Kobayashi Maru

Wow. I cannot believe that I am able to even type yet. My finger are still a little shaky and it’s been 19 hours since it happened. It was one of the worst things that you can imagine. Ferf went out to work about 6pm with our one family vehicle. It was a normal Saturday night really. She called me at quarter to 7 to see if Obama had given his victory speech in South Carolina yet, and then she turned off her cell phone as she always does when she is doing a presentation. No big deal.

The Muppet and I hung around the house eating a lovely dinner in front of the TV while she asked me questions about who the man was on TV (Obama) and who the “old lady” was on TV (Hillary) - and she told me that the old lady looked mean and she didn’t like her. Then we discussed the difference between a Democrat and a Republican. To her credit, she sat there, making eye contact, listening to me wax eloquently about platforms and philosophical differences, and the upcoming election in the US. When I finally took a breath, she said, “That’s nice daddy…can we play turtle now?” Which, in fact, about how I feel regarding the whole thing right now. “That’s nice…let’s go play turtle.” What the Muppet means by that is what most of us refer to as a pony ride. Namely, I get on all fours, she climbs on my back and away we go.

She calls it turtle, because every now and then I will pull my head into my shirt and tell her I can’t go down the hall because I am scared. Then she pats my head and says, “It’s okay daddy, you don’t have to be scared, I am right here with you and I am not going anywhere.” Then I pull my head back out, nod, and continue my way toward her bedroom. It’s a fun game really. Last night, after I was too scared to go down the hall, and she gave me my security affirmation, we started going down the hall and she decided that we should close all the doors as we went. (It would make me less scared.) So we shut the bathroom door. Then we closed the door to Ferf’s office. Then we only had 2 doors left, my bedroom and her bedroom. We went for mine first. I reached for it and began to close it, and that is when the Muppet put her hand out and caught the end of her middle finger caught in the door jam.

As the door closed, I heard her yell. I looked around and it was obvious that she had pinched her finger in the door. I was turning around to pick her up and kiss her and get some ice for her, I looked at her hand. That is when I saw the blood dripping off her wrist. I then thought, she must have ripped a fingernail and that is going to hurt, so I went to the bathroom with her to wash the blood off so I could get a better look. She was crying and it was getting louder. As I rinsed the blood off, I got my first good look at the finger and that is when shock sat in for me. I realized (all at the same time):

1. it was very bad
2. the end of her finger was only attached at the very top and had been literally torn off
3. it was bleeding profusely
4. the Muppet had no idea how bad this was - nor could I let her know
5. Ferf had the car and I was vehicle-less
6. I only had a cell phone, so when I called 911 - I had to be calm in order to keep the Muppet calm as well as so I could give detailed directions to dispatch
7. I needed to get some ice on the wound and some clean towels to staunch the bleeding
8. I had to let the 911 operator know exactly what had happened, what the situation was, and how urgent it was that the freaking ambulance get here like a bat out of hell, and all without the Muppet catching on to ANY of that. As well as give her the address and landmarks
9. I had about 30 seconds before the shock wore off of the Muppet and the screaming began in earnest
10. I was going to have to do all of this while carrying the Muppet becuase if I sat her down, she would invariably look at her hand and all hell would break loose - including, but not limited to vomiting and passing out (neither of which was I going to be equipped to handle given the previous 9 things

I got them all done and then just held the Muppet to me and talked to her while waiting for the ambulance and walking around the kitchen. I then realized that I needed to clean up all the blood in the bathroom and kitchen sinks where most of the blood had been spilt. I needed to do this because:

a. Ferf’s phone was turned off

b. She often forgets to turn it on when she leaves work to come home

c. She could conceivably get home with no knowledge of what had happened, and find the place empty with blood in two areas of the house and COMPLETELY FREAK OUT

d. At which point she would be useless to drive to the hospital to pick us up because she would be COMPLETELY FREAKING OUT and this was not a conversation one should have over the phone after one party has started COMPLETELY FREAKING OUT.

