Cheeky's Hideaway

I Have Returned

My brother Michael has long suffered from a series of unfortunate events.  He's been burned by fireworks, hit by cars, laid off, and even targeted by Iraqi militants.  It should be no surprise, then, that when I found out he was getting married I started checking the news for SARS outbreaks or imminent asteroid collisions. 

To my surprise and great delight, no one caught fire or was impaled by marauding barbarians.  In fact, it was a really, really nice ceremony.  The setting was beautiful, the weather raised the bar for the word "stellar," and the bride looked radiant.  That's not to say there weren't the occasional raised eyebrows--several guests showed up in jeans, and one of the ushers had to be coaxed out of a tree when we tried to take his car keys--but overall it was a glorious event.

There was something about the fresh Northwestern air or the summer-like conditions that was truly invigorating.  I shook off the jet lag with some runs through Riverfront Park and the Centennial Trail, took Oodgie to some of my old haunts, and spent the day at the Interstate Fair, splitting time between children's rides and the horror of sheep testicles.  And when WCG gave us a night on the town (closing time: 9 PM) we took full advantage.  THAT, my friends, is worth its weight in gold.

There's still no place like home, though, and the comfort of our bed is enhanced by Cheeky's still-unadjusted sleep schedule.  (Who wouldn't want to get up at 11 AM?  Frickin' freeloader.)  The cupboards are bare, the e-mails have accumulated like crumbs under the couch, and our Tivo beckons.  But our thanks go out to the clan, who don't get to see Cheeky enough, and our congratulations go to Michael and Elisa, who are starting their new lives together.

As I said in my toast, Michael, I'm very proud of you.  Well done.  And Elisa...he's your problem now.  God speed.  ;)

Lord, I Was Born a Ramblin' Man

Not so long ago I would look for any excuse to travel.  I spent my late 20's on the road, jetting off to exotic locales like  High Point, Paramus, and Flint.  I'd use Saturday-night stay rules to tag extra excursions onto work trips, and saved up my frequent flier miles so I could go sailing in Greece and Thailand.  It was life on an expense account, and it was all right by me.

Nowadays it's not so easy.  I still like the idea of traveling, and if someone offered me a trip to Cairns or Capetown or Cologne I'd be all over that like hair on Robin Williams.  But the prospect of spending days away from my family at a time suddenly strike a powerful counter-balance to those urges. 

Travel is a part of my job, and I'm OK with that.  But now I parse it out, and make extra efforts to linger at home a few extra minutes whenever I can.  For example, tonight I booked a late flight so I could rush home after work and get 20 minutes of play time with Cheeky.  So what if she's just had a nervous breakdown or can't break away from her chicken fingers...at least I get to see her.  If I didn't I'd be sitting at the airport thinking about the moments I might have missed, and that's no good.

It was easy to dwell on this last night while I was stuck at JFK watching my flight move from a 7:45 departure to 1:08 AM!!  The bartender at the Delta lounge was tired of seeing me, and I threatened the gate agents with spice rub and sausage.  But when they got around to canceling my flight at 11:30, instead of getting angry I heaved a sigh of relief--one more day with the family.

We'll see how I feel tomorrow, when these two things collide in a marathon cross-country flight for my brother's wedding.  I'm sure when we run out of things for Cheeky to read somewhere over Colorado I'll feel differently.  But for today, it's good to be home.

Where's Your Lost & Found? I'm Looking for MY MIND

By now you've probably figured out that our daily life is utterly boring.  Writing about it would induce comas and beg comparisons to watching cars rust. 

We tend to compensate for this by going overboard every once in a while with a freewheeling "Hey, let's drive to Washington DC this weekend and tour the White House" sort of attitude.  These high-risk adventures tend to prove repeatedly that we aren't very good at them, much like investing in the stock market on September 10, 2001 taught me much about my knack for market-timing.

This last weekend, to yet again labor the point, we did indeed drive to Washington DC, opting to spend our Friday staring at the ass of New Jersey traffic for six hours rather than try to fill the chasm left by the final episode of Battlestar Galactica with apartment-bound activities.

