. . .like you need a hole in the head.

Casey called to say he'd be bringing Anderson home from his cousins' house.  Since this was the plan, I said, "Okay."
"Didn't my parents call you?"
"About what?"
"Anderson cut his eyebrow open on a scooter.  Could you call your dad to see if he can take a look at it?  We'll meet him over there."

It's nice to have a surgeon in the family and living next door.  And lucky when our injuries coincide with my Dad (and Mom) being home between missions.

Anderson rode in the backseat of our car while Grandma Songer held his head and coached him in Lamaze breathing.  Grandpa Hale confirmed that he would need stitches, and then offered to do it himself.  While he gathered his supplies, Anderson lay on Grandma's couch and was comforted with sippy cups and a blanket fresh from the dryer.
Two-year-old Rosalie, who heard us talking about getting Anderson warm, attempted to put her coat over him.  The pink blur moving towards Anderson's face was met with a hasty, "No, no!" and a strong-arm.  She burst into tears.  (And learned that no good deed goes unpunished.  Wish we could try that again.)

Surgery on the kitchen table:

Anderson was very brave.  The injection of the anesthetic into the wound produced some complaints but he held still anyway.  When he felt his forehead go numb and learned he wouldn't feel any more pain during the operation, his big sigh and grin of relief were comical. Six stitches later, he got a candy bar and went home for dinner.

We wonder what kind of scar he will have.  My dad says scars make men look more attractive.  Clarissa called him "The Chosen One." 

Anderson's third eye:

 

Romance vs. the eight-year-old boy

Tonight our family watched Sydney White--a modern version of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs--(yes, that is the correct spelling of dwarfs, Mr. Tolkien.)    And I DON'T recommend it for children, but this is not a movie review.  This is a psychological snapshot:  It's the end of the movie.  Sydney has fallen asleep in the library after pulling an all nighter to finish a major paper.  Tyler Prince is searching for her everywhere--she'll be late for her presidential election debate!  At last he finds her.  Her face is so peaceful in sleep.  How will he wake her?  Hmm...
Anderson knows! He shouts it out, "SLAP HER!"

To the Rescue

Meredith burst breathlessly through the door to tell me, "Mom! Chloe was doing a cannonball on the trampoline and Rosalie moved into her spot and Chloe accidentally, um..., like..., squished her flat."
 Mirthfully, I mean mercifully, I found her saddened but unflattened.  After a few minutes of lap time she was ready to go outside again.

 The  next time Meredith burst through the door to tell me that Rosalie's boot was stuck in the snow and she was "crying her head off!"
By the time I got to her she was, luckily, still capitated, but wailing.  When I got close she was quick to tell me what was really bothering her. "I peed!"
 I appreciated the warning, as it altered my rescue plan somewhat.

And now she's back outside again.  The day is just too beautiful--49 degrees!--to stay inside.  And rescue workers are standing by.  

Sugar Cookies and Sex Appeal

Today when we walked into the chapel for Sacrament meeting, I noticed two things: One was the number of young men and women in formal wear and the other was the alluring smell of white cake in the air. If you know me, you know which one was the more interesting to me. (Here's a hint--I'm a sugar addict.)
After I thought through the possibility that it might be Mother's Day, or a new holiday in honor of early-switch-from-Daylight-Savings, I realized that there was probably no dessert in my near future. So I turned my attention to the Prom dresses. It was interesting to see that more young men than young women from our ward had gone to Prom. At least, I counted four tuxes and only two ball gowns.
Can I say that I still think it's weird that there is this tradition here in Utah to wear your Prom clothes to Church the day after? I mean, sure they're expensive and you normally only get to wear them once, but they are a little flashy for Sunday worship. One was FUCHSIA with a huge tulle skirt, and the other was cut DOWN front and back--and inadequately disguised with a loosely draped wrap. (Here is the too-low-cut dress.)

I tried to contain my judgementality by sketching some lovely future prom dresses for my daughter--I do believe you can be stylish, attractive, and modest at the same time. Because I can't really draw they ended up looking like something I knew my daughters would never want to wear. But for fun I told them they would get to have high-necked, long sleeved dresses made of wool. Or poison. (That's so boys can look but not touch.)

After the meeting I followed both Prom dresses up the stairs for choir practice. The smell of cake was so strong, I remarked on it out loud. That's when FUCHSIA informed me that it was the other girl's perfume. Other girl then said, "It's called "Sugar Cookie.""

I sat next to her during choir practice so I had half an hour to ponder the effect of that dress combined with that smell on any normal teenage boy. At some point I said to the girl, "I imagine that scent is really effective." Her reply?: "Oh, yeah!" I twitched with the impulse to jump out of my chair and go tell her date's mom.

By the time my son hits high school, I hope they've developed portable sensory deprivation chambers. 'Cause that's the only way he's going to Prom.