Hershey Park - 1, Buckey - 0

We went to Hershey Park for the first time on Saturday. Addie decided that she wanted to go to the Boardwalk and swim even though the air temperature was only 70 with a fair wind. Anyway, we packed up all our swimming stuff and headed over. Addie was all about the water despite blue lips, goosebumps and the little bastards hitting us right in the face with the water guns. (That only happened once, I can assure you.) Addie had a great time, as evidenced here:

Buckey wanted almost nothing to do with the water, but finally we convinced him at least to stand around the perimeter of the water, so we could all sort-of be in the same place. They had some beach chairs around the zero-depth water and it appeared that Kiefer was trying to climb onto one just as Chris and I switched duties (he to swim with Addie and me to try and get warm and herd Buckey.) Since the chairs are only 6 inches off the ground and do not fold, I didn't try to stop him. He had both hands on the back of the chair and had just put a knee on the seat when it started to tip in ever-so-slow motion. I stepped over to him just as he hit the ground and uttered a horrendous scream. I was surprised that he was crying so hard, and chalked it up to he a) hated the water and b) hated every place where he could see the water and c) falling down just cemented his resolve to get us the hell out of there.

Anyway, I scooped him up right away with a quick look at his face to make sure he didn't bite his lip or scrape his face. Nope. He put his head into my shoulder and tucked both hands in between us and screamed and screamed and screamed. I decided he really was hurt and so I pulled away from him so I could look him over. He lifted his right hand out from between us and that's when I saw the blood and something white hanging loose.

Oh shit.

Luckily, I am pretty solid in a crisis, so I checked it closely and the result of Buckey's mishap with the sun chair was the complete dislodge of the middle fingernail of his right hand. I don't mean most of was torn away. I don't mean it had bent back and loosened from his nail bed. I mean the entire fingernail was torn out from the root.

Oh shit.

He's still screaming. I wrap his finger in a fold of the towel, quickly walk over and tell Chris that Buckey lost a fingernail and then headed out to the closest First Aid Station. There is a chance that I ran over a few small children on the way.

He screamed like a siren all the way there, but stopped suddenly when he was descended upon by two EMTs and a nurse. They cleaned his finger and wrapped it up while the nurse filed an incident report and before he was done, Buckey was the proud recipient of two cheap stuffed dogs -- one for himself and one for sister. *(On a side note, just to illustrate how completely sweet and adorable is Buckey: He's kind of crying when they're working on him and his finger no doubt hurts like bloody hell. But one of the techs handed him this little stuffed dog and he grabbed it with his free hand, hugged it tight with a sound like, "Awww...", kissed its little nose and patted its back until they were finished working on his finger.)

Here's the First Aid Station we visited. This photo was taken AFTER the incident.

Here's Buckey with one of the first aid pups.

Here's his finger approximately 20 minutes after the incident. I re-wrapped it once we got to the car.

I cannot bring myself to take a picture of his finger the way it looks now. However, it doesn't seem to bother him anymore and today was the first day that he didn't seem to mind it without a bandage.

Here's to hoping that this does not color further interactions between Buckey and Hershey.

Footloose

So, you've probably read or heard about the hub-bub surrounding Tyler Frost, his Baptist school principal and his girlfriend's secular prom.

If you haven't, I am pretty sure you live under a rock, but here's the nutshell:
Tyler Frost attends a private fundamentalist Baptist school that forbids dancing, rock music and hand-holding, among other things, I am sure. Tyler's girlfriend goes to a public school, where presumably all of that is encouraged. Tyler wanted to take his girlfriend to HER school's prom. So, he approached his principal, requested permission (principal signed some kind of permission slip, but gave him a verbal warning that he would be suspended if he attended), and went to the prom.

*GASP* Tyler got suspended!!

Now it seems everyone (including his mother and step-father) is painting poor Tyler as the hapless victim and demanding that Tyler be allowed to attend commencement ceremonies with his classmates. His parents (mother and step-father) are preparing to sue the school.

PUH-LEASE! Give me a fucking break!

First, SOMEONE is sending Tyler to a private fundamentalist Baptist school. He's surely not sending himself there. My guess is that it's his parents (mother and step-father) because they share the wacky beliefs of this particular sect.
a.) If the parents DO agree with the principles of this school, they shouldn't file suit.
b.) If the parents DO NOT agree with the principles of this school, they shouldn't send their kid there. Duh!

