The Chin

Mae wrote a story and read it aloud to her class.  The theme of the story was supposed to be: A time I got a scar.  Mae's story was titled: The Chin.  So, she read her story yesterday.  After school, I asked if her class liked it.  She said yes.  I asked if they laughed.  She said, "No...why would they laugh?"  I didn't have the heart to tell her that that's what Kenny and I did for a very long time when we read it.  This was a true story that took place over three years ago.  Mae smashed her face into the corner of the stereo and put a big rip in her chin.  We lived in Wymore at the time, and it just so happened that on that very day, they had discontinued emergency services due to some sort of quarrel within the department.  Therefore, when Kenny dialed 911, he was told that it would take them approximately thirty minutes to get to our house.  I thought he was overreacting anyway (Kenny isn't exactly calm in emergency situations), so I grabbed the phone from him and told them that we could drive our daughter to the hospital ourselves.  So that's what we did.  But the way that Mae worded this in her story is what got us laughing.  Here it is:  I broke my chin open.  Dad picked up the phone and called 911 but they weren't open that day so Mom and Dad had to drive me to the hospital.  I'm curious as to what her teacher thought of that line.  I'm also a little enraged at how Mae painted me compared to Kenny in her story.  I was barely in it at all, while 'Dad' saw blood running down my neck, 'Dad' called 911, 'Dad' drove me to the hospital, etc.  She failed to mention that when 'Dad' saw the blood running down her neck, he literally hurled her through the air at me, squealing, "Blood!  It's real blood!  OhmyGod, OhmyGod, OhmyGod!"  And then he ran in big circles for nearly a whole minute yelling, "Where's the phone?!!!" Meanwhile, MOM calmly took Mae into the bathroom, cleaned her up and told her that it wasn't nearly as bad as it looked and as soon as Dad can gather his composure, we would drive to the hospital and everything would be fine.  And it was, thanks to MOM!  I think I'll write my own story, titled The Chin: The True Story.  

But only a Crayola, none of that Rose Art crap...

I dreamed that I had a pounding headache (probably sleeping with my head butted up against the wall again...) and I asked Kenny for some Advil.  He explained that we were out of Advil..."but here, this works just as well.  Eat it."  He handed me a non-wrappered crayon.  (Still dreaming, remember).  Without much thought, I ate the crayon.  I did.  Immediately after, I woke up.  Reminiscing on the dream I'd just had, I decided that it meant that I trust my husband that much.  That's a whole lot of trust.  As I sat there in awe, Kenny rolled over and looked at me.  I monotonously said, "I'd eat a crayon for you," still in shock and a little confused.  But his response was not at all what I was looking for.  Kenny didn't give me multiple hugs and kisses, nor did he praise me.  He also didn't thank me for putting so much trust into him.  Instead, he simply replied, "That's disgusting," and rolled back over for more sleep.  We haven't spoken a word about it since.  I've thought maybe I should explain to him why I'd eat a crayon for him, but I think it might be best if we just sit this one out.

On work: I once watched an episode of Oprah that was dedicated to weight-loss.  The weight-loss "expert" explained that she likes to look at pounds lost in terms of butter, because basically, our fat is quite similar to butter.  So every time you lose a pound, you lose four sticks of butter.  I am happy to report that since starting my job, I have lost sixty sticks of butter.  Kenny keeps commenting on different muscles that are becoming defined on me.  Typically, I take these comments as insults because I'm not sure exactly what he's saying, but then when he explains (always with an eye roll) something like, "Your deltoid is your shoulder muscle," I perk up and flex in front of the mirror.

The Bigley's are doing quite wonderful.  The little Bigley's are bringing home nearly all A's on their school work and Kyler's trumpet is starting to sound like something similar to (but not quite like) music.  Hope all is well with my wonderful readers!

Kyler learned how to make a new noise today.

It's here.  Fifth grade band.  Kyler chose a shiny new trumpet tonite and eagerly took it out of the case when we got home.  He began "playing" said trumpet immediately.  As he did, Kenny came flying out of the bathroom asking, "What's wrong with the dog?!  Is he hurt?!  WHAT HAPPENED?!"  I had to explain to him that the dog was fine and the noise he was hearing was music.  Kind of.  (But quite honestly, that is exactly what I would expect a dying dog to sound like).  While staring at Kyler, Kenny slowly sat down on the couch and told him that maybe he should wait to practice until his teacher gives him some sort of instruction on how to play.  Kyler replaced the trumpet into the case and said with a nod, "Tomorrow, then."  

Flashback:  In my own fifth grade year, I was sitting on the edge of my bed practicing my newly-acquired saxophone.  After a few minutes, my door flow open and there stood my mom.  She calmly asked, while pulling her own hair out and punching the wall, "Will.  You.  Please.  STOP.  PLAYING.  THAAAAT!!!?"  And then she walked out of the room.  I was secretly happy about this demand because I was honestly hurting my own ears.  I didn't want to tell her that I wanted to quit band already so this ear-splitting sound that I was able to create was really quite beneficial to me.  I quit band the very next week.  My mom sped to the music store to return my saxophone before I changed my mind.  

But here's the thing.  Kenny and I have always made sure that our children know that quitting is not an option.  At least not right away.  We always say, "Give it a year."  We make sure they know before starting any new project or sporting event that we expect them to work on it for an entire year before they are allowed to quit.  And after an entire year of any and everything the kids have ever wanted to do, they've pretty much always continued on for many years.  And Kyler seems more than ready to tackle this mastering of the trumpet.  He said that his teacher told him to practice for one hour each week, but he plans on practicing an hour per DAY.  So all of this 'Don't quit', 'Don't give up', 'You can be whatever you want to be' advice that we've prided our parenting on has come back to bite us.  

And next year: double that order.