Trips to the ER

Every parent knows this to be a reality of parenthood because children are often the catalyst for the unexpected.  One trip to the ER was because my six-year-old daughter had slammed my son’s fingers in the door for the fourth overall time: once for every year of his life as he was four at that point.

These trips were made even more memorable whenever the attending physician required x-rays.  My son’s sensory input issues would manifest at a seemingly exponential rate, making the trip much more nightmarish.  Not only would he scream and kick and fight, we would all end up with radiation exposure and the x-ray films would end up inconclusive.

When he was four and quickly approaching his fifth birthday, we were able to reason with him more.  His fascination with robots and the like enabled us to describe most “scary looking” medical equipment as such to help him deal with his anxiety, thus the x-ray machine became a giant robot.  The x-ray technician was very helpful and realized the machine would make a noise that may prove unnerving for my son so he activated the machine while everyone was behind the protective wall to see what his reaction would be.  When the x-ray machine made it’s operating noise (kind of like a warble), it bothered my son enough for the creation of another explanation: the robot is just talking (kudos to my wife).

“Do you hear it talking?”  My wife asked him.

“Yes!”  He answered her after some consideration.  “OK ROBOT!  I’LL BE RIGHT THERE!”  He yelled to the x-ray machine from behind the wall.

It was the first time we were able to obtain definitive x-rays of my son in any capacity.  We were fortunate to have such an accommodating x-ray technician, who allowed my son to view the results.  These proved to be the most powerful images of my son’s young life: he was the proud owner of a skeleton hand!  By sheer coincidence, he had been learning about human bones and our general skeletal makeup in school, and these images made it more real for him than any school lesson ever could.

He was excited beyond containment.  He tried to match his hand position perfectly by placing it on top of the screen displaying the digital x-rays, rotating his hand as needed for alignment.  It was all he spoke about the rest of the time we were in the ER.  It was all he spoke about on the hour-long trip home.  It was all he spoke about until he fell asleep that night.  He may have even dreamed about his skeleton hand — who knows?!

The next day at school, he couldn’t stop shoving his hand in everyone’s faces and explaining how he has a skeleton hand.  The x-rays were conclusive and (thankfully) he didn’t have a broken finger — but that was entirely secondary to my son and his skeleton hand.  He was a proud owner.

The Gnarly of Scars

One of the realities of parenthood is the role of caretaker whenever injuries and maladies occur.  Though this is not my forte and I usually defer to my wife, there are occasions when I am thrust into the fold and have to make the best of things.

On one such occasion, we were getting the children ready to leave for a bowling lesson.  These were lessons provided by our local bowling alley that included weeks of lessons and a personalized ball, all for less than the retail cost of a single ball prior to personalization — an exceptional value.  This particular lesson was to be their last, when they would be receiving their brand new bowling ball, and would be able to complete the lesson using said ball.  

Since children tend to behave like children, and mine are no different, my children were not ready when it was time to leave and instead opted to engage in the panicked rush of last second tasks.  During this rush, my daughter, who was seven at the time, slid her pants across the foyer threshold and got it stuck on a nail.  Rather than taking her time to determine the cause of the snag, she forced her leg forward, snag be damned.  Unfortunately for her, giving into her impatience proved reckless as she sliced her knee open on the foyer threshold nailhead.

Cue the blood-curdling scream of pain.

After we were able to calm her down and take a look, not only were her pants ruined, but she had quite a nasty cut on her knee.  Naturally, an urgent care visit was in order, immediately causing my daughter to proclaim, "I don't want stitches," through melancholy tears.

"What would you prefer," I asked her placatingly, "a big, gnarly scar or stitches?"

"A big, gnarly scar," she proclaimed, as she sobbed and hugged me even tighter.

Who wouldn't want another scar?!  As it turns out, they didn't bother with stitches at urgent care (preferring to use glue instead).

On the plus side, my daughter was a regular celebrity when we arrived late to bowling as all had been informed of her injury and wanted assurances that she was now on the mend.  She may not have been able to use her new ball during the last lesson the way her brother was able to, but she was able to use it for subsequent visits.

Although she preferred the big, gnarly scar to stitches, she ended up with neither, which suited her just fine.

