I digress. There’s a lesson to be learned.
Mini-Me had a buddy stay over. While it’s a little frightening having two teens in the same zip code, these are partially domesticated and I figured they could mow and weed for their entertainment. Before we got to the fun stuff, they played some of what the hep-cats call “basketball.” They got the bicycles out of the barn and prepared to race. As I told Grandma afterward, I distinctly remember saying, “Charlie, no racing, because you may get hurt.” Really, I did. I warned him right before I said, “ready, set, go.” That should count for something. I’ve also told him a hundred times, “Don’t get hurt, or Grandma won’t let us play ever again.”
On “go,” the boys went. The buddy was in the lead so Charlie pushed hard on the pedals, and then off of the pedals. His foot hit the pavement and caused the bike to go into a quantum trans-warp yaw. He did a face plant on the blacktop. He had sufficient momentum to skid real good. Being a kind and caring guardian, I told him to hurry up and get up before the Grand-enforcer saw him. He didn’t, so I just figured he was being a girlieman. I helped him up by insulting his masculinity and he got up.
When on his uncoordinated feet, his torso looked a little twisted or out of focus. After warning him about what to tell G-ma I let him go in the house to be triaged. Grand-accuser determined he was broken. Since he’s out of warranty we took him to the ER to get him fixed. It appears that in going against my guidance, he broke his clavicle. I know that’s what the collar bone is called, because I learned it by watching the Bugs Bunny/Roadrunner hour far away and long ago. He has to see an Orthopedist or Orthodontist, or whatever the bone doctor is called. His repair and convalescence may take months.
A broken grandson is problematic. Even though kids’ duties aren’t as extensive since they don’t have to change channels, they’re still useful. For example, the kid is hurt, so I had to mow. Mowing sucks. It’s not only noisy and painfully boring with the back and forth, back and forth. It’s hot out there cutting grass. Whoever thought up mowing in the summer is an idiot. It would be better to do it in the winter when it’s cold, and the heat from the mower would be welcome. Mower heat coupled with summer heat and humidity is just wrong. Add in geezer andropause, and mowing is the worst. Thanks, Grandson. Thanks a lot.
Now I also have to take out the trash. Once again, I’m not a fan. The can is smelly and needs taken out every five minutes or so. I can’t tell you how many times, as soon as I dose off in my chair, the wife yells, “You need to take the trash out.” I say “I did.” I think I did, but maybe I forgot. It’s a pain anyway.
For the foreseeable future, I can’t tell him to hop on his bike and go to Wonder Mart to get me a quart of meringue or box of heavy whipped coronary artery disease. I may have to shell out big bucks to get pie delivery since we have an errant errand-boy. While he may be able to get out of the truck to check mail, the whining “Ouch, my shoulder hurts” makes it not worth the effort.
I may not even get to sit in my recliner for any significant time. How does the laundry get back upstairs from the dryer? Who feeds the cat? What about if someone rings the doorbell? What about loading the dishwasher? That’s all me now. All this work, and I don’t even get an allowance. I had a thought. I bet by throwing in a few bucks,
I can trade him for a college cheerleading massage therapy coed. I guess that’s not allowed for some weird reason titled ‘not in Grandma’s house.’ I really thought it was a good idea. She could take on the kid’s duties and I’d get to relax while waiting for my massage. She could even mow while practicing her high kicks. That’d be incentive to take the trash out.
The lesson we learned? Don’t screw up. If you do, work a cheerleader into the fix. Also, pie helps everything.
Thank you, Grandson.
Fini.
