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Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Dispatches From The Bathroom Floor

Completely unfit to write + wicked migraine hangover = fasten your seatbelts, meine Damen und Herren.  But I'll at least spare you the Faulkner.  My head still feels like a half-peeled orange.

There are a few fine traits that I think I've passed along to my son:  Near-atomic energy levels.  A brow of absolute granite.  Insatiable curiosity.  Broad shoulders.

But so help me, I hope he dodged this ancestral mark:  The Migraine Headache.

For the record, I hate the very subject.  It makes me feel ill, because one of two things usually happens:  the discussion either begins (1) King of the Mountain or (2) Amateur Night.  By that I mean, either folks quibble over who has the more debilitating case, or someone will wonder aloud if they're afflicted at all.  Like y'know, it's a papercut they hadn't noticed yet.

I'd rather just ignore the things, letting them come and go in their shadowy, inexplicable way.  But they're difficult to blow off when extremities go numb, you get sick, or you can't see out of one eye.  It's great fun.  I've gone a stretch of two years without one.  Or like the two this weekend, 12 hours.  They're caused by food.  Or skipping meals.  Or stress.  Too much exercise.  Not enough.  Chocolate.  Caffeine.  Light.  Sound.  Weather.  BoozeSandwich meat.  Barometric pressure.  Concussions.  Allergies.  Or, more probably, some admixture of all, some, or none of these.

And also for the record, I can't walk and chew gum for about 3 days after a good one.  The big conference call yesterday planning how what was to be done where?  Didn't go so well.  I ended up holding my head in my hands over my speakerphone and getting the smartypantses to submit all non-yes-or-no questions via email.  Not quite my shining moment of ironfisted leadership.

The preponderance of genetics seems very much against Jack.  I have migraines.  His Grammy has them.  His uncles both have them.  His Poppa has them.  No doubt there have been many, many more.  And so, maybe one day when Jack's about twelve, he might come in from playing outside, and be unable to speak.  Or write.  (My parents thought I had had a stroke.)  That'll be great.

I thought as I lay slumped on my bathroom floor at 3 a.m., vomiting:
 "Oh, boy, I hope he missed THIS gene!"
'Cause boys and girls, it's a doozy.  And by the way, that's just a fine place for clarity of thought, your loo floor.  It is.  So forgive me, my son, if I unwittingly gave you something I wouldn't wish upon my worst foe.

But hey, last weekend started off well enough, and at some point through the fog I distinctly remember being utterly amazed while watching Majesty lead Jack through a recitation of the books of the Bible.  He got most of them, he really did.  Even Obadiah.  It was awesome, even if his crazy mom was teaching him to say "HAGG-EE-EYE" for "HAGG-EYE."  Potayto, potahto.

With that, he'll probably be well equipped for starting preschool this week (or appearing on Jeopardy).  We set him up in a little school this fall with our Disciples of Christ cousins.  Close enough, right?  A little inside baseball, here, but I'm sure everyone will get along just fine until they near the end of the 19th century.

We even got to go to a really good husband reeducation camp marriage seminar this weekend, and catch up with the friends we deserted some friends.  The speaker was Hal Runkel, who oddly enough is a dead ringer for the first fund manager I ever worked for.

Heck, this week?  For all I know it probably was him.

2 comments:

Anonymous said...

So sorry about the Mac truck that drove through you head over the weekend. Let's just say that the captain will NOT have headaches!

El Comodoro said...

Noted.