I'm A Clutz. Make That A Dumb Clutz.

Warning: This post contains graphic images of a mutilated musical instrument. If such content is too strong for you, or if reading about people doing ridiculously stupid things and getting hurt will make you squirm uncomfortably (like my mom does when she watches The Office,) then you should probably turn away now and check in with me another day.

Have you ever hurt yourself doing something so stupid that you cringed every time someone asked you what happened because you were going to have to tell them? Like the time when a nameless person (who gave birth to me) sliced her finger to the bone, requiring stitches, because she was using a Cutco knife to scrape up the last bits of tasty goodness from the pull-apart bread plate on Christmas night? Or when my dear anonymous friend (whose name rhymes with "candy" and begins with an "M") broker her wrist when she crashed on her 5-year old's Razor scooter? Well, do I have a story for you.

First, a little background. Jared & I, as conscientious parents, make every effort to expose our children to culture at an early age. Money is no object in our pursuit of a classical education for our children, which is why Ian has learned so much from his music appreciation courses-- available on Playhouse Disney (tee hee!) He loves Little Einsteins, a show on which the four young characters explore classical music and art in a silly red jet that they call "Rocket". (I do not understand why Rocket is a character on the show, rather than just a vehicle, but this show was written for an audience of 3-7 year olds, so I guess I'm not supposed to understand. But I digress.) Anyhow, Ian is very interested in musical instruments and knows the names of many including cello, viola, trumpet, harp, . . . you get the picture. He has been asking for a "real trumpet" for some time now. So when we were visiting my mom earlier this month, Jared was clearing out her basement, garage, and store room for her and found a trumpet in her "Deseret Industries" pile. It had been left out in the rain and was no longer a fine instrument, so we figured that it was perfect for our three year old maestro. We brought it home and he was thrilled and has even slept with it on several occasions over the past two weeks.

Yesterday afternoon, I was trying to get Ian down for a nap. Lately, it is no easy feat to get him to do anything that he doesn't want to do, so I was using all my cunning to lure him into his bedroom. (Generally, once he's in there and I'm reading to him, the process goes fairly well.) So, I said, "Let's play hide and seek. I'll go hide!" I took off running and heard him coming down the hall after me without stopping to count. Rather than telling him to stop and count, I sped up. Rather than just standing behind the bedroom door (since the whole point was to get him into his bedroom,) I decided that I needed to hide. I did not bother to turn on the light because 1) there wasn't time--he was hot on my heels, and 2) it's easier to hide in the dark, right?

I flung myself down in the narrow space between his bed and the window, only to discover a trumpet there, beneath my thigh. I cannot describe the pain, but please remember that I was running and that I need to lose some weight, so the force with which I struck the trumpet was significant. I laid there, moaning "owie, owie, owie," with tears streaming down my face. The only good thing was that it got Ian's attention. He was very concerned, since I was clearly in pain. (No, he never did fall asleep, the little stinker.)

When I turned on the light and looked at the trumpet, this is what I saw:
Poor trumpet. I will spare you a photo of my multi-colored thigh. That really would be too much! Jared has managed to bend the bell almost back to normal, but my leg will not be the same for some time. So if you see me limping along, don't ask what happened. It's really too ridiculous to tell.