It’s December, and my son’s desire to kill my grass with hot urine has not waned. We’re smack dab in the middle of an unusual cold spell in northwest Oregon which, despite my assumption to the contrary, has absolutely no bearing on the fact that my preschool boys insist on using our backyard as a litter box. After all, it’s not like you can stow your public urination skills with the patio furniture for the winter, right? Yeah; I don’t know what I was thinking.
I’m currently conducting a scientific experiment to see whether there’s a temperature too low for outdoor urination, and I’m beginning to hypothesize that little boy penises have some sort of special insulation which make them impervious to the cold; if I’m wrong, then I’m not sure why they’re so confident that their boy parts won’t freeze solid and fall off.
In news related to frozen pensises, I put up a blog post yesterday about Christmas cake that unintentionally featured my son wearing a prominent forehead band-aid.
Honestly, facial band-aids are so common around my house, I didn’t think to mention it. In fact, I stopped seeing that band-aid days ago, which also explains how I can live with all of my Christmas gifts from last year still piled high on my bedroom dresser. The band-aid recalled itself to my memory when, bless your kind hearts, I received several messages wondering what happened to my poor kid. I forget that there’s a whole big world outside of my house and my blog where children who sport forehead band-aids are the exception and not the norm.
For the soft-hearted among you, here’s our story:
A few days ago, Cai zipped out the back door, as is his habit, to take a quick turn at the lovely, green, clover-and-dandelion-filled urinal we grew for them, and Greg, for reasons that are clear to neither of us, told Cai’s brother to close the back door.
Well, of course, the exact moment that Cael, with terrific power and outstanding enthusiasm, flung the door closed was the same one that Cai came tripping through the doorway, eyes focused on tucking his frozen bits down while jump-pulling up his drawers. He wasn’t watching the door flying toward his face. His brother wasn’t watching the door missile, either. So the full force of the corner of that door hit him square in the forehead.
Or, for the more mathematically-inclined among you:
5-year-old twin brother
we have doors
Now, as dads around the universe know, these things only happen when their wives are away. Murphy’s Law stands at the front door, barring the mama from re-entering the house until immediately after the child’s wailing builds to sonic boom level. It’s extremely important to Murphy that dads look utterly incompetent, no matter how well the rest of the time went. (As an aside, I might recommend that Murphy seek a bit of counseling.)
So of course I walked into the house, back from my trip to the grocery store, right as the Cai Cai Pain-Indication Siren Wail hit ear-splitting volume. And I looked straight at Greg and said, “WHAT HAPPENED TO MY BABY?!”
And Greg said, “I JUST ASKED CAEL TO CLOSE THE BACK DOOR! It hit Cai in the head.”
And I said, “What were you thinking?? We don’t close doors around here! WE WERE ALL BORN IN A BARN! Geez!”
And then Cai let me hold him, and
I felt better he felt better.
And then I told Greg I was sorry for yelling. And then I told my preadolescent, geez-yelling son that I shouldn’t’ve said GEEZ at Dad. It was rude of me. It was disrespectful. It’s never OK, even when we’re mad, to treat the people we love with disdain. Blah blah blah. And then I shook my fist at Murphy for being so dramatic all the time. In short, it was a rough five minutes.
Here we are, a few days later. The band-aid is off, which I think is actually worse. I mean, the brunt force trauma / third eye look is just SO last year.
(I do all my best portrait work in the laundry room. Someone tell me that’s not weird.)
Cai clearly remains traumatized by the incident.
And the only question I have left is this:
If his face freezes like this,
should I be worried?