Second, not a peep has been heard from Tyler's father and/or step-mother, presuming there is one.

Third, No one has given ANY explanation to points above. No journalists have asked these questions. HELLO!?!? Can someone do his/her job?

Fourth -- Tyler, suck it up, dude! You're still going to be able to take your finals and you'll still get your diploma if you pass them. You knew this would happen, you made a decision, now you have to take it like a man.

Fifth -- Tyler's parents -- give me a fucking break!!! Your lawsuit is a sham and I hope you lose, lose, lose if it even gets heard. You're idiots, either way.

Emergency, Emergency -- Red Alert!!

My daughter is frequently dramatic, imaginative and expressive. (I'm pretty sure she's a 7 with an 8 wing on the Enneagram, if that means anything to you, which it probably doesn't.) She frequently emits bloodcurdling screams and frantic cries for help when, in fact, she is pretending to be trapped in a dragon's lair that she's created out of couch cushions.

I used to run immediately, because, frankly, when your child emits bloodcurdling screams, you almost can't NOT run. However, after a few years of conditioning, I am becoming a little less urgent in my response.

The other day I was upstairs working through a mountain of laundry. (We are extremely fortunate to have our washer and dryer on the second floor where all the clothes need to go anyway, and not in the basement, where trekking up two flights of stairs with eight thousand loads of clothes every freaking day would create a serious backlog in the availability of clean clothes and would probably necessitate the enforcement of such rules as "You will wear that outfit all week, young lady!" and "The towels are not dirty till they stand up on their own!" But I digress.) The gate was at the top of the stairs and the bathroom doors were closed so that Kiefer couldn't (a) flush the toilet sixteen thousand times, (b) fall while crawling into the tub to retrieve a tub toy, or (c) drown in the toilet. Both kids were in Kiefer's room, I thought looking out his window. Everyone was safe. Or so I thought.

Addie begins to scream, "Mommy! Red alert, red alert! There's been a pooping incident! Emergency! Emergency!" Based on previous patterns, the fact that I did not hear a crash prior to the screaming and the fact that I was knee-deep in whites and colors, I asked (in kind of an exasperated fashion), "Is there any blood?!" To which, Addie replied with a little laugh, "No..." I said, "OK, then, just a second."

Seconds later my dear, sweet son comes around the corner with his cute, pudgy hand outstretched and said, "Here!" In his palm was a turd.

Shit.

Apparently, while they were looking out the window, Kiefer thought what would be more interesting than watching birds, cars and the damn school bus parked out back, would be to get into the diaper pail and rifle through old diapers.

Shit.

Anyway, no one was harmed, even though I had to sheepishly thank Addie for telling me right away about the incident. "I told you so!" she said.

Indeed.

Alright -- I get it!

Every time Buckey and Addie are playing and Buckey starts crying, I immediately say, "Addie, what's wrong?"

Apparently, she's sick of it, because just today they were playing in the living room and Buck started to cry and I asked her, "Addie, what's wrong?"

Addie answered, "I don't know -- I'm not crying!"

Stinker...

Quotables

In the car:

Addie:  "Mom, can you drive as fast as the law allows?  I gotta poop!"

In the kitchen:

Addie puts some shamrock confetti on the counter and says, "Look, Mom -- Leprechaun poop!"

In the car:

Addie:  "Mom, when I grow up, I want to be a race car driver.  Because then I can drive fast and won't have to pay the law."

Regarding her baby brother:

I had to have a conversation with Addie about being mean to, and hurting, her baby brother.  So, I went into a long explanation about how I cannot allow one of my children to hurt the other.  And how I hate to yell at Addie, but when she hurts Kiefer, I get so angry.  Then, I asked her for suggestions about what to do so that she would remember that hurting Kiefer is not OK.  

 

She paused and said, "Well, Mom, it is very difficult to handle two kids...that is why you should only have one child."  

Regarding tattoos:

Addie:  "Mommy, I like  your tattoos."
Me:  "Thanks, I like them, too."
Addie:  "When I grow up, I want to get a tattoo."
Me:  "OK."
Addie:  "But, I don't want them to use a needle, I want them to use a brush."

Drink Till You're Irish!

