The Emerald Girl

casual. classic. curious.

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

How I Got A Black Eye While On Vacation

I know this post is long overdue and I was going to write about it earlier but never got around to it but people are still asking about it so I figured I might as well post now. If you follow my Instagram Stories, then you probably know that I got a black eye while in Palm Springs earlier this year. It's still so comical for me to even think about. Every time I looked in the mirror, I couldn't believe there was this giant black/purple bruise surrounding my entire left eye. Luckily, it was sunny almost the entire time I was in Palm Springs so I wore my sunglasses everywhere I could.

Not to throw my kid under the bus but here goes: Jack(5) punched me in eye after I threatened a consequence if he didn't listen to me while I was finishing my work for the day. I was sitting on the ground which is how he was able to reach in the first place. Motherhood lesson learned. The kid feels terrible and felt terrible every single day for 3 weeks which is about how long the eye took to heal mostly.
The morning after being punched in the eye. My eye was still too swollen to open all the way.

Matt left our vacation early due to a family emergency so there I was alone in Palm Springs with two kids. There was nothing I could do but laugh about the situation. I didn't think people would think I was a battered wife. Being in Palm Springs, I honestly thought it was more likely I had a tennis accident. Like, look at all these people walking about with black eyes, they got hit in the face with a tennis ball or a golf ball. For some reason, it was just easier to be on vacation with a black eye. Once I got back home to Seattle, it began to feel more and more awkward. I didn't want to go in public at all. I wore sunglasses in the dark, grey, rainy days dropping my kid off and picking him up from school.
Five days after being punched in the eye.
Funny story: During a grocery store outing with my two kids, Jack told me that if anyone asked about my eye to tell them I didn't want to talk about it. Poor kid. He didn't understand why that would only make the situation look worse. Luckily for him, no one ever asked. I felt the pain of 1000 eyes staring at me in wonder but no one ever said a thing. Except, about a month later when all that remained was a few reddish marks, a car wash attendant asked if was OK. Trying to play it off cool, I acted like I wasn't sure what he was talking about at first before blaming the kid. I'm sure this only made me look more suspicious. I thought about that guy for a long time. Wondered what his story was that he said he would regret not asking me if he didn't. I hope he believed me for his own sake.


  1. Since I was just a wee young lass ('cause you know, I'm Irish) (no I'm not), I've had people -- family, friends, and perfect strangers -- coming up to me to ask me what's wrong? are you okay? why aren't you happy? Once I get over my initial bewilderment (what are you talking about? who are you? I'm not happy?), I realize that their misperception is probably based on one of three things:

    1. I find it excruciatingly difficult to plaster a fake smile on my face.
    2. I'm introverted, and usually pretty deep in thought -- intense, intellectual, brow-furrowing thought.
    3. I have, and have always had, big, dark circles under my eyes. So basically, I look like I've been up all night staring death in the eye. Or something equally melodramatic.I recommend you Black eye remedy through this you get instant of knowledge about Home remedies for black eye .

  2. I came back from a "romantic" vacation with my wife and a swollen shut black eye
    my beloved gave me . . . she caught me "eyeing" an attractive blond and she kept he cool until we arrived back at the hotel . . . later that night after some "high jinks" she nailed my eye shut . . . I slept on the couch . . . next morning she woke me up and just grinned . . . I wore her love tap for a month and we both loved the situations and the humor that came from the event . . .