As I've mentioned before, we have an otherwise normal friend who has untethered herself from reality to work in the White House, serving as an assistance communications director and liaison for such low profile agencies as the EPA, Homeland Security, and the Justice Department.  As a result she has special access, and as long as we promised not to make snide remarks about the administration we could take a tour of the West Wing.  Who knows when we'd get an offer like that again, so we said yes.

So this last weekend we loaded up all the necessary provisions for a long car ride with the Cheekster and slowly made our way down to DC.  Cheeky is a non-stop talker, and when she's tired she can get a little "off", so our strategy consisted primarily of multiple distractions and all the totemistic objects that she needs to sleep.  It's a tried and true strategy, and it got us through day one with minimal scarring.

The weekend was short but nice, included a panda-viewing, an ill-advised detour through Adams Morgan, and an important lesson in never letting your child go to bed before she meets the babysitter.  But the drive home...that's another story.

As mentioned above, we have a strategy for long car trips.  There are three requirements for a moderately tolerable drive with Cheeky, regardless of length or circumstances:

1. Time it so she's tired and likely to nap
2. Ensure necessary comforts--such her favorite blanket--are present
3. Provide ample televised entertainment

In a fit of extreme incompetence, we managed to do the following:

1. Let her fall asleep for five minutes just before we left...just long enough to keep her from falling back asleep but leave her tired for the rest of the day
2. Lost her favorite blanket--an object she values more than ketchup or the love of her parents--somewhere on the streets of DC
3. Left our DVD player an all DVDs on the curb in front of the hotel.

This all happened within the span of about 40 minutes, just as we were leaving.  The last was not discovered until we were halfway to Baltimore.  The cumulative results...catastrophic.

Panic.  Tears.  Improvised attempts at placation.  Finally, defeat.  You may have heard the air-raid sirens in your neighborhood, for all we know.  We were miserable beyond belief.  All of us, traveling together in a frantic, pathetic, anxious box, bouncing slowly, inexorably north while a line of cards formed to block our path at the Holland Tunnel. 

So desperate were we that we stopped at a Best Buy and bought another DVD player, calculating that $200 was a fair price to pay for a respite from the wails of dismay.

712 hours later, as we finally collapsed into a frazzled heap on our couch, Oodgie fixed me with a stare that said, "What I am about to say will be the final word on the subject."

"From now on, we FLY."

No argument, baby...no argument....

NOTE:  Some of you in "the know" may note that this post is a week late in coming.  It takes that long for the anti-anxiety medication to take effect.

So That's What They Mean By "Off"-Season

One of the perks of my job (besides free internet access and a climate-controlled cube set to 'glacial') is that I occasionally get to work on cool projects for cool clients.  This is relatively rare--I've spent most of the year trying to sell supplemental insurance and high-yield corporate notes--but when someone says, "Hey CroutonBoy, we need your help with a Colorado ski resort chain...are you interested?" the hardest part is not giving the messenger an open-mouth kiss.

So last week I flew out to Colorado to meet the client, pitch their internet-strategy, and generally look handsome and smart.  It just so happens that I also happened to know the client from waaay back in a former life, and she pulled some strings and set me and Oodgie up with a weekend at a fancy new resort they just opened.  You know, to do some research.

Now, before everyone gets jealous (and you should be) you should note the date.  Despite the presence of several feet of fresh powder the resorts themselves have closed for the season.  This wasn't necessarily a bad thing, as it saved Oodgie the embarrassment of watching me learn to snowboard.  But it did mean that things were...quiet.

How quiet?  This quiet.

We had our run of the place.  No annoying crowds.  Incredible sales on winter gear and ski supplies.  The undivided attention of the resort staff.

Shuttered shops and restaurants.  Tour companies who don't return phone calls.  Empty hallways.  Tumbleweeds.  Literally.

I couldn't shake the feeling that it was chapter 7 of The Stand and Randall Flagg would come strutting around the corner.