This meant that I had to clean up the blood while holding the Muppet and not letting on to the Muppet that I was in fact cleaning up HER blood. Again, mission accomplished.

The ambulance arrived in 12 minutes exactly, and yes I know that to the second. And Paramedic Dean, gave the finger a quick look and said, “grab what you need and get in the truck.” Now, I kinda figured that this was outside the scope of what the paramedics were ready to do there at the house, but somewhere in the back of my head, I was hoping that they would say, “I know it looks bad, but that ain’t so bad. Let’s throw a band-aid on it and see how it goes.” Silly, if not completely asinine, I know, but it was what I was hoping for.

We grabbed my cell phone, my wallet and the house keys - because I realized in that moment that Ferf had decided to take what we still call “the diaper bag” with her to work cause it was large enough to hold her clipboards. This is relevant only because it contains (amusingly enough “in case of emergency) the Muppet’s care card, her red card from the hospital as well as our letter from the doctor about her Neutropenia and how they should handle that. So, with that little thought in mind, I said with all the confidence I could muster, “I got everything I need, let’s go.” I figured, worst case scenario, I could…uh…make them understand. I do have that capability in me, and it was and has been itching to get out for quite a while and this seemed like one of those times where I could explode on all living things, and I’d probably even get a pass after it was all said and done under the auspices of “momentary insanity brought on my severe stress.” (None of that happened or was necessary it turns out - in case you are wondering, or are my mother who would be highly displeased by that type of behavior from me.)

So we get into what the Muppet refers to as the “really big truck” and off we go. The Muppet plastered to me in my lap, her finger being unwrapped from my obviously non-medically trained job with the dish towel and re-wrapped with sterile gauze. I watch the paramedic’s eyes as he does this and think two things - (1) it is bad and (2) I would kick this guys ass in poker if he ever tried to bluff. We get to the hospital and get the “they called 911 and get to go to the head of the line” treatment. I carry the Muppet to a waiting wheelchair and we are pushed directly into the back area. I do want to note that the Muppet picked the right day and time to have this happen, as the place was nowhere near full and we were in and out in less than 2 1/2 hours. The paramedic took care of all paperwork - I was never even asked for her care card, red card, or my extended medical card. We were put in a bed and the nurse came over to give it a look. As I had with the paramedics, I just told the Muppet that this was a doctor going to look at her (most understated euphemism in the history of my family) “owwie.” He too would be my bitch in a poker game. He re-wrapped it, and with strong forethought, put the topical numbing cream on her where an IV “might go later”.

The Muppet then started looking around and asking me about everyone else there. I was in a quandary. I wanted to keep the Muppet distracted, but not at the expense of all the other folks who were not looking so hot themselves. SO, I told her that I didn’t know, but what did she think. She said, “we should play the imagination game like Mommy and I do.” (God bless Mommy!!!) Then the Muppet begins to tell me about each person and why they are here. The man with what looked like 5-6 rods in his leg and back, according to his x-rays, had a “broken toe.” The lady who was having some kind of reaction to the surgical procedure they had preformed on her neck, was here with a “head cold”. And the doctor (male nurse that had re-bandaged her finger) was just walking around bringing milk and cookies to those who needed them.

By this time I had left a message on Ferf’s phone. Like there’s an easy way to do that…with much lilt in your voice, “Hey babe. It’s me. I wanted to let you know that you need to give me and the Muppet a ride home before you go there. We had a little accident. Everything’s fine. We’re up at KGH, so come on down here and meet us. Love you!” Yeah, even the nurse looked at me a little funny with that one. He said, “uhh…wow, that actually sounded believable. What do you do for a living?” I told him I was a pastor. I kid…I kid. I just said, “hey, it is in everyone’s best interest that certain people be kept as calm as possible for as long as possible.” He smiled and nodded a knowing nod. Then I called a buddy and told him what was going on and asked that he continue trying to reach Ferf and let her know. I told him that is was one of those times where you wished to God that you had not been there, and thanked God profusely that you were the one there. He, a father of 3 adult children, laughed and said, “You wish you weren’t there from a culpability standpoint and are glad you were from a “nobody freaked out” perspective.” At which I simply laughed and understood that I was not the only father to have those same emotions. For some reason this made me feel much better.

