In my youth, I was a six-days-week ballet dancer.
Fact:
In my thirties, I am a one-class-every-six-weeks (fingers crossed) yoga practitioner.
Fact:
The former gave me a bad back (not chronic; just something that flares up.)
Fact:
The latter ain't enough to keep my spine in check (Pft. Surely yoga once every 42 days should cure anything and everything, yes?).
Luckily, my eldest is a Doc McStuffins in training, and when I mentioned today that my back hurt, she insisted we get a princess band-aide--stat.
But not just any princess for Mama's pain. Oh-ho no.
Only Belle would do.
And only Belle in a very specific spot on my back, which took me three failed attempts to locate according to my doctor daighter's direction.
I'm happy to report that Belle (and a lot of icing, stretching and careful lifting) helped me make it through the day.
I'm so lucky to have this concerned, bossy bugger taking care of me:
I mean, who wouldn't trust their medical care to an Elsa dress-wearing, straw-shunning, fruit snacks-loving, not-yet-three-year-old?
;)
Happy Wednesday, peeps!
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