Happy St. Patrick's Day, everyone! Drink till you're Irish!!! (That's just a wee joke. I am in no way implying that all Irish are lushes, but as someone who proudly carries some Irish blood, we typically don't shy away from the drink...and if the shoe fits...)

Anyway, this joke is also a Scottish one; as Scots, too, know a fine single-malt when they taste one!

Mac and Paddy were fishing off the coast one fine morning. Alas, they strayed far out to sea and soon became lost.

They floated for days, hoping for rescue, but just as soon as things seemed grim, Mac fished a bottle out of the water.

He took it off his hook and wiped it clean and as he was doing so, a genie popped out and said, "Thank you, Master, your wish is my command. I will give you anything you want."

Mac didn't even hesitate, "I wish the sea were made of fine whisky," he blurted.

Paddy looked aghast!

"For God's sake, Man," he cried, "why on earth would you wish such a thing? Now, we'll have to piss in the boat!"

March Fucking 10th...

So, of the three people who read this blog, probably only one of them knows that today is my brother's birthday.  Or was my brother's birthday.  Or should be my brother's birthday.  I don't fucking know.  All I know is that my brother's dead and if he weren't, today he'd be 22.

So, instead of taking him to the Angus for a shot this weekend, or going to a strip club (oh, yes I would have!), or even calling him up just to say, "Hey..." I'm writing this stupid blog.  And if you haven't noticed, I'm still furious at him.  

But, he did visit me in my dreams on Wednesday night (March 4th -- interestingly enough, our cousin's birthday).  It was the first time since, I think, last January 21st.  Anyway, in the dream we were sitting on the front porch swing of the house we used to live in (outside Clarkstown).  In the dream I was my age and Joel was the age I remember him.  We were kind of leaning against each other, swinging back and forth and I was telling Joel what happened to him.  He didn't know and I was telling him and sobbing and he didn't want to hear it, but he listened to the whole sordid story.  He said he didn't remember any of it, and he just kept shaking his head in disbelief.  He felt really bad.  

The next scene, we were walking down the hallway of an old farmhouse I didn't recognize.  There were lots of doors on either side of us, but we kept walking to the one at the end.  I was in front and he was right behind me. 

The next scene was Dad, Joel and me putting siding up on the barn.  Joel and I were each holding and end of a pine board and Dad was using a nail gun.  Then Dad started screwing around with the nail gun, swinging it towards us and acting crazy.  I screamed at him what the fuck did he think he was doing?, was he crazy?, didn't he know he could shoot a nail through someone's head and it would kill them?  Jee, I wonder what that part of the dream meant?  (duh...) 

For the last week or so I've been thinking about Joel more than usual (birthday week and all).  And even though I haven't talked more than usual about him, or played his music, or looked at videos, somehow Addie must be getting a vibe, because for the last week or so she's been asking about him and talking about him.  

Here's the latest conversation:

Addie:  Is Uncle Joel dead?
Me:  Yep.  Uncle Joel is dead.

Addie:  How did he die?

Me:  Well, he hurt himself.
Addie:  How?

Me:  He hurt himself really badly.

Addie:  I know, but how?

Me:  [pause...think, think, think...]

Addie:  Well?  How?

Me:  [pause]  Well, honey, actually he shot himself.

Addie:  With a gun?!

Me:  Yes.

Addie:  [Exasperated]  Why would he do that?!?!

Me:  That's a good question, honey.  We don't really know.

He'd be graduating college this year.  I was sure he'd be a crime writer, or an FBI profiler.  He wasn't sure, though he knew writing would be something he'd always do in some form or another.  

He'd be teaching Kiefer to wrestle and he'd be showing Addie how to hold a guitar.  He'd be laughing with me about some damn thing or another.  He'd be talking to Chris about some kind of psycho babble.  He'd be drinking a beer with us at Loralie's birthday.  We'd all pick on Gram.  He'd tap my arm and shake his head.  He'd give me the finger shake.  He'd laugh and bend all the way over and put his hands on his knees.  

He should be and he would be.  But he isn't and he won't.  

Joel, I miss you always and love you to the end.   

Credits:  From "Bird's the Word" Collaboration kit: papers by arti-bytes and Creative Confusion (both altered). High Tower Text and Tempus Sans fonts. Adobe PSCS.