Eventually the doctor on call come in to look at the finger. He was a huge guy - well over 6 feet tall. He looked at the finger and said to me, “smashed in a door eh? See this a lot.” (that as well made me feel slightly better) “These little fingers are like salamander tails - they grow right back together no problem. We are going to give her a little something to keep her quiet and still and she won’t remember a thing about what we are going to do.” To which I replied, “Can you give some to her mother when she gets here too?” I was the only one who even smiled at that. They are a serious bunch those life-saving types. Anyway, we walk back to another room where I lie down on the bed and the Muppet lies on me. They start working with the IV stuff and suddenly realize that overhead surgical lightening is going to be beneficial to everyone. So they decide to take us to trauma room 1. I know that this means a larger room with overhead lighting and all pertinent accoutrements for anything them might do, but I do wish at the time they had just said, “Let’s go to that big room down the hall.” Trauma Room 1 sounds so ER-ish. And not very comforting. So to punish them I go for the assumptive close and tell the Muppet that we are going to get to ride in a bed! They look at me funny, shrug their shoulder and say, “sure, why not.’ And away we go on a magical moving bed.

We get to the aforementioned Trauma Room 1 - which by the way, is really a well lit storage room right by the back entrance. But I digress. We get there and they have 3 nurses looking after getting an IV started in the Muppet through which they will drug her good. The big Dr. walks in followed by what I assume is an intern. (I know this from watching Grey’s Anatomy with Ferf all the time. I am watching her and cannot help but think to myself - I bet she is sleeping with an attending. TV really screws you up dude. Seriously.) The intern is maybe 5 foot tall. Maybe. The Muppet lifts her head and says, “Why are they bringing in such a little doctor?”

Usually, I try to correct this type of verbal faux pas from the Muppet, but I figured she deserved a bit of latitude, so I let it hang. The Big doctor kinda smiled and said, “Well, I am much to big to doctor a little girl like you, so we have her here to be the little doctor for little people.” The Muppet nodded with understanding and the nurses all stifled laughs. They pushed 15ml of some white liquid into the Muppet’s IV, to which she asked, “why are you giving me milk?” The nurse replied, “you looked thirsty.” And about that time the Muppet’s head lolled to one side and they announced that she was out. (Keep in mind that I am laying on the bed with the Muppet laying on top of me this while time. I don’t know why that’s important, but it happened so why should I not allow you the full story?)

At this point they cleaned up the finger pretty well. And the doctor even cringed a bit. He told me that there was no use even thinking about keeping the fingernail - at which I almost thought I head him say no use keeping the finger. Once I realized what he said, I was like, “uhhh…on the scale of priorities, that’s really no big deal doc.” He nodded and pulled the fingernail off. Then they went to stitching. At that point the Muppet started coming out of the drug induced haze and they pushed another 10. Then back to stitching. They stopped long enough to tell me that she would probably have ridges in that nail because they were going to have to sew right through the nailbed. Again, it seemed more like an FYI than an inquiry as to tactics, so I nodded at him. And they put the first stitch through the nailbed. That got her another 10 pushed into the IV. Seems like my daughter has inherited at least thing from me - a disturbingly strong tolerance against medication. Whatever you think you ought to give her - go ahead and double that.

They got the finger reattached and reconstructed with no other issues. As they were finishing up my cell phone rang. It was Ferf. She had not checked her messages and so when I answered the phone, I got this perky voice: “Hey babe! I’m on my way home! It was a great night!” I gently asked if she had checked her messages. Now, it was intuitively obvious, even to the most casual observer that there was no way in hell that she would have said that to me if she had heard my message. But I said it anyway, I think it was to (a) get her prepared mentally that there was in fact news to hear from me of some level of significance and (b) give me a chance to shake my head and quickly figure out how to get her to the hospital without having an accident. Evidently it was time well spent, because I was able to communicate with her in such a way that she came to the hospital with no real scare. When she got there a nurse walked in and asked if a visitor could come back. I looked at the nurse who was left in the room (everyone else had moved onto other emergencies) and said, “she has a law degree, a nasty temper and a baby girl in trauma room one. I suggest you let her on back.” (the temper thing I made up, but it got a point across and it was fun to say with a straight face.)

