I'm going to tell you one story in order to tell you another one. Neither puke, nor poop, nor seizures will be featured in either, although the second story still has a healthy dose of suffering, lest you think you are reading someone else's website.
Friday was Kathryn's third birthday party this month. There's just one more to go. Four birthday parties in one month was, of course, my wife's idea: The four-part-Indiana-Jones-birthday-party marathon. It had started with a casual "Let's take Kathryn to the new Indiana Jones movie for her birthday," and had turned into a "Let's invite all of Kathryn's friends over every Friday night for a month to watch each of the old Indiana Jones movies and then take them all to see the new one when we're done," all before I even had time to remind her that Kathryn's birthday comes in late July. By the time I did get that not-unimportant fact out, it was moot. "...and each night can have a theme and games and, ooooh, I wonder if the movies come in a boxed-set," my wife rambled on to herself. When she turned to me and asked if we should have a fifth party night just for the DVD bonus features, I admitted defeat and mentally added one more layer of bricks to the internal tomb in which I keep my poor dead soul.
Now that we are three movies into the saga, even my wife admits she thought there would be a lot more movie-watching involved at a movie-watching party. Instead, what we had for the first movie-and-a-half was a bunch of girls screaming at odd intervals for no apparent reason, and for the second movie-and-a-half, screaming because Camilo wouldn't stop saying, "Ah, dessert! Chilled monkey brains!"
He's like the son I never had.
But it's not the screaming girls I wanted to tell you about; it's the screaming men. Well, screaming man. To be precise, the screaming me. I know you're surprised.
Late last night, I found a forgotten casualty of the three weeks of partying: an untouched bowl of ice cream, spoon and all, stashed away in our freezer. Cookies and cream, it appeared to be. Delicious, it appeared to be. Waiting for me, it appeared to be. And cold, it appeared to be.
The only one of the above I can actually confirm is that it was cold. Because when I spooned that first bite into my mouth, using the spoon so conveniently left right there in the bowl, and I know you can see where this is going, that metal spoon froze to the inside of my mouth so quickly I didn't even realize what had happened before, in shock, I pulled it out, taking with it the tender skin of my tongue, my left cheek, and the back of my bottom lip.
Cue the screaming.
The bleeding stopped within an hour or two. I'll let you know when the pain does.