Children and Guns and Dr. Seuss

This week I received two pictures of my brother's children. The first was a beautiful nature shot of my niece and nephew, both under the age of ten, bundled in their winter coats, posed proudly next to two deer carcasses and the guns that killed them.

The second was all three of his kids. The oldest boy in a Cat in the Hat costume and his two little sisters dressed as Thing 1 and Thing 2. How adorable they were, and innocent looking. Then it occurred to me. If a child can look so harmless in a striped stovepipe hat and large bow tie, and also be capable of murdering a deer, then what else are they capable of?

Be careful this Halloween season, you don't know what these little creatures can do.

OK, OK. Now I'm Ready.

Grief does crazy things to crazy people. Now that I'm ready to talk about how my dad's Death-by-Pirates makes me feel, I want to remind you that not everyone handles loss in the same way.

The week before the pirates actually killed my father, my mom, sister, aunt, brother and uncle and I all took turns laying in bed with him, sitting next to him and holding his hand while he struggled to speak, and at last, breathe. The following week I watched as my brother and sister's kids alternated between hysterically sobbing and playing games with one another as if nothing had changed. Watching my 5 youngest nieces and nephews cry and laugh and play and run, I finally understood that loosing my dad meant one thing: I want to trip my brother's kids.

Now, now. Before Brother and Brother's Wife get all upset, let me just say, I want to trip my sister's kids too. Next time any of them run by I want to stick out my foot, or an elderly relative's cane or move a chair leg in their path and I want them to fall. And when the are splayed out on the ground looking around in disbelief, just before they start to cry, I want to throw my arms out to my sides in a "T" formation and yell "Safe!" or point my thumb behind me and yell "Yourrrrr ouuuut!" or do jazz hands and say "Ta-dah!" or just hold up a big card that reads "9.6."

Why? Why would I do that? Because I'm mad as hell. Not at them, not at my siblings, and not because I will never have my daddy back. I am angry because this isn't fricken fair. All these kids got to know what it is like to have the best PawPaw in the world and my kids never will. My kids will never know how perfect a person he was, and they will  have to settle for learning his hand-me-down lessons from a highly imperfect daughter. My unborn kids will have to trust their father and I and all the rest of us who are left when we tell them the tales of this larger than life man, this giant, this demigod. And honestly, if I ever heard the stories we tell about how genius and unbelievably selfless my dad was, I would assume they were mostly exaggeration and hero worship.

For the record, I did not clothesline any children at my dad's memorial service last night. Though I badly wanted to. And there were plenty of kids running about, just askin' for it. I'm pretty sure my dad wouldn't have tripped a child if he were upset about something, but I know he would have laughed about it. Indeed.

You Might Have Herpes, I'm sorry to Say.

Hey, how's it going? I really appreciate you driving all the way up to pick me up from my sister's house. It was a really long drive, huh? I mean, especially after you worked all day. Was it too windy? No? Well, that's good.

So, um, I was meaning to tell you that while I stayed at my sister's house something happened. I didn't really mean for it to happen, but it just, you know, kind of, happened. You know how my sister's kids are like, crazy, right? And the little one likes to eat on the couch a lot? And the other ones wrestle and put their dirty shoes on the couch and stuff? Well, like when I was there, they like, you know drank a bunch of soda and ate a whole mess of pudding and cookies and stuff and then like, well... they gang-raped the couch.

It all happened so fast. There were cushions everywhere and everything got stained and I was so tired and I had a couple of glasses of wine and things were so crazy and you weren't there, you know? I like, I didn't know what to do and I just... I sat on the couch. I know! I know I shouldn't have, but everyone else was sitting down in the chairs and on the cushions on the floor and on the arms of the messed up couch and I was tired and I had some wine, like I said. I was confused, and sad. Those kids are crazy! It wasn't my fault!

I'm sorry. Please don't be mad. It's all a blur in my mind and I know I should have told you sooner, but I was ashamed. How do you tell someone that your sister's kids are couch-rapists?

So like, I think maybe you and your couch should maybe go get tested?