The Muppet finally woke up enough that we got to take her home and she was in bed by like 10:30. Scarily efficient. Now she has her middle finger on her right hand all gauzed up and 7 dissolving stitches holding it all together. On a side note, she hasn’t cried or even complained today. She mentioned that he owwie hurt once, and Ferf gave her some Tylenol. That’s it. She even fell once and caught herself with both hands on the ground - not a peep. It boarders on weird really.

Her two biggest concerns, while I was holding her and waiting for the ambulance, were (1) her nail polish that she got at a friend’s birthday party was going to get messed up and (2) she couldn’t practice piano with a hurt finger and she wouldn’t get a sticker. (I am going to let Ferf deal with explaining to her that there is not going to be a nail to polish for a couple of months.)

One last humorous thing about the Muppet. When we got to the hospital the lady paramedic asked the Muppet if she wanted some stickers. She nodded and the lady started to hand her 3 or 4 stickers. The Muppet (ever the pro at doctor visits because of her neutropenia) smiled at her and said, “silly, you don’t get the stickers until after you are done.”

Now, I am here to tell you that when I got home all I wanted to do was pass out, but all my body wanted to do was shake uncontrollably. This parenting thing can be brutal on your emotions. By the way, when the Muppet woke up at the hospital and saw her mom sitting there, she sat up, pulled up her hand to show her mother her bandaged hand and said, “Look Mommy, I pinched my finger a little.” Then she lay back down and smiled the smile of the heavily sedated. I wished they had given me some of whatever they had given her. I could still use some. Or lots.

By the way…I wish someone had told me about these things:

Yeah, that’s fricking genius. MARKET THIS CRAP FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!!!!!!!

...Comment [4]

Ahh, the Muppet. She of the cherub-like countenance and devil-like manipulation ability. She is truly the glory of my life and the source of most of my consternation. I realize that she is but three and I have a lifetime of anxiety and dismay ahead of me where she is concerned. In fact I have full anticipation that at some point in the future I shall be forced to kill some dumb boy who is stupid enough to have designs on my daughter and then I will need to flee back to Texas where I will defend my actions in court under the auspices of “justifiable homicide.” And I will be exonerated. But that is another post for another time.

This post is simply to further cement exactly what type of intellect I am up against with regards to the Muppet. Ferf and the Muppet came to pick me up at work one day this week – which is actually not uncommon as we only have one vehicle, and I tell it to you only for the purpose of setting the scene as opposed to implying that it has anything to do with this tale in and of itself as it does not. Nonetheless (and nonethemore I suppose) I was at work and they did indeed come to pick me up. Ferf and I were relishing each other with tales of our day when the otherwise heretofore Muppet speaks up and says, “Sorry Daddy. Sorry about what happened to your special book.” At this point I look over at Ferf who says, “yeah, I was going to wait until I got home to have her tell you about that.” So now I am really fretful about this of which they speak, which as you know if you are paying attention, I still have not been let into the loop on. So I ask, well both of them actually, “so…uh…what happened? And to which special book of mine?”

Ferf looks back at the Muppet, who has gone back to being exceptionally quiet for a car ride, and says, “somebody got out of bed at nap time. And she went into our bedroom. And, before I caught her, had found your moleskin journal and ripped a couple pages out of it and drawn all over them with your pen.” At this point I hear from the back very quietly and sheepishly, “sorry again Daddy.”