But the deafening silence actually helped us relax, and in the end it was great to get away for a luxurious romantic weekend on the cheap.  I managed to avoid the internet for a few days, and it felt like we were gone for much longer than we actually were.  Can't complain about that.

But now I'm back.  I'm certain there'll be plenty to complain about soon.  Stay tuned.

Catching Up on All the Boredom I've Missed

Hey guys.  How's my tan?

Don't answer that.  "Tan" for me might be more accurately described as "parchment" or "Bavarian cream" color.  But I'll take what I can get, at least as long as my skin no longer blinds passing birds.

What a trip!  We had a spectacular time, living the high-life in a villa 30 yards from the beach, with stellar sunsets every night and (most importantly) ample access to babysitting and beer.  Half the fun was having a living space twice the size of our apartment ("Look! Stairs!") and the view from the deck was pretty nice, too.  For an island that didn't even get a mention in Kokomo it sure seems like to good life to me.

It started off a little rocky.  We were dismayed when Day One was a 12 hour negotiation with Cheeky, who was apparently afraid of both sand AND water--a somewhat limiting prospect with six days left on a tropical island.  By the end of the trip, though, she was "swimming" (visualize a life-jacket with two eyes and a mop of hair peaking above the rim and you'll get the idea) and had amassed a sizable coconut collection.  She was pretty much a rock star for an entire week, with the exception of one day involving a urinary tract, a trip to visit "Dr. Babu," and a crowd of shoppers staring at the child grabbing her crotch and screaming like she was being eviscerated. 

What's a vacation without a little drama, right?

Overall, though, the whole experience exceeded expectations.  I went diving, played some tennis, pigged out like Dom Deluise at an all-you-can-eat buffet, and learned some quaint British phrases from other guests.  My personal favorites were "lilo" (an inflatable floating mattress) and "being a toad," which I'll be using to describe Cheeky the next time she denies my authority and declares that "hitting is nice!"

Unfortunately, we came back.

Which sucks. 

It's cold. 

It's boring. 

It's stupid.

I feel like I've just started rehab, and my body still hasn't accepted the fact that warm breezes and daiquiris aren't our god-given right.  Everyday I walk outside I feel like Lawrence Tynes stepping onto Lambeau Field, and it's not even the fourth quarter yet.  (That goes out to all the Giants fans out there)

I'm sure I'll get zero sympathy, but post-vacation withdrawal is a bitch.

So if anyone knows of any web agencies looking for strategy consultants based in the Caribbean or other tropical climes let me know.  Relocation will not be a problem for us. 

Cheeky would be very excited.

Antigua Road Show

The entire Crouton clan is embarking on a grand adventure this week.  For the first time we're all going away on a vacation...TOGETHER.

This is going to be a terrifying learning experience for Oodgie and I.  Once a year we try to go away somewhere and break the monotony of winter.  Although I tend to prefer destinations with plenty of things to do, Oodgie has slowly convinced me that lying on the beach doing nothing has its advantages.  Which is why we're flying out Thursday morning for a week in Antigua.

This is all well and good, but I've got a sinking feeling that this will NOT be like previous vacations.  First of all, it's a "family" resort, which means we aren't the only ones bringing someone who only speaks at one volume.  As much as I love pushing kids into pools, hotel security will probably not appreciate the humor of it like I would.  Furthermore, Cheeky will probably be so excited by the sand, jellyfish, beach scorpions, and other indigenous life that she probably won't nap--or sleep--at all.  I can imagine Oodgie and I three days in, bags under our eyes that could carry a dozen potatoes, arrested for vagrancy as we stumble about the resort in dazed confusion.  My one consolation is that we are at least not dealing with the life-sized monsters staffed at other resorts, thus vastly reducing the likelihood of chaos when a 6-foot Elmo walks up and shatters the image of toddlers with his muffled rum-soaked voice.  I like my puppets safely contained in our television, thank you very much.

In truth, this quiet dread has been slowly replaced by exuberant anticipation of the change of scenery and all-inclusive girly-drinks.  ECG is joining us, so there's an outside shot at some low-cost babysitting, and I'm packing my scuba gear in case I REALLY need to get away.  And the satisfaction of telling my colleagues, "I'm sorry I can't make that meeting, because I'LL BE IN ANTIGUA!" leave a delightfully sweet taste in my mouth.

