In an attempt to up the morbidity level of this blog, I feel it is my duty to inform you that Jack Again, our latest attempt at pet ownership, has very little time left on this earth.
Magoo’s linguistical skills are growing and with them, his obsessive compulsive behaviors. He. Must. Act. Out. The. Words. As. He. Says. Them. He must. He will. He shall.
When he says:
And they will. They’ll lie through their teeth. It’s considered wrong to speak ill of the dead and a person’s death brings all kinds of healing and magical forgetfulness dust.
When Aunt J was dying, she looked over the wonderful things that were going to be said about her, picked out a specific item and said, “Don’t LIE.”
Hurricane season is almost upon us. There are readers of this blog living in earthquake, tsunami, tornado, winter storm, bird flu pandemic, country music infestation, and even war zones.
All kinds of disasters are going on throughout the world and all we can really do is prepare the best we can, pray hard and then go on living like we mean it.
Who knows if the next terror attacks will involve spit-wad activated nuclear bombs contained in pocket PCs? Not me. I most definitely do not know, homeland security personnel reading this blog. Please do not shut down my site.
We can’t know everything but we can Continue reading
I just write it up over at Parenting.com.
This post originally appeared on The Parenting Post on August 13, 2006.
I offer this wisdom up to ye of the Internet as a warning and a safeguard against wasted tax dollars and, even more importantly, total personal humiliation.
If something embarrassing happens to me, I have the ability to step back and say, “Hey. It’s not so bad. At least I’ll have something to blog about tomorrow.” When the following story happened several months ago, I was unable to say that. I swore I would never blog this, but time heals all wounds, so here goes:
As Laylee was heading out of the bathroom following her nightly tubby time, I turned off the light and shut the door behind her. As usual, I did not shut my mouth. I was blabbering on and on to Dan about some scintillating detail of my day and he was paying attention, not a bit.
Me: Blah blah and then I said, “If she’s gonna wear green lederhosen to MY playgroup, then she’s just gonna have to handle the — ”
Dan: Laylee!
Me: I know. She’s right there. Anyway —
Dan: Her fingers!
Me: What about them?
You see, Dan was too concerned about the fact that I had slammed Laylee’s fingers in the door hinge and was holding it closed to care about my excessively diverting story. Laylee was too busy administering the silent scream to actually make a noise out loud.
I looked down at her beet-red face. I looked at the door. Something started to register. Uh, I should probably do something. What was it? Ah yes, open the doooooor.
When we pulled her fingers from the hinge, one little knuckle was smooshed flat. The silent scream suddenly became less silent and Dan and I did something we’ve never done before. We both came unglued simultaneously. Not good.
In our angst, we decided to dial 9-1-1. Yeees! They’re EMTs, the knowers of all knowledge. They can tell us whether to take her in to the ER or not…if they can hear us. The silent scream was becoming less and less silent by the minute.
So I did the honors. William Shatner and his crazily beshadowed Rescue 9-1-1 eyebrows had taught me exactly what to do.
EMT: 9-1-1. Can I get your address please?
Me: 555 Daring Cross Road, Small Town Seattle
EMT: What’s your emergency?
Me: Well, I’m not sure it’s an emergency. We wanted to call and ask you. My daughter slammed her fingers in the door and one of them looks kind of smooshed.
EMT: A unit has been deployed.
Me: NO. Seriously? Oh, my gosh. Please call them back. We were just calling to ask your advice.
EMT: The unit is on their way.
Me: For real. It’s not that bad. Please don’t send a unit.
EMT: You called 9-1-1. We need to deploy.
Me: Please don’t let them turn their sirens on.
EMT: Have a good night.
Oh, crap! A few minutes went by, during which Dan got Laylee calmed down and her miraculous spongey kid finger started to re-inflate. It was beginning to look slightly pink and a little swollen and Dan was holding it over her head while she whimpered softly.
BAM! CLOMP CLOMP CLOMP. They knocked once and marched right in like it was an emergency or something, two EMTs and a firewoman.
After assessing the situation with coy smiles back and forth, one suggested that he guessed he could make a splint. He’d just need to go out to “the rig” and get some tongue depressors.
Yes, he really said “the rig.”
I told him not to trouble with said “rig” because I had popsicle sticks in the craft drawer he could use. A splint was made. They were delightful visitors and Laylee had the grandest time meeting all of them and thus putting off her bedtime.
As they left, I asked if they needed our insurance information and the largish man in the gigantic boots and plastic yellow pants winked and said, “No charge.”
Moral of the story — if you squish your kid’s finger, toe or other minor appendage, no blood is showing, and their heart is still beating in their chest, call the nurse’s hotline at your pediatrician, but leave Bill Shatner and his posse alone. They have serious work to do and they WILL deploy a rig on you.
Betty Smith paints with words, talented beyond my limited means to express. As I read this book, I ask myself over and over again the question — WHY HAS NO ONE MADE ME READ THIS BOOK BEFORE?
I’m sure Betty would say that a person cannot be forced to read a book but must discover it on their own. I can imagine she would deny the perfection of her own exquisite prose, stating that there are multiple sides and shades to anything, the good must be taken with the bad and a love or distain created out of the complex web of contradictions.
