to stress out because the kids are watching TV. I’m not going to worry about whether or not the kitchen counters are clean and clear (I can’t downstairs to check anyway).
I’m watching TV. I’m reading books. I’m catching up on the Lily For Target madness, Britt McHenry, European migrant crisis, and the 2016 presidential race. I’m watching the birds outside my window. I’m breathing. I’m resting.
It may not be the the break that I had wanted — there are definitely no swim up bars or white sand beaches — but I’ve been given some time. This is just a small paragraph in this particular chapter of my story. It’s not exactly what I expected, but lemons into lemonade, my friends. Lemons into lemonade. . .
Hi Gram
Hey, doll!
Happy Birthday!
You know you don’t need to send me any cards or anything.
I know, but it’s your birthday. Did you get the pictures that the girls sent?
With the ballerinas? I love it. I showed it to Helen when she came over to take me to the Dollar Store.
Oh really? Anything good at the Dollar Store?
I got some picture frames for the photos of the girls. I’m running out of room on the credenza over here.
You can always take down that picture of Christopher.
Be loving! How is that broken down brother of yours, anyway?
Broken-down. (laughter). The girls want to say wants to say hello.
Gramma, I-watched-a-show-and-then-we-had-chicken-nuggets-and-I-made-an-ice-rink-in-my-room-out-of-powder-and-when-you-boofah-it-goes-pbbbbtttt-and-then-you-go-sssstttt! Here’s Coever.
Heh-whoa? Heh-whoa! I wuv woo! Appa-soss! (drops the phone).
Hey, Gram, it’s me again.
Hey, doll. They are too much.
I know, I know. Listen, I know your stories are coming on, but I wanted to give you a quick call to say hi and wish you a Happy Birthday.
Okay, well you give Craig and the girls a big, ol‘ sloppy kiss.
You know I will. Happy Birthday, Gram. Love you.
Love you, too, doll.