Now, to be fair, I was pretty ticked off at this point. And to be more honest than I probably ought to be, I was a little choked at both of my girls. The Muppet for disobeying at least 3 known dictates: (1) not to get out of be during nap time (2) not to go into our room alone and (3) never to touch things that do not belong to you without permission (plus a couple of lesser verbalized, but no less important, ones like don’t tear up my books and don’t draw in my books and don’t steal my freaking per – cause it is my really cool one that has squishy handle where your fingers rest on it AND it lights up when you click it so you can write with it in the dark.) And Ferf for not noticing that our 3 year old daughter had gotten out of said bed and stolen into said bedroom and taken said moleskin journal and torn said pages out of it and drawn said pictured in it.

But I, with what in hindsight was more wisdom than I would normally give myself credit for in such a situation, simply stayed quiet until we got home. Honestly, my biggest quandary was how to appropriately punish the Muppet. (Ferf, I knew, would be spanked later.) Since she is so young, it seems better to do the punishment as close to the infraction as possible so that she fully understands that it is a consequence of her action. But in this case there was like a 2-3 hour gap between the action and what I was going to do. I was, however, aware that what she had done was still in the forefront of her mind because she continually apologized for the action during the drive home. So, I thought I would take a page out of my mother’s playbook and have a talk with the Muppet before I took action.

My mother was a master at this. Growing up I always wished that my mother would have just physically abused me instead of subjecting me to the “talks.” When a parent sits you down to “talk” there is nothing worse. Because at that moment you start to realize how much your actions hurt them. They are disappointed. THAT IS THE WORST. Seriously, I so many times wished that my mother would have just taken me outside to some converted woodshed (not that we used wood, or had a shed for said wood during my childhood mind you, but the idea was still there in my head) and in the heat of the moment just beaten me within an inch of my life. But, no, I got the talk first. Then she would spank the hell out of me. But I could live with the spanking. The talks were the worst. (of course over time I began to realize this about myself and learned to completely callous over any semblance of a conscious, and then the talks weren’t so bad.) But the Muppet is 3 and really hasn’t had many of the “talks”, so I thought I would try my hand at it.

When we got home I took her into her room (which was another thing my mother always did. The talk always happened in your room. I am not sure of the psychology of that, but I am sure there is some reasoning for it. Maybe she just knew herself real well and understood that removing herself from the temptation of the knife drawer in the kitchen was a wise idea in case during said talk I said something stupid and she be overwhelmed with a compulsive desire to kill me and have another last kid – possibly cute and a hell of a lot more compliant.) But whatever, that was how my mom did it, so that would be how I did it. So the Muppet and I go into her room and I look at her very solemnly and say to her in a still, small voice (not that I was trying to be god-like, but I find that the quieter I get them more anxious the Muppet gets. She would much rather me get loud. She can deal with loud, but when I lower my voice she always asks “why are you talking in your mad voice Daddy?) “Do you know what you did wrong Muppet?” And she says, “I do Daddy. Do you want me to tell you?” And I say sure, cause I am not completely sure that she grasps the gravity of what she as done. And she begins what comes across as a very well rehearsed public allocution.

She says “Well. First I got out of bed during naptime without permission. Then I went into your and Mommy’s bedroom and I am not allowed to do that either. But that wasn’t the worst part Daddy. Do you know what I did then?” Seriously, she asked me if I knew what she did next. Like she is relaying a story to me about somebody else and she is upping the drama content so I will stay interested and listen. (It’s downright frightening how much my daughter understands this kind of thing – whether it is actually cognitively getting it or just inherently perceiving how to do it. It’s very surreal to be in that situation, having “the talk” and the defendant begins to confess with a dramatic flair.) Anyway, somehow I managed to keep my serious exterior and I said with little to no inflection in my voice, “No, what did you do then?”

And she continues, “Well. Then I found your little book. And I wanted to draw some pretty pictures for my friend cause her birthday party is at pre-school next week. So I did.”

