25 AugHard Head; Iron Stomach

My fourth son, Jory, stole the family show this week. Jory is twelve-years-old, almost 13. He is in the clear, fresh, beautiful autumn of childhood before the winter years of his “teenagedom” hit. He can still sing as high as his sisters. He still likes to play games with his little brothers and sisters. He still thinks his parents are great. It won’t be long until the dark-side beckons. Hormones will strike making life much more complicated for him and me.

About a week ago I took the kids swimming.  Jory decided he wanted to try a backflip off the diving board.

“Have you ever done a  backflip before?” I asked.

“On the trampoline,” he replied.

I hung onto the pool’s edge near the diving board and watched Jory execute a fairly decent backflip. I was impressed. He did another. I followed with a maximum splash figure four. He went up to do another backflip. This time he didn’t jump out enough. He came down so close in front of the board I wasn’t sure if his head hit. His arms slammed against the board making quite a thump. I was relieved to see him come right up to the surface. I noticed a look of fear in his eyes. It was probably the same look I had in my eyes. After asking him the necessary questions about his well-being and finding that he hadn’t hit his head, I explained about jumping out a little more away from the board. He understood. Jory decided he didn’t’ want to do any more backflips that day.

A few days later I got a call from my daughter. She was at a pool party for the young men and women of our church.

“Dad? Can you come down and get Jory. He hit his head on the diving board and needs a few stitches.”

Like any good dad I immediately wondered how much this was going to cost. I drove in to town to find Jory with a bloody rag pressed to his head. He was fine until he saw me. Then I saw quiet tears come to his eyes. I think he was happy to see me. His sister and I took him to the hospital where they put nine stitches into his head. We’ve been very blessed with health. Even with eight kids I can count doctor’s visits on one hand. I will always remember that night.

Fast forward a week. My wife and two teenage daughters went to a movie. That left me and the three younger kids at home. With so few of us one pizza would do the trick. I stopped at the Flying J to pick up the pizza. While there I broke down and bought some chicken wings. I hadn’t had wings in months. I sat in the quiet of my vehicle and enjoyed them. I felt a little guilty that I didn’t take them home and share them. We each would have got one. When I arrived home I left the bones in a little plastic bag on the seat. With all I had to carry in I didn’t have a hand to carry the bag with me. I told myself I would come back out to get it. I didn’t.

On Sunday morning our “get ready for church” preparations were as chaotic as ever. The boys were ready and the girls weren’t. I told the boys to get in the truck. The girls could follow in the van when they were ready. I arrived at the truck to see Jory grinning impishly at me.

“You missed one,” he said.

It took a couple of seconds for me to put it together. He was gnawing on a chicken wing that had been left in the truck for a day and a half. The day it had been left there I’m sure the inside of the truck had reached 100 degrees. He was grinning impishly because he had found out my little secret and was now sharing the loot.

“You haven’t really eaten any of that,” I asked. I was incredulous.

He nodded a silent “Oh, but I have!”

I searched his eyes for the truth. I couldn’t believe that my son didn’t know enough not to eat chicken that had been left on the truck seat through a summer day. The fact that he was still nibbling on it right in front of me helped me believe he had.

“Stop that!” I yelled. If he had been standing in the yard I would have tackled him to save him from his folly. As it were, I couldn’t get past the steering wheel to reach him. “Put it back in the bag. Don’t you know what’s going to happen . . .” and I explained in a panic. I encouraged him spit out what was in his mouth and go throw up. He looked at me like he wasn’t sure if I were teasing him. I looked at him like I couldn’t believe he didn’t understand.

I guess I got through a little ways, because he did put the chicken back in the bag and gave the bag to me. I threw it out.

“It’s okay, Dad,” he said. I had my Man Pill.” He was referring to a great big vitamin pill he had for breakfast. That was all he had eaten—the pill. No wonder he was gnawing on bones in the truck. I didn’t know how to make him throw up so I just took him to church and told him to let me know if he started feeling sick. I felt sick already.

We had only been in church ten minutes when he looks at me with tears in his eyes. I took him home. I thought it was too soon for the chicken to be getting him. I wondered if my grim prediction had just scared him into feeling sick.

“It might just be the Man Pill I took,” he said. I had taken one of those on an empty stomach once. It had upset my stomach also. He went to the bathroom and came out feeling better. He hadn’t thrown up, though. I took him back to church.

It’s now ten hours later and all is well. I think he dodged the bullet on this one. The question is, does he know enough not to do it again.  I think so. I heard him tell his Mom, “It wasn’t the smartest thing I ever did.” My wife thinks that the two weeks he spent at Scout camp this summer prepared his stomach for spoiled chicken. I don’t think she gives the Scouts enough credit.