Blood in the sand
O Gods of free internet therapy,
Hear my supplication,
And bring me succour.
It is a clear and frosty day here in V. I just enjoyed the indescribable pleasure of rocking and singing baby e to sleep. I will soon recaffeinate my grey cottage-cheesy brain. All is well at the moment, before the invocation of the binary deities, which is entirely gratuitous, and unless you are some kind of Gaimanesque cultist, entirely unlikely to be of any utility.*
Scant minutes ago I was prepared to gut myself with a letter opener. mo-wo is out and I am on dad patrol with e, enjoying a fun clamber up the handicap ramp-angled park apparatus, a healthy face-first self-propelled slide down the shiny entry-level slide, observing with joy the swing up, swing back, swing up, swing back, and with horror the fall, face first (without any self-preservational movement of hands to block the face) into the cold hard sand of the playground. I froze where I crouched. She froze, in her cherry-blossom Michelin man snowsuit, face down in the sand. I picked her up, her nose filed with sand, her sand-filled mouth erupting in piteous cries, and then the BLOOD, O THE BLOOD! It was like a scene from a Bruce Campbell movie, but without the high-brow script, the sand and the blood gobbing out of e's mouth onto her suit, bloodying the fuzzy white collar of her hood, the cries piercing the still air of the park... Within a few minutes e was nibbling happily on an arrowroot biscuit and I was placing the letter-opener back in the drawer with the jonestown koolaid mix.
Yep, for a while I was feeling pretty concerned for e's well being and as negligent as I have ever felt (and I have been very, very negligent). There were witnesses to my crime but I have silenced them. I am only telling you, internet, on the presumption that this post will remain largely unobserved. That, and I need to practice before mo-wo returns home.
p-man.
* A brief note to the internet gods: please forgive me for doubting your existence. Please do not send me to binary hell, however that is coded, and please bring our city the Stanley Cup. Accomplishment of the latter will, incidentally, suffice as a proof of the former.
Hear my supplication,
And bring me succour.
It is a clear and frosty day here in V. I just enjoyed the indescribable pleasure of rocking and singing baby e to sleep. I will soon recaffeinate my grey cottage-cheesy brain. All is well at the moment, before the invocation of the binary deities, which is entirely gratuitous, and unless you are some kind of Gaimanesque cultist, entirely unlikely to be of any utility.*
Scant minutes ago I was prepared to gut myself with a letter opener. mo-wo is out and I am on dad patrol with e, enjoying a fun clamber up the handicap ramp-angled park apparatus, a healthy face-first self-propelled slide down the shiny entry-level slide, observing with joy the swing up, swing back, swing up, swing back, and with horror the fall, face first (without any self-preservational movement of hands to block the face) into the cold hard sand of the playground. I froze where I crouched. She froze, in her cherry-blossom Michelin man snowsuit, face down in the sand. I picked her up, her nose filed with sand, her sand-filled mouth erupting in piteous cries, and then the BLOOD, O THE BLOOD! It was like a scene from a Bruce Campbell movie, but without the high-brow script, the sand and the blood gobbing out of e's mouth onto her suit, bloodying the fuzzy white collar of her hood, the cries piercing the still air of the park... Within a few minutes e was nibbling happily on an arrowroot biscuit and I was placing the letter-opener back in the drawer with the jonestown koolaid mix.
Yep, for a while I was feeling pretty concerned for e's well being and as negligent as I have ever felt (and I have been very, very negligent). There were witnesses to my crime but I have silenced them. I am only telling you, internet, on the presumption that this post will remain largely unobserved. That, and I need to practice before mo-wo returns home.
p-man.
* A brief note to the internet gods: please forgive me for doubting your existence. Please do not send me to binary hell, however that is coded, and please bring our city the Stanley Cup. Accomplishment of the latter will, incidentally, suffice as a proof of the former.
posted by p-man at 11:14 a.m.
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