No one ever told me that parenting a toddler was a full-contact sport.

When my son was born, my friends showered me with gifts of cute little onesies, baby bjorns, and stuffed animals galore. Had one them been a parent themselves, I remain certain they would instead have given me full body armor and a helmet.

You see, I am writing this post on the eve of my septoplasty. For those of you who don’t know, a septoplasty is a surgical procedure done to repair a damaged septum. I was not born with a deviated or damaged septum. No, my injury occurred at the hands - err, the diapered butt - of my three year old son.

Two months ago, I was very innocently lying in bed on a Saturday morning. Gavin, thrilled that it was a weekend day (what he aptly refers to as a “Mommy-Gavin Day”), bounded into my room and threw all 40 lbs of his toddler self upon me. In his pure elation, he did not consider neither his takeoff nor his landing, and he landed, diaper first, right onto my face.

My nose wasn’t broken, so I assumed all was okay. The only thing I found strange was that ever since the nose-landing incident, I suffered an unusual amount of congestion. Finally, I took myself to see a doctor who quickly assessed the situation. My septum was bent and the only way to repair it was through surgery. (He assured me that this was a very common injury, especially for those with large dogs and / or small children.)

So, tomorrow I will have my surgery. The sympathy from those around me is truly wonderful, though. When I told my Jewish mother what had happened, her reaction was, “So you’re having a nose job?” My Ex is having even more fun telling people that I am “having my nose modified.”

FML.

With all the holiday sales happening, this Jew decided to take advantage of the situation and buy herself a little present (since, you know, I pretty much miss out on the Christmas gifts).

I found an awesome pair of Hudson jeans on sale for $100. Excited to receive my new treat, I rushed them to my house via 2-day delivery. They were scheduled to arrive on December 24th.

December 24th: No jeans.

December 25th: No mail due to holiday. I sit and lament lack of jeans and lack of mail.

December 26th: No jeans.

December 27th: No jeans. I send angry letter to UPS and store where said jeans were purchased.

December 28th: UPS says they “cannot locate” my jeans’ whereabouts after December 24th, the last time they were in their system. Store where jeans were purchased launches “investigation.”

December 29th: UPS arrives at our door! With a package! …..For my Ex. I conclude the jeans have been stolen. Yelling and stomping ensues. My Ex tells me I’m crazy.

My Ex is getting sick of me talking about my jeans - in fact, he claimed I was acting like an adolescent. (Admittedly, I probably am, but I don’t care.) My theory is that the jeans were stolen by a UPS worker. They came from a well-known, high-end store that puts their logo on the outside of the package. When stated in the strong form (”UPS obviously stole my jeans”), my Ex uses this theory as further evidence of my lack of logic.  He has accused me of treating this like a national security issue.

But really I just want my poor, missing jeans. Where oh where can they be?

I really love the political humor my Ex finds on the web (though I don’t know if humor is the correct word when it’s technically the truth… and more scary than funny… ):