Therapeutic Clock and Balls

Twice a week for the past three weeks I've scooted out of the house for an hour for a physical therapy appointment. While the objective of the therapy is to get Frankenfoot functioning normally again (and it's working very well) the appointment also serves as a way for me to escape the house and the rigors of perpetual parenthood for at least one hunded thirty minutes per week.

Ahhh. Sweet relief.

But not on Monday. No, on Monday morning Hubby left for a meeting in Central California and was not returning until six o'clock, which meant that either I had to find a sub Beansitter, cancel the appointment, or lug 'em along. As the day progressed and I made some phone calls, the options dwindled and at around four o'clock I decided that the Beans were in a jolly-enough temperament to accompany me. With their butterfly bookbags crammed full of entertainment options, their cups full of water, and several various snackables, we piled into the stroller and walked four blocks to the physical therapist's office.

The therapists and their staff are in a converted office building that houses a pool, small gym and a few individual exam rooms. Most everyone's therapy takes place in the main gym which looks like it once held several blocks of cubicles but now finds itself chock full of exercise bikes, treadmills, weight machines, exercise balls, school-nurse's-office-style vinyl beds, and a bunch of other stuff whose uses I cannot yet identify. The Beans happily rolled along in Big Red back into the gym with me and watched intently as I climbed on the bike and began pedaling. They had their books, they had their water, they each even had an old cell phone to make pretend calls to Mimzi or Santa if they wanted. They were perfectly happy. For about 150 seconds. And then they wanted to do something else.

"Ouh?" Pipsi asked, pulling at her stroller straps and looking at me.

"No, no, Bean, Mommy needs to pretend to ride the bike for another twelve minutes. Watch! Isn't it cool? Where's your book? Can you find another book?" Already desperate, I yammered away at her until she turned away from me in boredom, sighing and settling back into her seat. Then it was Parki's turn.

"Ball? Ball? BALL?!?!?" Parki had discovered the ball rack over in the corner of the room. All kinds of balls of various sizes and colors taunted Parki deliciously from their corner. They knew she wanted them but that I'd never let her over there to touch them. They were bastard balls.

"BALL?" Parki repeated. Pipsi, as usual, had turned to look at Parki then looked around to see what all the fuss was about. She saw the balls too but knew better than to obsess about the same item of Parki's interest lest she suddenly find herself whacked in the head with said item. She looked around some more at the place and in a few seconds her eyes came to rest on one of the five clocks strategically placed around the gym.

"Cock! Cock!" Pipsi exclaimed, pointing and smiling.

It went like that on and off for the next hour with everyone's therapy punctuated by a couple of adorable little girls screaming "cock" and "ball" intermittently. Noboby seemed terribly bothered by it though. CPS didn't come barrelling through the door to sieze the Beans and arrest me for being a bad mom so I guess Hubby is right and I was probably the only one who really understood what the Beans were saying. Or maybe it's the status quo around that joint for little girls to mention cock and balls at the tops of their voices every few minutes.

We'll just count it as another new, exciting, successful experience for the not-so-little-anymore Beans. Hopefully we'll get to do the same this weekend when the Binkie Fairy pays our house a visit, taking all the Beans' old (and VERY beloved) Binkies and leaving teddy bears in their place.

We shall see. In the meantime, I'm going to have a sitter tomorrow afternoon and save myself the embarrassment of my publicly vulgar company.