Vacation of Wounded Knee Pt II
Tery's sister Michelle has four boys: Michael John, age six, smart as a whip but unfortunately can't grasp the concept of sharing; twins Max and Mason, age four-going-on-five, old enough to get irritated when you confuse one for the other (Max has a cowlick, which is only helpful when his hair isn't wet or covered); and two-year-old Murphy, who has serious separation anxiety, requiring poor Michelle to carry him most of the day like a very heavy Yorkie, while chasing after the older three.
It's really difficult to get a shot with all of them sort of looking in the direction of the camera. Like three Yorkies
Sorry, kavieshana, no terror here. Move along
I knew this leg of the trip would be heavily focused on the boys, and was dreading it even before hurting myself -- I don't consider myself a kid person. Since my injury I imagined four knee-seeking missiles aimed at me. So I was taken aback when, upon first being introduced, Tery announced firmly, "Boys, look at Auntie E's knee. It's really hurt so please stay away from it." This tactic actually worked, and I was only kicked twice, both underwater and both completely inadvertently.
It made me laugh when their first reaction was slack-jawed stares of morbid curiosity (that went on so long I joked "my eyes are up here, boys"), giving way to group sharing of their assorted boo-boos, none of which came remotely close to my macerated weeping tissue with only the first fragile tentative hints of new skin growth (which sickeningly felt in danger of ripping open afresh every time I bent my knee). I'm afraid of forever being remembered as "Scabby Auntie."
They remained unsure of me as they all jumped in Nana's pool, until on impulse I grabbed a water pistol and opened fire on them, to their delight. At that moment, a line was suddenly crossed and I experienced a burning desire to make these kids like, if not love, me. As I climbed into the water, I suddenly remembered a thousand summer days when I had a cut or two and being nervous the water would hurt; always forgetting that exactly the opposite is true.
It didn't take much to win over the boys. With three of them they never stop coming, as Tery warned me. It's also impossible to give them enough attention, and it soon became a tug of war over me. Thus the exhausting (from my perspective) but hugely popular game of "S.O.S." was born, which entailed all three of them "falling" off their rafts and me lifting them back onto them. Over. And over. And over again.
Mission accomplished: after that first afternoon Mason marched into the kitchen, cleared his throat dramatically, and announced "Auntie E, I just want you to know I love you." By day two I had been crowned "most fun Auntie of all the aunties." Kids, like dogs, adore me.
Mason, my loverboy
Whereas I was inordinately proud of my victory, I soon realized it's a bittersweet one, particularly when Fun Auntie wants a breather but no other auntie will do. I still need to work on saying no to kids.
(A sidenote about young boys: not a scrap of shyness about nudity. I've seen more winkydinks in this one week than I've seen in twenty years.)
I was afraid the entire week would be spent entertaining kids, but we got to do other things. We visited with Tery's ex-girlfriend, last seen 16 years ago when we flew to Seattle to visit her. I visited with my ex Harold, working at the Mohegan Sun casino, who treated me to a buffet dinner and many tales from behind the scenes of the resort. Time got away from us, though, and both our families thought he had abducted me.
We took the boys to see Brave. I enjoyed it. Tery only got to see about fifteen minutes before the bathroom breaks began. These boys have bladders the size of gumdrops, x3, resulting in an endless parade to the restroom. Which was bad enough; then just before a big plot twist was about to be revealed, Michael John (who had already seen the movie) asked me, "Guess what?" When I asked what, he started to say "This is the part when..." I found the courage at that point to say "shut up kid, I'd like to see it for myself." I did him a favor -- no one likes movie spoilers.
Then in the middle of the climax, Tery was already in the bathroom with a twin when MJ again turned to me. "Auntie E, I have to pee!!" What the front lawn... he'd already gone once. There was no way I was leaving the second twin alone in the theater, or for that matter missing the end of the damn movie. I told him he'd have to hold it. I did him a favor -- already past the time he learns he can't have everything he wants the second he wants it.
He did manage to hold it. Tery got back in time for the end credits. We went to the lobby for final bathroom time. Unfortunately the bathroom was on the other side of a gamut of claw machines, which the boys wanted to try. After blowing about $5 apiece without a single prize, we tried pulling them away, but they were hellbent on winning some $2 plastic trinket, even if it cost $20 (of Tery's money) to do it. It was then I had to explain the term "rip-off" and destroy a little more of their innocence. Thanks, Lisbon Cinemas.
We took them to Target to appease them, promising them one toy each. MJ made a beeline for the Wii case and the $60 Brave game, which I'm willing to bet by now is scratched beyond repair and forgotten under the couch. Lesson learned.
One fun non-kid thing we did was Tery's brother Jeff stopped by and impulsively whisked us each away on his 4WD quad, revealing an awesome forest trail right across the street that would have been a lot less of a white knuckle adventure on my bike (the quad goes over fallen trees and through streams. Jeff was far more confident in its capabilities than I was. I couldn't stop thinking of how very, very much it would hurt if it rolled over with my bad knee underneath it).
My terror is only partly feigned
If nothing else, this restored my faith in biking options in CT, which is absolutely not made for road cycling: narrow, twisty streets with an even more begrudging modicum of a bike lane than my beloved park, and dense tree cover providing an ever-changing dappled pattern of light and shade, making a cyclist all but invisible. No thank you. Hopefully we won't move back until my cycling career is far behind me.
So no biking (for that matter, no bike). Perhaps the rowdy, highly physical pool games with the boys were a blessing in disguise. I was astonished upon returning to Colorado, after a week of eating like I was on vacation (complete with almost daily Dunkin Donuts stops, grinders and TWO clamboat platters), that I actually didn't gain a single pound.
Next: Pt III, or our climactic final weekend.