So you won't be hearing much from us for a while ("what else is new?" chant my long-time readers) but I'm sure the warm tropical breezes and lush, peaceful vistas will keep you distracted. 

Oh no wait...that's ME!  HA!  Enjoy your winter doldrums, everyone...our tan butts will catch up with you soon!

We're Baaaaaaaaaaack!

I just flew in from Seattle last night, and boy are my arms tired.

Not just my arms, actually...all of me.  Even those parts of me that serve no other biological purpose than as signals to your brain that it's time for a nap and a deep-tissue massage.

What a week.  Six days on the left coast, five nights of fitful sleep, four flights, three time-zones, two grandparents, and one toddler with a proclivity for unpredictable and precipitous swings from delightfully cute to emotionally fragile.  The parental equivalent of Hannibal's march over the Alps. 

It started out well enough.  Cheeky was woken at 5 AM as planned, shocking us with her calm demeanor on the way to the airport.  She gamely took her shoes off at security, and excitedly reminded everyone on board that we were "going super-fast!!!" at the top of her lungs.  Sure, she practiced her screaming at the Salt Lake City airport (and let everyone within a 30 foot radius know that "Mommy is pooping") but it was mostly cute and fun.

I've been working on a formula to accurately describe and measure the five days that followed.  It goes something like this:

# of time-zones traversed x (avg. daily hours of sleep – actual hours of sleep)
# of Swedish fish offered as bribes

X

good-naturedness of child - irritability of parents
(days remaining in trip)² x ounces of alcohol consumed by parents

I'm still working on it, of course.  It's a simplified formula which hasn't been tested for repeatability, nor does it factor in such highs as the Cheeky's first night in a "big girl bed" (which she would periodically leave the room to check on and show off to whomever followed her) or such lows as her fear and distrust of my Mom's Jack Russell terriers, both of which show affection the same way the infected did in 28 Days Later.  Stephen Hawking texted me back (we R bfz) and said he thought it was mathematically sound, so I'm going with it for now.

So anyway, you get the basic idea.  When Cheeky woke up at 4 AM the first day and announced, "I'm all done sleeping now!" we knew we were in for a long trip.  We shuttled between uncles, aunts, and grandparents for a few days, most of whom were so out of practice with toddlers that they spent most of their time staring from a distance with looks of cautious bemusement.  We took her out for some fun local activities, and unearthed some classics from my childhood found (fully-intact) in the basement.  We'd distract her as long as we could, knowing full well that the briefest lull could result in either hysteria or narcolepsy. 

Admittedly, we did most of this for ourselves.  We wanted everyone to enjoy Cheeky and celebrate the rare times when the family can be together.  And in that sense we largely succeeded.  The ultimate point of the trip was only partly to give Cheeky some quality WCG² time; it was also to take my dad--a huge Seahawks fan--to a game in Seattle.

A few briefs words about the game:  long-time readers know that I'm a hardcore Seahawks fan myself.  That's synonymous with disappointment.  So before anyone who watched the Sunday night game on ESPN makes any comments let me just point out that your slings and arrows cannot harm me.  I've got decades of callouses from watching Dave Krieg, Dennis Erickson, and the refs in Super Bowl XL; if that doesn't thicken your hide nothing will. 

But it was 68 degrees at kick-off on a beautiful Seattle day.  We had great seats at Quest Field with views of the skyline and Space Needle at sunset.  Retiring All-World fullback Mack Strong hoisted the '12th Man' flag before the game.  Geoff freakin' Tate sang the national anthem.  And despite Shaun Alexander's repeated attempts to impersonate Long John Silver (to quote Troy Aikman, "Looking for places to fall down") we all had a good time.

That didn't make the flight home any easier, of course.  But we're back in our own beds, getting back into the routine of bitching about less extraordinary events.  Thanks to my family for their hospitality and patience, and thanks to my wife for putting up with all of us. 

