Compromising the Crown

The second the blood ballooned from my daughter's nose I realized we had a problem. She, of course, did not, which was a good thing. The adults in the room flew into activity, me cupping my hands around her nose, others running for Kleenex, paper towels, etc. to mop up the sudden flow. My brother's face, was guilt ridden, and I think he was mumbling something about "breaking his niece" but in moments the blood was stopped, and Isabelle was more mad at being forced to sit still than upset at any injury.

It was the kind of strange, odd and peculiar "thing" that is becoming rather characteristic of my family. We were just arrived at the cabin we rented for our yearly family weekend, and all the kids had their new fishing poles from Grandma in the living room and were practice casting with the rubber/plastic "fish" on the ends of their lines. (Well, except the girls' poles which had pink crowns instead of fish because they were princess fishing poles. Of course.) My brother was helping his daughter and lobbed a cast across the room and somehow managed to plunk it perfectly off the end of Isabelle's nose, and while it left no mark on the outside whatsoever it somehow hit perfectly and caused it to bleed. Strange! Shortly afterward, we realized the crown on Isabelle's line had cracked slightly, or as my brother, Kurt said, "the crown has been compromised." However, after tying the line a little differently she was back to casting with it in no time, and it worked just as well.

The weekend followed with a continuation of a sort of comedy of errors including my sister-in- law, Chrissy, somehow locking herself in our bedroom (Let me be clear. No one else was in it at the time.), which quickly dissolved into three kids repeatedly calling through the door to her asking her if she was alright while my father and brother tried various implements on the lock to free her. Ultimately my brother went around and crawled through the window (Tiny window, tall man ... should have gotten a picture) and they started taking hinges off the door, but I believe it was my father with the butter knife that saved the day. (That sentence sounded like the game "Clue." It was Professor Plum with the candlestick. Sorry. I digress.) Then there was the incident later in the day when Clay and my brother went fishing out in the boat, and we all went off to the craft show in town only to get a phone call informing us that the pontoon boat had died and they were stuck at the opposite end of one very large lake and could we come back and rescue them? Some good Samaritans in a neighboring boat ended up towing them back to the cabin where it was later determined a bad battery was the culprit. Finally, there was the mystery of the oven which seemed to bake the ham rather quickly the first evening we arrived, but failed to roast the potatoes, or bake the squash after more than ample time had passed for Sunday evening's meal. And yes, some of us were a little sick and yes, the kids all had their moments when they whined or cried or fussed.

Yes, the weekend was not perfect, but then again I think it was. I have all these little snapshots of memories stored away already...... Isabelle and Anya huddled on a chair together with their princess fishing poles, Kurt standing on the end of the dock, fishing pole in hand (which, by the way, is the most natural pose in the world for him), Mom and Dad paddling the canoe together, Clay walking to his bow target with Isabelle and Anya dancing ahead of him, Mom getting tipsy off Clay's Bocce iced teas, Chrissy and Gideon exchanging kisses on the pontoon boat, sitting around the campfire, laughing hysterically over the game "Apples to Apples" (which you have never played until you have played with my family, TRUST me), Chrissy and I putting our children to bed at night in the cabin, all of the kids pretending to be pirates around the dinner table, Papa making a huge fort out of the kitchen table for them, the girls pushing their baby dolls in the swing, Isabelle looking at her cousin and saying "I wuv you, Anya," and Anya, replying, "I love you Isabelle." and me thinking I could die right then and be happy, watching Gideon eat four pancakes and two sausages and three hours later a full lunch, reading books to all three kids for bedtime, and just the luxury of having all of us sit around a table together which only happens maybe once or twice a year if we are lucky.

Anyways, I guess my point is the weekend wasn't perfect, but neither is my family and wouldn't that be so damn boring if we were? Give me the compromised crown any day! It is all the quirks and eccentricities and yes, even flaws that we all have that makes us who we are and guess what? Our families love us anyway. At least mine does, and I always walk away from our weekends feeling like I am really blessed. We are a crazy, kind of weird crew, but it is one I am proud to call my own.

Run Away, Run Away!

It is evenings like this when I would just about kill for a book, any book. The television is driving me insane with its endless coverage of hurricane Gustaf, which while I have been interested in keeping apprised of, I do not feel the need to be continually inundated with non-stop information over and over and over. Information, which I might add is the same information just being repeated. The weather is only interrupted with the liberal media going practically orgasmic over the fact that Republican vice-presidential nominee Sarah Palin's 17 year old daughter is pregnant while at the same time repeatedly saying it should not be something that is brought into the political debate (yet simultaneously interjecting comments about Palin's leanings toward an abstinence-only policy in schools...... but lets not bring candidates' children into the political arenas.) One Far left blog was even trying to pass off the idea today that Palin's youngest son, born just six months ago with Downs Syndrome, is actually her 17 year old's as well! Does it never end!?! Essentially it is enough to make me want to blow up the television, and the thought that potentially more hurricanes are on the way and I have months more of political shenanigans to watch is depressing to say the least. I have already completed my crossword, doodled and doodled and doodled, downed an entire bowl of popcorn (sigh, guilt, more bad body image issues, gulp), read an article on-line from one so-called expert about how he thinks Farve will really do as a Jet (and do not even get me going on that subject, that could be a blog by itself!), and all I want is a book!

Combine that with Clay's less than stellar mood today, and I am contemplating running away and joining a convent or something. I want a quiet place in the north woods obviously with many, many books (preferably a place where amazon can still deliver, although quicker delivery would be nice since I am currently waiting for three different books hence my lack of reading material tonight) perhaps a cozy fireplace, some throw blankets, a hefty supply of hot cocoa and my cats, of course, to occupy my lap. Okay, maybe I would need a computer or some paper and pencil so I could write too. Alas, it appears running away is not a true option so I will sign off for tonight and go to sleep instead, hoping my books will come in the mail tomorrow and that the media might get a clue. At least the books might come.