As for lawn darts, I have but one thing to say: Why.
I don’t fully understand them, but I love genetics. It’s (or, is it they’re? – collective nouns are frustrating when they refer to science), like, the best excuse for anything in the world.
And in my family, we’ve got some pretty screwy genetics.
Some issues, hands down, I don’t even try and argue around. We’re a crazy breed. Done. I get it, so why fight that. Take the pill, swallow it, lean back and thank the Good Lord above that some doctor somewhere realized that a brain is full of switches and some can be turned off.
Others, vis-à-vis my mother, just have to be tolerated. But, I’ve learned to live with that; I look at her switch like I do the heater. It may get too hot, and make you sweat, but a) you can step away from the heater, and b) at least you’re not outside, in the freezing cold, with that weird cat next door whose only got hair on half its tail.
But, there are other more bizarre and odd things that I’m chalking up to genetics: for instance, every child in my family (except for me) skips the number 6, when learning their numbers. They simply will not say it. Wynn will count 1, 2, 3, and so on, but go straight from 5 to 7, without flinching. They have all done it, even the cousins older than me…I mean, except for me, of course.
None of the children in my family will say the word “love,” either. You can look at Conn and go, “Ok, Conn, say ‘I’…” and he will repeat after you, and then you’ll say “love…” and he will jump right past that and say “you,” instead.
Again, except for me.
And the pièce de résistance: We all are blessed with a frustrating amount of high energy, in our formative years. (Ahem…except for me).
It’s quite possible that I was adopted.
We're going to have Christmas if it kills us.
However, I’ve managed to keep a blind eye turned to the stranglehold genetics had on us all, until I was on lockdown with my family for Christmas, and that’s when, at Nana’s on Christmas Eve, it reared its ugly, and wild, though still comforting head, and kept it aloft until everyone went back to their respective homes the following Sunday.
You shouldn’t be worried simply because I used the term “lockdown,” a few sentences up. I used that term because I meant to. We have four children, though one didn’t show up, in the family, all under the age of five. I think “lockdown” is, therefore, appropriate.
Now, where should I start? Should I start at the Candlelight service, down at the church, where someone thought it was a good idea to actually use real candles, and in executing this idea, gave candles to each and every person in the church, including the children? Or, should I focus more on two-year-old Wynn’s attempt to climb the Christmas tree because someone told him there was money for him under the skirt of the angel, at the tippy, tippy top? (How he got even three limbs up the tree in front of a slew of adults is still something along the lines of a grave and serious mistake…and a miracle). Or, maybe I ought to skip straight to what Santa brought: lawn darts and a bow and arrow for each child?
It’s best, I think, to start in church.
I don’t think I’m alone in this when I say it is hard enough to concentrate on the Will of God without having the added stress of how long it will take A.K. to set fire to the back of his Mimi’s red jacket. For the record, 1:35. Five-year-olds, you may recall, prefer not to sit still. Also, five-year-olds should never, not even in the aftermath of a hurricane, be given candles. They should be left in the dark, preferably tied down.
I say 1:35 out of assumption, though…because thankfully, he caught nothing on fire. Rather, he coated her jacket, as well as the pew, in a nice, stringy layer of wax. Conn, on the other hand, was so fascinated by the actual flame of the candle that I feared we were encouraging pyromania in him. I was also, I can tell you now, afraid of how he would react to the fireworks, come New Year’s.
The little girl, near the front who ran up to the manger during the cantata and gave her “purse to the Baby Jesus” because he was “cold,” was promptly returned to her seat by her socially conscious mother, and I swear, then ate her candle.
The Most Beautiful Lawsuit Pageant Ever Told.
They weren’t but three or four inches long. I pretended she had braces.
I’m glad we don’t have her genetics.
As for the tree, and Wynn, it didn’t topple over, somehow. Which I think is, in its way, defying the very laws of gravity that keep this world afloat. He’s a cute, beautiful child, but he’s already half the girth of a Dodge Neon, which everyone in the family excuses by saying, “Oh, well, he’ll play football.”
I pray he chooses ballet. Just for the kick of it.
Now, in my family, it is a small and unoriginal tradition to give everyone money, and we do that by creating “ornaments,” if you will, and hiding them in the tree. So, on one hand, Wynn was merely responding to a natural stimulus: there was money in the tree, and it was for him. It was not, however, beneath the angel’s skirt.
That would be in poor taste.
What was most shocking to me is that, as a two-year-old, he already had a firm grasp on the concept of money, angel’s skirts, and that sometimes, to get a little dough you have to work for it. He was undaunted by the size of the tree, unconcerned about the height, and unafraid of the challenge.
I still think we should have let him climb it.
As for the lawn darts, I have but one thing to say: Why.
What child needs lawn darts? I assure you, no child in my family. But, I wasn’t consulted, and so, lawn darts for all.
They’re very large, you know, for a child. And before Nerf, or whoever redesigned them, they were also outlawed. What a shock. These aren’t dangerous lawn darts, I should point that out here and now—they’re made of sturdy foam and have a rounded base; nonetheless, the neighbor’s dog will not be returning to Nana’s yard anytime soon, I’m afraid.
I might follow suit.
Shot with love.
Because, as soon as the lawn darts became boring—ironically, also after 1:35—we moved onto the bow and arrows, made of a similar sturdy foam, but more slenderly designed which, in case you’re wondering, means that they sting when you get shot by one.
And when you suffer from a genetic disorder that causes excessive high energy the result is many, many little ringworm-like whelps…and nowhere to run.
Which makes sense, right. I mean, you can’t outrun yourself…you can’t outrun who you are.
Nobody’s faster than genetics.
Except for me…but that’s more credit to my running shoes than anything I’ve done.
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One Comment on As for lawn darts, I have but one thing to say: Why.
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Joshua on
Mon, 4th Jan 2010 12:30 pm
“Nobody’s faster than genetics.”
I love this. 
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