In the Name of Art

This morning Liam was on his hands and knees scooting a toy across the kitchen floor. The toy, (one of those yellow shape sorters with the blue lid) slid out from under his hands and he fell face first on the edge of the toy. He immediately started screaming. I scooped him up and put his head on my shoulder while he cried. Before I knew it my shirt and hair were soaked with his blood and that’s when I noticed that the poor kid had bit into his upper lip. I grabbed a few paper towels and held them against his lip. After a few minutes, Topher walks over and exchanges a fresh paper towel for the blood soaked one I was holding. A sweet gesture I thought, until I heard him say, “Yes! Now I can use Liam’s blood to make a zombie art project! This is going to be AWESOME!” 

He then proceeded to use the blood as finger paint. The desired affect (which I don’t think he accomplished) was to make it look like the zombie had just devoured someone’s brain and was covered in its victims bloods. 

At one point he said, “Thanks for your blood, Liam!” And then, so as not to be mistaken for a total sociopath, added, “and sorry you got hurt.” 

Give him a few years and he’ll be cutting off his ear and sending it to the woman who scorned him. 

The Post That Proves I Enjoy Righteous Anger More Than Compassion

First, let me set the scene for you: It’s a Monday evening in a Utah Suburb. We are at a ColdStone Creamery. The place is packed-- the line, which is out the door, moves slowly. Chris is holding Liam. The two older kids are standing in front of me waiting uncharacteristically patiently. It’s a long wait before the ice cream display is even visible to them. But as soon as it is their eyes light up at the rows and rows of colorful deliciousness. They squeeze in a little tighter to the woman in front of us in order to get a look. 

From the corner of my eye I catch the woman turn and scowl. I assume she is frustrated, as we all are, by the long line and think nothing of it. She turns a second time and gives me the stink eye then turns away. I find it puzzling. She turns a third time and along with the stink eye, adds a disgusted sigh obviously directed at me. So in response to her cue, I politely ask, “Is everything OK?”

“No!” She spats. “THEY,” (Referring to my children as if they are vermin) “keep touching me. And YOU are doing NOTHING about it!” Her face and chest are red with rage as she says it. I am caught off guard and look down at my children and sure enough, Max’s shoulder is brushed up against the woman’s handbag! 

“Oh,” I stammer. “I wasn’t aware. I’m....sorry??” 

She makes a humpfing sound and turns away.

I squat so that I’m at my kids level and in a mocking stage whisper tell them, “Boys, I don’t know if you know this or not, but you bumped into this woman and it caused her great distress! I know you didn’t mean to hurt her, but she must be extremely delicate, so please be more careful while we wait in line.” 

Which may sound like a snarky and unnecessarily sarcastic reaction to a woman who is obviously suffering from some sort of mental or social disorder, but it was a lot nicer than what I really wanted to do which was to make a big scene and say something along the lines of, “My kids did WHAT?! Why those little shits!! This is EXACTLY why we keep them locked up in the basement! I KNEW we shouldn’t have brought them out in public today! Don’t you worry, Ma’am, we will give them a licking like they’ve never had before! They won’t be able to sit down for weeks! The nerve of them! Come on kids, we’re leaving. No ice cream for you!”

So all in all, I think I showed great restraint. 

And come on,  just look at this face! Who couldn't love this face? Vermin? Please!