FFS!? Friday : The 'MAN DOWN!' Edition

Linking up with DearBabyG again for my weekly FFS!? Friday whine. MAN DOWN - possibly one of the biggest FFS!? scenarios around. #1Hubby has always been athletic.  The speed with which that man can go from keg to 6 pack disgusts me.  Lucky bastard. As previously lovingly blogged, he's also super competitive.  And it's safe to say he's a fairly fit individual.  Only, he's getting older now, and while somebody told his body, nobody told his brain. Last weekend #1Hubby casually mentioned that he'd been asked to play in a friendly, non-competitive, cricket match on Monday. After snorting in a ladylike fashion, I composed myself enough to ask if he was planning on participating, or wisely and safely spectating. Alert all medical facilities within a two suburb radius : he's participating, FFS!?

Dr Ross is for me. #1Hubby can get his own doctor.

Now, some of you may call me a pessimist.  Some of you may call me negative.  But if you knew #1Hubby, you would understand that I am in actual fact a realist. Last time #1Hubby played cricket, it was of the indoor variety - which meant a nice semi-soft ball, a much smaller playing area, and a game suitable for CHILDREN.  Minimal risk to one's personal safety.  Unless you're #1Hubby. He was positioned behind the wickets and caught someone out.  Cue 2 weeks of whiny girly-man "woe is me...I hurt my finger" dramatics, FFS!? Now I'm not without genuine concern and sympathy. I provided the ice pack, I slapped on the Deep Heat and the Voltaren Gel. I changed all the crappy nappies since he wasn't able to bend his poorly finger in the range and scope required for wiping toddler bum's...apparently. I suggested he get his totally broken and useless, excruciatingly painful - but not bad enough to warrant treatment - finger looked at. Then I begged. Then I threatened. Then I just made the appointment for him and told him to be there or I would slam said finger in the car door.  All said with the loving concern one would expect from a spouse. I was convinced he'd dislocated something and it'd be fine with a quick visit to the GP, thus ending his bloody incessant "woe is me and my poor hurty finger" whining. Turns out it was spectacularly broken. So broken it required complicated surgery, and is now dubbed robo-finger on account of all the metal that was inserted to put it back together. The 2 weeks of "woe is me and my hurty finger" turned into SIX MONTHS of "woe is me and my hurty seriously broken and possibly never to be the same again finger with crap loads of metal in it holding it together so can you please open my beer for me?". FFS!? A few things about this shit me, shat me, shited me, still currently shit me when I think about it :

1. I was wrong
2. He was right
3. As a result of 1 and 2 I felt guilty and bad and mean and like a wifely failure
4. Thanks to his insistence on being a semi-tough bloke (no treatment, I'll be fine - but by all means listen to me whine on and on about it), it was far worse that it should've been.
5. To this day he still suffers pain and stiffness, and almost always at suspicious times (bringing washing in, when sport is on TV, doing dishes, ironing my clothes, cleaning up toilet training mishaps and the like)
6. I was wrong
7. He was right

Since robo-finger we've had more than 12 incident-free months. I feel like we should've marked the occasion and celebrated, in a safe and zero-physical-risk manner.  Maybe bingo. The most athletic #1Hubby's participated in is running and lifting a few weights. Being lulled into a false sense of security, I not only supported his participation in the cricket match - I encouraged it. I am a moron, clearly.  I do not learn, obviously. FFS!? #1Hubby returned home from Monday's 2hr mini-match in one piece. Within an hour he was slightly limping and making the odd whiny noise about how he probably should've warmed up first. Within 2 hours he was limping like a mofo.  Complete with ramped up whining. At which point I hit him with my usual anti-whining device/comment :    I'm sorry, but did you birth three children? No? Then don't you talk to me about pain.  You know not what true pain is.  Now shut the hell up you big sissy boy girly man, darling. That night I noticed his BLACKENED foot. FFS!? All week, he comes home from work and immediately lurches to the lounge and flops there dramatically.  Foot elevated.  Poorly little man child look on his face.  The odd whimper, whine, groan. Don't worry about me love, I'm fine.  You sit down.  I'll just hop over and get the ice pack.  Each night I've tried to manage ice packs in a bloody Autumn heat wave, the kids, blog posts, work articles, extensive Bali Xmas hotel research, a heavy TV viewing schedule, dinner, domestic crap - and a whiny man child who is of no use or assistance to me. FFS!?  This has totally enabled his armchair style of parenting - whereby he sits on the lounge and directs the kids, who ignore him, and he then ignores them ignoring him because he's so engrossed in whatever sport is on TV. As an ad comes on TV and he is roused from his televised overt sporting stupor (TOSS for short...should absolutely be on the PBS as a Medicare funded condition, am I right?), he proceeds to direct me in directing our children. From the lounge. In-between goals, runs, points, tries, whatever. FFS!? And so we are now doing that familiar dance where he bitches and moans but claims it's not TOTALLY life threatening. Yet.  I refuse to mother him any further than I already do, so I ignore him and occasionally remind him that he's solo-parenting in 3 weeks when I go to Melbourne, so he'd better literally be on his toes by then. He's well aware that he needs to go to the Doctor, but he knows I will be the first to crack and make the appointment for him. Until such time, I am the parent running up and down the stairs to stop the kids enacting natural selection upon each other, eating my make up, launching themselves off the banister, or poking their father's sore foot, just for shits and giggles (because they find his high pitched, panicked, girly-man squeal totally hysterical...and who can blame them?). I dole out ice packs and Panadol, and in lieu of Voltaren tablets, something from the bottom of the medical cabinet that I'm fairly confident are old, budget, faux anti-inflammatories from a recent trip to Bali.  Recent as in some time in the past decade or so.  To save time and whine, I just tell him they're Voltaren. It is just exhausting, FFS!?

WORD.