Got Drugs? Or Maybe Taquitos?

Well thanks to a little "incident" that shall remain un-named...

Dan/Daddy had knee surgery last week. Good times.

He actually had his little "incident" before he left for his beautiful all-expense paid trip to Afghanistan. So this surgery is one whole year overdue.
Why walk or run through a hostile foreign country when you can hobble?

On Thursday of last week, I dropped his crippled self off at the hospital, dropped the boy off at school, and then went back to the hospital to wait.

And wait.
And wait.
It wasn't that long of a procedure, and I was able to watch some old Gwyneth Paltro movie... where her mother-in-law is trying to kill her I think. The sound on the TV was turned way down in the waiting area.

So the doctor comes out, calls my name, and shows me some really interesting photographs of the inside of Dan/Daddy's knee.
And then I waited some more.

The Recovery Room is probably my least favorite part of surgery. I hate it. Other people may not like the part where their loved one is in surgery, or in Pre-op... where the waiting for the surgery takes place.
Me? I hate Recovery. It's where the throwing up and the incoherent babbling takes place.
Now Dan/Daddy was a brave soul and kept all his stomach contents to himself. Thank God.
We (unfortunately) have had WAY too much experience with the boy and WAY too many surgeries and WAY too many Recovery Rooms and WAY too much puking. Sorry. I know that's gross.

Dan/Daddy may not have thrown up, but he made up for it with his drug induced jabbering.
You see, Dan/Daddy is CHATTY when he's clean and sober. He can out-talk anybody.
Give the man some narcotics... and let the good times begin.

I heard him telling the nurse some story before I even rounded the corner.
He told me about 12 times that I looked pretty. (In my capris and tshirt.)
He asked me the same 5 questions about 65 times EACH.
He told the nurse she was nice.
And then he told her about going to the bathroom.
He told the next nurse she was pretty. (She was.)
He told me the doctor was nice. (He was.)
He told me the doctor looked 12. (He didn't.)
Then he asked me if he'd even had the surgery yet.
I lost count of the times I said, "Be quiet."
And then they told me I could take him home. Yippee.

In the car on the way home, he noticed that the gas light was on. He told me to go get gas, and then he asked me if I ever got gas at a certain gas station. I told him "no" and that the gas station he was referring to was always way too crowded.

He says, "It's because the people go there for the delicious TAQUITOS!!"

I sped up.

Once we got home, I thought he would drag his behind off to bed and sleep for the next 3 days. No such luck. He stayed awake. And chatted.

I made him promise that he'd never do drugs, because I would kill him just to get him to shut up.

I don't mind helping him with his crutches, helping him up and down the stairs, or bringing his food or drinks to him.

As long as he is quiet.
We're on Day 4 post-surgery. He's not taking the "good stuff" as of this morning.
Ahhh... the blessed golden silence.