And thanks, Advil, for everything else.

Greetings from Spokanistan!

Holy crap.  We're flying to Spokane in two days.

Between work, parenting, and rehearsing for the Biggie Smalls tryouts, I'd sorta ignored the fact that we're traveling.  Across the country.  In TWO DAYS.

It hit me last night when I was fighting with my Mom over where we were going to sleep when we got there.  Options ranged from my old bedroom (dark, full of spiders, currently used for storage), my parents room (clean, but...it's my parents room...eeewwww), and a hotel (expensive and guaranteed to create a family rift the size of Snake River Canyon).  In other words, all solutions are bad.   And we have TWO DAYS to solve it.

As usual, I'm more stressed about the actual traveling than what happens when we get there.  When I'm by myself I can shrug off the indecencies of airline travel, but when a toddler and someone who is nicknamed "Oodgie" for a reason are with me the muscles on my back roll up like softballs. 

The only time Cheeky's really a pill is when she's tired (just like her old man), and we have to wake, dress, and load her into a taxi by 5:30 AM.  We're expecting turbulence.  And since there aren't direct flights we get to deal with bags, strollers, and friendly airline personnel at least twice each way.  We hope the excitement of flying will help Cheeky compensate for the time-difference, but she could just as well get there and crash harder than Lindsay Lohan on her third day out of rehab. 

Kill me now

Don't get me wrong...I'm excited we're going.  My parents don't get to see Cheeky nearly enough, and I know they'll LOVE playing with her.  It will be fun for us to spend time with my family, too, and we're puddle-jumping to Seattle on Saturday so the Seahawks can give my dad a belated Father's Day gift (they'd better, after this weekend's debacle). 

I just wish we had a transporter room. 

The Heat is On

Cheeky has spent much of the last two weeks at ECG's pad on the North Fork.  While I was in the city splitting time between trying to sound smart with PowerPoint and mastering "Carry On My Wayward Son" on hard level (curse my useless pinky finger!) Cheeky and Oodgie were basking in the summer sun, riding carousels, and calling to tell me how "hard" it is to be there.  I could tell that poolside drinks and boating were really strenuous for everyone, so I went out there this weekend to help.

The first thing I was struck by was Cheeky's skin.  When I take off my shirt I can give the sun a tan, but Cheeky inherited her mother's pigmentation.  Outdoor activities suit her.  She was also sporting a new bathing suit with flotation devices built into it (safety first!), creating the illusion of six-pack abs.   Hey, if I can't have them at least someone in the family should.

At one point Cheeky lost her favorite sunglasses.  By "lost" I mean "threw," and I should add the word "overboard" for qualification.  They were "climbing" a pole on the boat (a little known hobby of sunglasses) and chose that moment to explore the sludgy depths off the dock, so four of us spent half an hour with a kayak paddle and barbecue tongs sifting the muck looking for them.  No luck...some crab is probably sporting really cool shades to his buddies right now.  But the obvious question is, "If they're your favorites, then why did you throw them into the ocean?" but such logic is lost on a two year old, particularly one who only wants the food you're eating, but not once you give it to her, and on the blue plate, but not the blue plate, the other blue plate, which was actually the original blue plate.

Did you catch all that?  Neither did we. 

I once again made the mistake of trying to exercise, thinking that access to shaded tree-lined streets would be sufficient to block the blazing August sun.  It felt like I was running inside a kiln.  Wearing a diving suit.  In Africa.  Or Dune.  My flabby body can't handle such punishment, despite having the nutritional reserves of an overfed walrus.  I thought a dip in the pool would help, but we'd inadvertently heated it to the temperature of molten lava, so I opted to huddle under the air-conditioner vent until I stopped showing symptoms of hyperthermia (and by "symptoms" I mean "excessive complaining").  I followed the Blue Point Brewing Company's strict regimen for combating summer heat, and it seemed to work just fine.

