All three of us woke up on Thursday morning, business as usual. I got Elliott up and into his highchair, with a bib and a sippy cup of fresh milk. Instead of reaching into the freezer for the usual whole wheat waffle, I reached into the fridge and retrieved a chocolate cake with vanilla frosting, made the night before from a box purchased at the corner store. I cut a small square out of the cake and placed it on Elliott's highchair tray while Lane began filming on his iPhone. At first, Elliott just wanted to feel the cake, squishing it between his fingers, smearing it across the tray, and then inspecting the results. Despite it being his first ever birthday celebration, it was a weekday and we had to get off to work and daycare, so I grabbed a bit and offered it to him. He took a big bite and a pause to evaluate the new food, then happily shook his head and looked to me for more. I gave him the rest of the piece in my hand and he grabbed the remaining chunks off his tray and horfed them down in two fell swoops. Happy birthday! Lane gave him a thorough wipe cleansing and we proceeded on through our morning routine.
On Saturday morning, we rose with celebration in mind again. We did some housecleaning and then delved into preparing to host our first birthday party as parents. There was a lot of chopping and slicing of vegetables and putting them into Tupperware tubs for transport to the park. I baked another cake from a box (this time from Target rather than the corner store, which was out of Funfetti mix) and managed to time it so that I was frosting a cool cake and not making a mess trying to apply the stuff to warm layers and also not crying. I decorated the cake with sprinkles and candles and a few small plastic animals. Lane drove over to Nob Hill to pick up the balloons I ordered while I finished some final preparations and got Elliott and myself dressed. The morning was not without its challenges, especially because Lane and I were on completely different clocks and while I was feeling the pressure of the ticking clock, he was intending to make a trip to the hardware store for supplies to fix a wonky cabinet door. So there was some tension and even a few poisonous glares, but once we got to the park and people started arriving, we were back to normal. Elliott, naturally, fell asleep in his stroller on the three-block walk to the park. We let him sleep for half an hour and then cruelly gave into temptation and picked him up when his eyes fluttered awake in what was probably just a break in his sleep cycle. He sat silent and stone-faced for a good 40 minutes in my mother's lap, wearing a green felt crown decorated with his name and animal buttons. He ate a few crackers and a piece of celery and perked up. More baby friends arrived and he kissed them and stole their crackers and chatted with everyone. The wind picked up as it does on San Francisco afternoons, so we did our best with the candles. There was enough cake for everyone and folks began to make their exits as the temperature cooled. We stayed another hour catching up with friends before packing up the Tupperware tubs and the wrapped gifts. Our punishment for interrupting Elliott's nap was a one-year-old boy who partied until ten o'clock that night.
So, Sunday and stitches. Everything was going great. I went to my RCIA class, met a few new people from the parish and successfully completed the Rite of Sending without saying the wrong thing or tripping in front of the entire church. We all were to meet at St. Mary's Cathedral at 3:30 for the Rite of Election that officially launches us into preparation for baptism/communion/confirmation at Easter Vigil. I couldn't find something to wear that was simultaneously understated chic and flattering on my once-again round postpartum belly (must be all that cake). I was also hungry, running late and nervous about the Rite. And I could not find my fucking keys. I looked everywhere I could have put them and then started sliding magazines and old New York Times Business sections off the coffee table. Then I pulled out couch cushions, dumped out toy baskets and got down on my hands and knees to see if they had been flung under the couch. They had not. I put Elliott in his Pack 'n Play because he was feeling my frustration and anxiety and getting a little overwhelmed too. My searching became more manic and I threw a throw pillow at the bookshelf. I finally lost it and kicked the nearest soft thing -- a paper grocery bag full of old newspapers for recycling. But the bag was not full of just newspaper and I discovered this as I pulled my left foot away, screamed and began bleeding all over the kitchen floor. I grabbed a towel, applied pressure and tried to find the house phone. I couldn't and momentarily panicked until I found my iPhone and called the emergencies-only number at the restaurant. By some divine intervention, Lane picked up and I sobbed into the phone that I had hurt myself terribly and that he needed to come home NOW. He said he'd grab a cab and be there as soon as he could. I texted folks from church who were anticipating my arrival at the cathedral and received words of comfort and offers of prayers. I called Lane again because Elliott was scream-crying and I couldn't lift him out of his playpen and I was scared and still bleeding. He made it home ten minutes later, assessed my injury, then washed it and wrapped it in gauze, a clean kitchen towel and electrical tape. We drove up to the ER at UCSF where I was triaged, x-rayed, cleaned, irrigated, numbed and stitched up. Lane drove us home, put Elliott to bed, made sure I had what I needed and went back to the restaurant. I looked at the bag I had kicked and saw a bent and broken curtain rod sticking out of the bottom, right where I had aimed my left foot. Lane had replaced it on Saturday in his home improvement offensive and it is what sliced into my foot, deep enough to reveal tendon. I shuddered, wiped up my blood with baby wipes and went to bed. Just as I was stepping gingerly up into bed, I saw my keys on the floor, partially hidden by a muslin baby blanket.
I read Joan Didion until I fell asleep with my foot propped up on a throw pillow and called an end to the weekend.
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