I asked the obligatory follow up question, “Muppet, did you tear pages out of Daddy’s special book?” And she says, “yes, I did Daddy, but you know what? “What Muppet?” I ask, thinking that she is going to try and give me some excuse about why this wasn’t such a bad thing. But she goes the completely other direction. Something right out of Wizard of Oz “pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. She says, “but your pen lights up with a neat blue light. Did you know that Daddy? I love your pen. Can I have your pen Daddy, because I love you pen, and it would make my heart happy if you gave me that pen.” With complete incredulity, I stared at her, for what should have been an uncomfortably long time. (Of course, she is 3, so her understanding of social norms doesn’t really allow me to use uncomfortably long silences because she believes that this simply means that I am deeply considering her request.) So eventually, once I have come to realize the fruitless nature of that tactic, I simply say, “No. You cannot have my pen. You are in a lot of trouble little girl.” To which she says, “I know.” Like that is a given. I can almost hear her mind working and she is thinking to herself, “Yep, I am in deep doo-doo here, that’s for dang sure. But, hey, if I can score a pen that lights up out of this debacle then the entire day isn’t a complete write off, right?”

Giving up on this particular line of conversation because it is becoming intuitively obvious even to the most casual observer, that either I am nowhere near as skilled at this as my mother is, or the Muppet is playing by an entirely different set of rules and I am at a severe disadvantage, I go on to the second thing I learned from my mother in this arena. ASK THE CHILD WHAT THEY THINK THEIR PUNISHMENT SHOULD BE. This one is a known winner. My folks swear that Marvin and I would always give ourselves a worse punishment than they would have done if left to their own devices. (ok, so maybe Marvin took a little longer to catch on than I did. By the time I was like 5 I was thinking, hey maybe I can convince them to cut the punishment down to a reasonable amount. Whereas Marvin in high school was coming up with winners like “If I make below a C on the next report card you can not let me play football at all next year.” Yep. My folks would never have dreamed of pulling us out of football for anything less than grand theft. This is Texas we were in. That’s like saying, “well, you weren’t a good boy, so I am going to have to ground you from Jesus.” But, hey, Marvin came up with it, and they agreed. And that is why, boys and girls, Marvin ran cross county during football season his sophomore year in high school. Anyway, back to the Muppet, who is facing the same firing squad – the dreaded “what do you think I should do to you” loaded question.

For the purposes of background, Ferf had suggested grounding her from what little TV she watches for a period of time. Because, even though she gets only a small bit of TV on any given day, we are at that place in time where a day without Dora is fairly traumatic. But I let the Muppet have first kick at the proverbial can on this. Her response is fairly blunt. “Daddy, I should probably get a swat.” Now there is no real joy in giving your child a swat. I am not against the practice in general, but it has limited value and needs to be employed judiciously. I was not of a mind that this was one of those times. So, I suggest the possibility of losing TV privileges to her for the purposes of gauging reactions. The Muppet seems semi-horrified at the prospect and reacts accordingly. She says, “oh no Daddy. I should really get swats.” And she says it with some strength. I have to admit that I was intrigued at her desire for physical discomfort. So I pushed a bit to better understand her thought process, or to see if she were really giving that proper thought. “Why would you rather have a swat Muppet?” At which point she looks up at me and nods her head as if to add emphasis and says, “because then while my bum hurts I can watch TV.”

I swear this girl has the thought processes of a teenager. And I am going to be in a lot of trouble.

Just so you know, she got grounded from TV for 3 days. Which, for those of you playing the home game, turns out is MUCH MORE like punishing me. 3 days of constant whining.

Seriously.

Next time I am going to build a woodshed.

...Comment [3]

Ok, I am back and relatively composed after reliving the Muppet story from day one on the trip to Texas. Thank you to all of you who sent your own personal stories of similar things happening with your children. Oh alright so maybe no one actually has ever had such an experience such as that, but if any of you had, I am sure that you would have told me your stories so that I wouldn’t feel so totally alone on this.

Anyway, that was not the only thing that happened on this trip. In fact, I need to introduce you all to a new character in the ongoing saga that is my life – or at least the parts that I (a) choose to share with you and (b) embellish to the point of being blog-worthy. Ferf’s paternal grandmother – Mawmaw – played a role in this trip. She is the matriarch of the clan and is 90+ years old. She is a really sweet lady. I want to say that upfront. She really is. In fact, I should start this by saying in true southern fashion, “God bless her, she is a really sweet lady.” But she was one of the funnier folks in the house this year.