But we're back in the city now.  Cheeky was beginning to call the NoFo pad "my house," which would be a shocking disappointment for her in January.  She regaled us the way home with her rendition of Regina Spektor's "Fidelity" until she found some month-old Cheerios in her car seat to eat.  She finally passed out, and eventually we did, too, having absorbed enough surf and sun to fuel a renewable energy plant. 

As hot as it was, though, we can't wait to get back.  If nothing else, I still need to work on my routine...

A Series of Unfortunate Events

Like most Americans this past weekend, I honored those who died in military service to their country by sneaking out early on Friday, slippin' into my favorite white pants, and grilling any dead animal parts I could find.  Usually we're graced with nasty weather and bad traffic, but Mother Nature must have been too distracted by the butter vs. margarine debate to send her usual gloom our way.  It turned into a stellar weekend, and we did out utmost to enjoy it.

We went out to NoFo once again, but for the first time we had nice weather AND a fully ambulatory Cheeky in the mix.  How would a child living in a modest three-room Brooklyn apartment adjust to sunshine, grass, a dock, and a pool?  Ask instead whether how she'll adjust coming back.

The weekend was not without it's mishaps though, and as always they were more entertaining than working on my tan.  Here are the highlights.

The Disquieting Dookie

The drive to NoFo takes a couple of hours provided we don't hit weekend traffic to the Hamptons.  Our plan was to put Cheeky into her pajamas and to be on the road so she'd fall asleep in the car.  The primary beneficiaries of this strategy were Oodgie and I, who would be spared a trip full of Mr. Noodle and, "Uh oh!  Drop ban-kee!" every ten minutes.  With speed and precision that would shame a Nascar pit crew we were out the door, and watched Cheeky slowly lose steam in the rear view mirror...right on schedule.

*sniff* *sniff*

Crap.  Literally.

She was almost asleep, and if we kept going she would have passed out and left us with uninterrupted ride and an easy transfer once we got to the house.  But that would also mean our car would smell like dumpster juice and carrots for the next hour. 

We pulled over into a school parking lot and prepared for diaper triage.  A woman was walking out of the school at the time, and she saw a scene that looked something like this:

1. Two parents pulling into a parking lot and leaping out of the car
2. Doors are left open, lights are on, and the engine is still running
3. One parent emerges from the back seat with a listless child in his arms
4. Both parents then rush to the grass and lay the child down, hovering over her

"Oh my god, do you need help!?!?!"

"Nope, just changing a diaper.  I doubt you want to help with this."

To the untrained eye I'm sure that scene looked like the lead story on the evening news.  But no, we just hate the smell of shit.  And sadly (for us, and for three days or predictable sleep patterns) it turned into a grand adventure for Cheeky, who found it so entertaining that she stayed up and talked* about it for the next three hours. 

* By "talked" I mean more specifically "emitted random words involving blankets, water, Grandma, and 'happy faces' in indiscernible patterns.

The Perilous Plunge

Cheeky took to the pool almost immediately.  We were worried that she'd be scared of the water, but once we let her splash on the steps we couldn't get her away from it.  "Go simming!  Go simming!" was repeated like some tribal incantation all weekend, and by day three my fingers seemed permanently pruned.

On Saturday afternoon I'd convinced Cheeky to spare daddy yet another hour splashing near the dock, and we were instead near the pool playing with some toys.  ECG had just stepped in the house to make her third cocktail some chicken nuggets, and Oodgie was at the store.  It was just me, Cheeky, and what looked like all the plastic beach toys in the world.

Cheeky spotted a beach ball near by and wanted to show it to ECG.  Neither of us knew she was in the house, so we both rose to take it to other side of the pool where her second cocktail chair was.

"Remember, Cheeky, to stay with daddy!" I called as she started toddling across the bricks.

(We had had long, repetitive discussions with her about this over the previous 12 hours, all of which she acknowledge with the sincerest "O-K" she could muster.  That didn't stop me from shadowing her every move from a distance of no more than a couple feet the whole weekend.)

As I struggled off the ground she got a little far ahead of me, so I started to accelerate, knowing that some uneven bricks were just ahead.

