Thursday, my younger son went back to the doctor about his arm. They sawed off the cast, which totally freaked my boy out. They had taken the first cast off when he was asleep, so neither of us had ever seen the cast taking-off process. I thought they’d cut it off with a giant pair of buzzing scissors, but instead they cut straight down through, with a vibrating blade: press down, break through, pop it back up, move to the next spot. As the woman sawed away, the machine screaming, my son leaned as far away from the machine as he could without failing off the table, his arm stretched out straight behind him, a look of terrified hilarity plastered on his face. I couldn’t stop giggling.

Then the x-rays…again. He’s healing most excellently. Lots of new bone growth.

And then it was time to take the pin out, whoo-hoo!

I was super excited about this. For days, I have been waking up disappointed because it wasn’t pin-removal day. I was all tingly excited to:

a) see what was under the cast (he’d been in a fair amount of pain over the last few days—said it felt like he had a worm in his arm, and my husband was like, “Yeah, a pin worm, ha-ha.”), and

b) to see how they’d pull the pin out (either straight-up yanking or local anesthesia).

Sometimes I think that, in another life, I might have been a doctor. I’m fascinated by emergencies and blood and how the body works, though not in any real serious sense. I don’t hold scientific facts in my head for more than three seconds, and I have no pressing need to do lab work, but I do adore the excitement of say, yanking three-inch long pins out of arms. So I guess it makes sense that I pushed our older son in the direction of emergency medicine? And that he immediately latched onto the idea? The intrigue must be genetic.

Anyway.

The doctor grabbed the end of the pin with a large pair of pliers and then twisted the pin gently back and forth to loosen it.

Bit by bit, the pin emerged…

And then, suddenly, it was all the way out, ta-da!

The sheer size of the pin made us both yelp.

It was huge!
And shiny clean!
And sharp at one end!
And huge!

The kid said the procedure hurt terribly—“like my arm was getting ripped off!”—but he didn’t make a peep, so I doubt it was that bad.

Before they put on the next cast, his third, I requested permission to wash the arm (they weren’t going to wash the arm, can you believe it?!), and then they slapped a band-aid over the hole and back into a cast his arm went.

Three more weeks with a hard cast and then (probably) a couple weeks of a soft cast.

The entertainment’s been great, but I’m about ready for this saga to be over.

This same time, years previous: reverberations, the quotidian (6.8.15), a photo book, delivery, thorns, strawberry daiquiri mix, fresh tomatillo salsa, white chocolate and dried cherry scones.

For our family gathering this past weekend, we had stunningly gorgeous weather. It’s not like we had any control over it, and it’s silly to act like it’s such a big deal because weather is just weather, but the blue skies, moderate temps, and cool nights were absolutely splendid. So there was that.

During the weekend, it occurred to me that this particular family gathering is a little unique, structurally. It’s my mother and (some of) her siblings and then their children and grandchildren. It’s a messy jumble, in a way, what with all the second cousins and great nieces and nephews and so forth, but I like it. It means the little kids are getting to know their great aunts and uncles, something I never got to do as a child.

We followed our (mostly) traditional routine: Saturday lunch at Mom and Dad’s, Saturday supper (hot dogs on the hill) at my brother’s, Sunday breakfast in everyone’s respective host homes, and then to our house on Sunday noon for chef salads and homemade donuts.

The donuts almost didn’t get made. I mean, they got made, no problem—by mid-morning, two whole batches were rising in the sun by the front windows—but then there was a time crunch, thanks to my poor planning. I was really looking forward to playing Trickball that morning, a new-to-me game that my husband learned about from a friend, but just as everyone was heading down to the field to play, I learned that some people were leaving earlier than usual and it dawned on me that there was no way I could play the game and make donuts and serve lunch to thirty all in the next two hours—I had neither the work space or the wherewithal to pull off such a stunt. I’d have to stay up at the house and make donuts while everyone played without me, sob.

So I called my husband up to the house so he could help me set up the fry station. But when he saw me stomping about the house, stressed and fuming, he said, “Just leave the donuts. Who care about them anyway.”

“But we made all that dough,” I wailed. “I don’t want to spend my whole afternoon frying donuts for no one!”

“It’s what, ten pounds of flour? We can toss it.”

“It’s butter and milk and sugar, too. And we made all that icing!” But even as I was speaking, a vision of me hurling mounds of puffy dough into the cow pasture flitted into my mind. The image was so satisfying, so freeing, that I knew he was right.

Who cared about donuts anyway? (Never mind that people had been asking about them all morning. Never mind that there were expectations.) This was a Mary-Martha Moment if ever there was one, and I’d not be stuck playing the Martha, no siree. This was a reunion and I wanted to play! I’d make the donuts right after lunch, if there was time, and next year I’d plan better.

So resolved, I tied on my sneakers and hiked down through the field where I got my hand smacked and fell down and scored a goal and laughed and hollered and strained all the muscles in my butt and lower back.

It was totally worth it.

And you know what? The donuts still happened!

People stayed until the end—even the ones who said they needed to leave—and we all ate ourselves silly.

Afterwards, the hosting crew, plus an aunt, remained. I fixed myself a cup of coffee, selected a pretty donut, and then—oh, joy!—sat down.

We visited out on the porch for a bit, and then sleepiness hit. Some people wandered into the house to nap while others washed dishes and ran hither and yon putting things away.

At the very end, of course, was the floor scrubbing (because I insist on it) followed by hot showers.

Only then, bone-weary and satisfied, did I fully relax. What a weekend. What a lovely, fun weekend.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (6.6.16), a better grilled cheese sandwich, on pins and needles, fence, chocobananos, white icing, playing hard, the best chocolate ice cream ever, on hold.

On a warm spring evening, first the ice cream cones and then the lingering.

Have a good weekend, my friends!


This same time, years previous: brown sugar rhubarb muffins, the quotidian (6.1.15), the quotidian (6.2.14), the quotidian (6.3.13), small pasta with spinach and bacon, three reds fruit crumble, radishes with bread and butter.