She dropped some pretty good lines on her grandkids this trip. She gave Merf some lovin’ by talking about her to her cousin Topher while she was standing right there.

Allow me to explain. Mawmaw had been chatting with Merf and said cousin for a bit in the kitchen after ScottyBear and Yoda’s wedding. It was a lovely scene right out of a hallmark, made for TV movie. A grandmother and 2 of her grandchildren celebrating the wedding of another grandchild, with the whole family having come together from all around the continent, just two days before Christmas. There should have been music playing in the background. Seriously, something classical-ish with piano and maybe even well played harps – nothing over the top mind you, but emotionally stirring for sure. And then just at the pivotal moment when the show would have cut to commercial because it couldn’t get any sweeter without causing the already volatile suicide rate during the holiday to spike, real life kicks in. Mawmaw, takes a moment to look at Merf like only a grandmother can. The look of someone who sees some of them self in the child of their own child, then turns to Topher and says, “Well, she’s pretty to look at, but she ain’t worth a dime.” AND CUT TO COMMERCIAL.

That was a Christmas moment to remember for sure, but Merf was not the only grandchild that she verbally loved on this holiday season. She shoveled some on Topher’s older brother Jono too. Jono is a great guy. He’s one of those freakishly smart guys…you know the type, they graduate from college and build new types of naval vessels for the US Navy and the navies of other governments (mostly friendly to the US government) all before he turns 14. Okay, so maybe he’s a little older than that, but NO ONE should be able to do that before they are like 50 or something, and he’s barely 30. I don’t even think he shaves yet. ANYWAY…he’s hanging out with his little brother and their grandmother, doing the whole holiday focused, intergenerational familial thing. The conversation is superficial but warm with humor and good natured ribbing salting the dialogue. Mawmaw is there looking back and forth at the two boys, but mostly not following the quick witted banter (or possibly even hearing half of it). She has a wry little smile on her face and her hands in her lap. From every outwardly angle, she is the picture of grand-maternal love and affirmation. And then, with no real segue, she busts out with a stereotypical inquiry that one comes to expect from one’s elderly family members. (You know how antediluvian nonagenarians can be with streaming non-sequiturs, and if you don’t, then consider that anyone who can use “antediluvian” and “nonagenarians” simultaneously in the same sentence is worth giving the benefit of the doubt to.) So she says to Jono, and really you need to do this in your best elderly voice, “Guess what I just bought!?”

Jono: I don’t know Mawmaw, what did you buy?”

Mawmaw: I’ll give you a hint, it stats with V B…

At this point, Jono and Topher exchanged looks with each other in a conspiratorial way that brothers do when they are not sure how to deal with the fact that their grandmother gave them a “clue” that made absolutely no sense. After all, if you look in the dictionary under the V’s – there is no word that starts with VB, and chances are that Mawmaw had not recently bought a personal copy of visual basic. But, Jono, being the kind, gentle guy he is, tried to pander to Mawmaw’s desire to have a conversation with her grankids. So he haltingly said to Mawmaw: I don’t think anything starts with VB, Mawmaw…

Mawmaw snapped her head up and looked hard at Jono and said: Vertical Blinds dummy! Use your brain college boy! V-B = vertical blinds. I gave you two letters dummy. Sheesh.

And she walked away. Jono sat there in stunned awful silence, while Topher peed his pants as he rolled on the floor laughing hysterically.

And, appropriately, for most of Christmas we continually referred to each other as “college boy” or “dummy” or extorting others to “use their brain”. It was a very warm and fuzzy time for us all.

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So the Muppet got a new t-shirt. It was a gift from a friend of mine. They saw the shirt and immediately thought that I would howl laughing cause Marvin would be appropriately horrified by the thought that his niece was wandering around in Canada wearing a shirt that was supposedly about her uncle.

Whatever, I thought it was hysterical. Marvin, the Muppet is giving you a shout out.

hee hee. I said hee hee.

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