The next few seconds happened in extreme slow-mo:

• Cheeky's sandal caught on a brick, menacingly rising just slightly above it brethren
• She stumbled forward towards the pavement in front of her
• The ball (approximately her size) came down with her, throwing her momentum...
• ...towards the pool a mere foot from her

As I came at her as fast as my saggy out-of-shape body could go I saw her roll into the pool and submerge, as if she were taking the Nestea plunge.

I don't even remember hitting the water.  Since I weigh substantially more than most land mammals Cheeky I sank beneath her like a mob informant.  I reached my hands up, caught her arm, and started pushing furiously with my legs to get her above water.  My mouth filled with water as I splashed above the surface long enough to heave her little torso over the pool edge.  Then I scrambled as quickly as I could to the bricks with absolutely no idea what to expect. 

Cheeky was sitting there, dripping and dazed.  Her floppy hat was still on her head, hanging much lower to her shoulders than it had moments before.  She looked at me, burst into tears and said, "Fall down!  Wet!" 

I reached out and held her for what seemed like an eternity, patting her on the back and said, "It's OK, sweety.  You fell down, but you're OK.  You're going to be OK."   

In reality, it was probably about 20 seconds.

The screen door slammed above us and ECG came trotting down the stairs with a plate.  "I've got lunch!" she said.

"Hun-gy!" stammered Cheeky, as she crawled out of my arms towards the chicken fingers and corn.

It wasn't until that moment, sprawled on the bricks by the pool, with my breath coming in ragged tatters and my heart racing like I'd just escaped a sinking U-boat, that it hit me how close she'd come to complete disaster, and how close I'd come to a loss I would have spent a lifetime grieving.

But more powerful than that was the incredible resilience and bravery of my daughter, who mere moments earlier had been channeling the baby from the Nevermind cover, and who could have emerged traumatized (or worse) but was now smearing ketchup into her still dripping swimsuit. 

An hour later she was splashing on the stairs in the shallow end again, this time surrounded by four hyper-vigilant adults.  Her luck and resilience had been tested enough for the day.

The Calamitous Contusion

"Whooooop!"

I'm sitting in a little tent in the back yard (where Cheeky is simultaneously demanding and rejecting peaches) when I hear this noise. 

"Owwwww!"

I peak my head out of the tent to see Oodgie lying on her back under a hammock. 

"What happened?"

"I fell off the stupid hammock!  I can't believe you didn't see it!"

Neither can I, because it probably would have been really funny.

Anyway, Oodgie was cursing the hammock and groaning for a while.  Then, as is her wont, she started to ruminate about it.  It went from "hurting badly" to "something serious" to "I think it's broken" in very short order.  Normally when Oodgie has cancer or a brain cloud or some rare malady unnamed by medicine I try to comfort her and talk her through it until she moves on to the next injury.  But this time it seemed a little more serious.  "Maybe we should get it looked at," I suggested.

Oodgie dreaded telling a doctor about a hammock-induced injury, but after when she couldn't move it without excruciating pain we decided to drive to the local hospital.  They were startlingly efficient at getting us through the paperwork and in to see a doctor, past the kid with the fish-hook in his arm and the old groaning man in the corner who, from the disinterested looks on the nurses faces, was a regular visitor. 

"About time was it when you fell off the hammock?" yelled the nurse from an adjoining room.

"Can you maybe not ask that quite so loudly?" Oodgie asked.

"Yeah, what time did you fight off that bear this morning?" I offered.

"Wasn't I rushing into a burning building to save a child?" Oodgie asked.

"White fighting off a chainsaw-wielding psycho with kung fu, as I recall."

Eventually the x-rays came back, and the doctor came in to tell us that Oodgie had a "contusion," which is medical jargon for "a big boo-boo."  There was nothing to do but put ice on it and try not to fall off any more hammocks.  We asked for a sling just in case (i.e. for sympathy) and returned to the house to self-medicate.  Another crisis (sort of) averted!

But I've caught myself glancing up in case a safe or piano was suspended on ropes above me.  I'd hate this to be a trend.

I hope everyone had a great (and less-eventful) holiday weekend!