Why I was fired by PT

I flunked my first thing ever. 

Always the perfectionist unto death do we part, I finally got the ax-- in physical therapy, no less. 

Why, you ask? 

I have to admit...I was flabbergasted as well.  Somebody can be fired from PT? Really?  I can come in pain, and then leave in pain?  What kind of treatment plan is that?  As a mental health therapist, I would never get away with that.  Can you imagine?  Client came depressed and left depressed.  I guess my job is done here. 

The reality is that I'm about to whine.  If this bothers you, you might want to cease reading here. 

THEY GAVE ME HOMEWORK THAT I COULD NEVER ACCOMPLISH.  EVER. 

And here is my homework;  Do 10 exercises/stretches, 3 times a day. 

Doesn't that sound easy? 

I guess you might be wondering what kind of injury brought me to physical therapy.  I have three bulging disks and an annular disk tear in my lower back, and one (just one!) bulging disk in my neck.  Usually the result of significant trauma, mine is simply the result of nothing.  I love that fact so much.

MD: "Wow.  This usually happens to older men who are ripping out trees in the back yard or something.  Not really 30 year old women.  Did anything happen recently?"
Me: "Nope.  Just a 4-year-old, a 3-year-old and a 1-year-old."
MD: "Huh. That's weird."

So I didn't have a mental breakdown and I consider that a win. 

Anyway, back to the most impossible homework of all time.  Ten stretches, three times a day.  Is there a mother in the universe who can accomplish anything three times a day?  I mean seriously! Three times a day?  I'm tasked with doing something three times a day that doesn't:
1) poop
2) puke
3) pee
or
4) cry?

Sorry.  That homework is so impossible that I don't even know where to start.  Anybody who is requiring a mother to self care three times a day is out of their freaking mind.  And if you, physical therapist, cannot understand my limitations, well then I guess we're kind of done here anyway. 

And the saddest part was that my inability to partake in regular stretching was considered some kind of anarchist refusal to do anything.  Crazy. 

So here is a list of things that I can accomplish three times a day:

• Change diapers
• Say "Justin, you must wipe your buns.  Yes, every time you poop.  Seriously."
• Look for three pairs of underwear after Justin has refused to wipe. 
• Break up a fight
• Put children in time out
• laundry
• dishes
• meals
• pray (but only because I do that while doing other stuff too)
• make a pot of coffee and then turn it on twice to reheat the coffee since I got distracted and never got to drink it the first round
• Go to the restroom and get interrupted for ridiculous reasons (i.e. "where's my green car that I saw two years ago?" and "can I have some cheese?" and "Mom? I just saw a flying monkey!")

That's it.  No joke. 

Their other idea is for me to take a break from volleyball on Mondays.  Never going to happen.  Again, I sound like an anarchist unwilling to follow any instructions.  However, what kind of improvement will it be if I can move easily, but I'm locked up in a padded room in four point restraints? 

Because volleyball nights are the one thing that I guard with my life.  Suddenly, this mother of three is self centered, hostile, and completely unwilling to bend.  I will be at volleyball on Mondays so that I can be supporting all you other freaks my family every other day of the week.  My family has become accustomed.  Stay out of mom's way on Monday night - then you can bug her until kingdom come for the rest of eternity! 

So I was fired.  But the mother of three young children cannot be on a standard treatment plan.  You have to adjust for the fact that between 20 and 40 pounds will be picked up more than 20 times a day.  And a mom has to bend over for boo-boos and tears and hugs and toys and diaper changes and moments of discipline and laundry and sweeping and picking off stickers from the hardwood floor. 

(I could go on and on....that's only what I thought of in the last 5 seconds).

Put simply, I'm not an anarchist, Mr PT man.  I'm a mother in charge of three anarchists who could give a crap about stretches. 

Didn't you hear?  They need me to find the green car that they saw two years ago.  Sigh.