Of Stinky Cheese and Achey Heads...Tripping up the Stairs...

      We were at the Mexico house, all was warm and calm and beautiful. And hot...really god damned hot.
      Daddy: "Izzy, you need more sunscreen."
      Izzy: "I'm OK."
      Daddy: "No you're not, you're a creep and you still need sunscreen."
      Izzy: "I don't want it, I don't like it."
      Daddy: " I don't like it either but you're just like me. If you don't put it on you'll burn to a crisp."
      Izzy: "But I'm OK, really."
      Daddy: "Izzy, if you're going to stay out, you need more sunscreen on. At least on your face."
      Izzy: "But it feels like shit on my cheeks."
      Daddy: "Wait, what?"
      Izzy: (singing) "On my cheeks."

      Izzy has been losing her mind all week...not in a necessarily productive way but when is unbridled excitement ever productive? We leave for Mexico the second week of February...Izzy's suitcase is already full to bursting...Can't say as I blame her but I am jealous, I only get one week this year.


     I am no exception, not to any of the rules that govern the human condition. We do things, sometimes stupid and get appropriate results. We are human and that means we often make poor choices and have to live with the consequences. I am no exception. We are human beings, we have processes that have developed over thousands of years that keep us alive and keep us healthy. Some (in fact, quite a few) of these processes come with smells. I am no exception...neither is Isobel.
     I had favourite clothes as a kid. Hell I still have favourite clothes as an adult and I wore them as often as I could. I remember my sister dated a guy from Detroit and he gave me a pair of jeans. Moto-cross jeans I think they were called at the time. Basically cargo pants now a days but made of denim. They had domes instead of regular buttons and they were just about the coolest things I had ever owned. I wore them with blue and white Northstar running shoes. I felt like Starsky ( I don't remember having a Hutch) though I am certain I just looked like a fat kid in cargo jeans with blue and white shoes.
     I loved those jeans, wore them until there were no knees in them. My mother patched them until there was nothing left of them. I can remember hiding them from her on several occasions for fear of her throwing them out. (Which she subsequently did while I was at school or they may have surreptitiously be fashioned into jean shorts) I had out grown them but refused to get rid of them. I also remember lying about wearing them only to continue wearing them. I am certain they were pretty ripe but I didn't care...I am no exception.
      Now genetics being what they are, my progeny has adopted summer pyjamas as her preferred choice of attire. Leopard skin shorts and a black tank top. She also has a pair of shorts with hearts on them ( the two shorts and the tank top were all part of a set if I recall) that will substitute in a pinch but that is the only delineation from the norm.
      Now human bodies (even eight year old ones) being what they are, the continued wearing of a garment and the lack of underclothes under said garment and the near total non compliance with Sunday laundering of the household clothing, tend to make the jammies a bit whiffy. I guess I am a little more gentile or perhaps have a bit more discretion than Mrs. Narrator. Or maybe it's because I am her father and, despite my burgeoning medical knowledge, discussing nether realm cleanliness with my daughter is still sailing into mostly uncharted waters.
     Oh I too have noticed odours and truly, meant to make mention of them but I think she would have been as mortified by the whole conversation as I would. So when Mrs. Narrator questioned the origin of the stank and began to question her toiletry procedures, I happily chimed in with "What did I tell you about that stuff before?" Knowing full well that I hadn't said anything more than "Put on some god damned underpants."
     A consensus was reached between the females of the household that underpants would regularly be worn and particular attention would be paid to technique and the washing of the aforementioned regions, or there would be no more wearing of pyjamas other than in bed where no one would be exposed to the whiffy jammies. I'm still not entirely sure what went down but I am relieved that I didn't have to play any other part than to say "It's not healthy."
      Mrs. Narrator gets headaches often. So it stands to reason that Isobel should inherit such an affliction. She seems to have and it has been quite frequent over the past few weeks. The origins have been a mystery thus far, no discernible reason for the headaches. I have no doubt they are genuine as they will often reduce her to tears.
    Tonight before Mrs. Narrator left, Isobel complained of a headache. Dutifully, Mrs. narrator recorded the time of the headache (to keep track of how many the poor kid has been having) and gave Isobel some medicine. Isobel returned to the chair fort she made in the living room and Mrs. Narrator went of to roller derby.
    Shortly after, Isobel came out complaining that she had another headache. I looked at her and noticed that her cheeks were red and her face was pale. We walked into the living room and looked at the chair fort. Isobel is obsessed with it being totally dark so she could play on the IPhone and get the whole cool at night experience. Therefore, the blankets touch the floor around the entire fort. She had been in it for about half an hour since the last headache, or just about enough time to start compromising air quality. Come to think of it, she was so obsessed with playing in the dark that she would go upstairs and play with the IPhone under the blankets. I told her to take some deep breaths and walk around to get her blood flowing.
     "Is your headache gone?" I asked her after five or ten minutes of walking around.
      "Yep!" she answered cheerfully.
      "It's a miracle!" I said.


      I don't know if I was a klutz as a kid. I suppose we all are to some extent. This past Sunday must have set some kind of record. Mrs. Narrator was on her way upstairs, not even in a particular hurry.
     "Ka-thok". Was more or less the noise her leg made as it hit the stair. 
      "Are you alright?" I asked.
      She silently nodded and carried on with her ascent.
     About an hour later, Isobel needed to go upstairs (likely to hide under the blankets with an IPhone).
 "Pok."  went her shin on the stair as she went.
   "Oh, ouchie. Are you OK?" I asked getting up to get to her. the sound of shin on stair told me there would be tears. There were but they didn't last. Soon she was up the stairs and happily trying to smother herself.
   Later she started down the stairs, lost her footing-she was holding the handrail and was nearing the bottom, spun on the stair and actually clocked her shin on the stair with a loud "Bunk."
     More tears, slightly longer and a small ice pack for approximately three minutes and it was off to watch Hotel Transylvania. After the movie, she decided it was about time to venture back upstairs for a little gaming and a little oxygen deprivation.
"Kunk." went her shin as the stair leaped out and hit her.
    "Oh come on!" she yelled as she stomped upstairs.
   I can't imagine how vicious the stairs might be once I get them finished.