Father's Day Barbecue

I bought myself a barbecue for Father's Day as a gift.  That may sound strange for anyone to replace a perfectly good grill, but we had to replace my old one when we made the full commitment to make our household both gluten and dairy free due to severe allergies.  Cross-contamination may be a myth for some, but ignoring the reality has painful, life-threatening consequences nobody should have to endure.  We were also planning on traveling and needed something more portable for meal preparation considering our inability to eat at restaurants of any kind, so we settled on the Weber 18-½" Jumbo Joe grill.  

My six-year-old son enthusiastically helped me assemble it.  He was especially excited as he had never eaten barbecued food because of his dietary restrictions and was looking forward to his first smokey bites.  When we were finished putting it together, he looked at it proudly (as this particular grill was meant as a table topper and only reached his waist) and said with gusto:

"Your barbecue is sure my size!"

Of course it is.

He also insisted on making "do not touch" signs, only he had just finished kindergarten and spelled it "do not tush."  I took pictures and some videos and had a great time bonding with my son.

Father's Day is perhaps just another day on the calendar or another day of barbecuing in the backyard for some, but for me, Father's Day is about time spent with my wife and children, sharing my love of cooking.  Despite it being a day where they are socially obligated to show their appreciation for me, it usually ends up reminding me of how much I appreciate them.

Trashy Town

My son goes on kicks; that is to say he gets attached to things and does them repeatedly.  He will occasionally ask a question multiple times despite receiving the answer he wanted each time. 

He also has a thing for stories.  He loves them.  He will memorize a movie or a book that he loves after a single viewing or very few viewings.  "I Stink!" and "Trashy Town" were two of his favorites when he was five.  Beyond loving the written prose, we had a limited print video version of both on our server, which he could access from his Apple TV whenever he wanted. 

When these two behaviors collide, he will do everything from incorporating himself into complex plots from the stories or movies he loves, to asking questions about how he has fit into the story.

On one such occasion, my wife and children were out shopping with a family friend on one of those marathon shopping days.  During one of the final stops, my wife ran into the store by herself.  While in the car with three other children (including my daughter), and my wife's friend, my son poses a query to the lone adult in the vehicle, "can I clean up Trashy Town?"

"Yes," she replied, "of course you can clean up Trashy Town," believing this would suffice — it would not.  

"Can I clean up Trashy Town?"  My son repeated.

"Yes, I told you can clean up Trashy Town."  She replied, though unsure of why he was asking again. 

My wife returned to the car in that moment.  Shortly afterward, "Mama, can I clean up Trashy Town?!"  My son asked excitedly.

Before my wife could answer, her friend said, "you already asked me twice and I already said yes twice.  There is no need to ask your mother."

"She is right, mijo.  You already asked and she has already responded.  Yes, you may clean up Trashy Town, but there is no reason to keep asking."  My wife said.  "If you ask me again, I will answer 'no.'"

"Mama," my son began almost immediately, "can I clean up Trashy Town?"

"No.  You many not clean up Trashy Town," my wife advised him, making good on her threat.

My son's entire demeanor changed. He was solemn and fighting back tears. When he spoke, his voice was cracking.  "No, Mama.  I am going to clean up Trashy Town."  

My wife may have kept her composure, but her friend burst into hysterics.

Of course you can clean up Trashy Town.  Of course you can.

Wishes Under the Bed

I drove my seven-year-old daughter to her dance class one night.  These duties typically fall to my wife, so I like to make the most of these bonding experiences.  On the drive home, when I looked back at her in my rearview mirror, I caught her making a face of befuddlement or annoyance.  Since I wasn’t sure, I asked her if everything was alright.

“Yes!”  She said brightly.

“Then why were you making that face?”  I asked.

“It’s a secret.”  She replied.

This prompted me to launch into a longer-than-necessary explanation regarding secrets and when they are okay to keep and when they are not okay to keep.  As much as I hate to admit it, there is no shortage of evil looking to prey on the weak and innocent regardless of where you live.

When we arrived home, I explained to my wife what had happened and why we had been discussing secrets.  It was very helpful because my wife was able to come up with a way to distinguish between good and bad secrets in a way that made sense to our seven-year-old daughter — except when she asked my daughter which type of secret it was, my daughter didn’t know … so she revealed the truth:

“I don’t know why I get this feeling, but I get this feeling that there are ‘wishes’ under my bed or in my play tent in my bedroom!  I look for them whenever I get this feeling, but I’m never able to find them!  All I find is carpet and that brown thing!"  She exclaimed, referencing the central air vent in the floor.  "I keep looking, but I never find them!  I still can’t help but feel like they’re still there and I just can’t find them!”

Of course not.