Le Clown rarely writes about the everyday mundane moments of his magnificent life. If there’s a post about his family, it’s usually written in hindsight. For a better perspective.
It’s an unexpected family day today. Lord Evil Poppy is enjoying quality time with her famlily. It’s heart warming, even when you’re trying to ignore them by reading other bloggers, notably The Write Transition. LEP is high energy like her Clown Dad. She gets bored easily too. Her attention span moved to the big orange yoga ball we own. It’s important to specify that the yoga/exercise/pilates ball isn’t being used. We like to think that we’re avant-garde home designers, and nothing has more of a wow factor in a living room than an inflated and dirty old orange rubber ball. For my 2-yr old girl, it looks like daddy’s bouncing one-ab. Next thing I know, I hear crying from her room, very loud screams. Lord Evil Poppy is holding her arm, and she’s in pain, I mean, it sounds like childbirth pain – but she’s too young, and I’ve been screening all the little boys that have entered this house. It must be a broken arm.
She’s lamenting, she’s screaming, she’s crying. She hates my guts. The Ringmistress wakes up. What the hell’s going on? “It’s the ball’s fault, honey. It wasn’t me. I was just ignoring her“. We call 8-1-1 (in our glorious country, 8-1-1 is the step below 9-1-1. And for those who live in a country which doesn’t have a 9-1-1 number, look it up, I’m too busy writing about me to spell it out for you). “Your daughter needs to go to the hospital now. Give her some Tylenol, and get your Clown ass moving“. I gently grab Lord Evil Poppy. Her eyes are red, and she’s now crying in tongues. I drove like a maniac (if any law enforcement entity is reading this, I’m exaggerating, for literary purposes). At the ER, the nurse redirects us to a room, where a doctor will see us promptly. There will be no waiting – Lord Evil Poppy’s distress is scaring everyone. It looks like a case of testicular cancer type II of the brain tumour located in her right arm. You don’t fuck with that.
30 long minutes! Do you know how long that is when you’re with a crying child who’s holding her arm, looking at you with sad eyes, cursing your name in backwards Latin? It’s American Idol excruciatingly long… “Hi sir. What seems to be the problem“? “Isn’t it obvious, Dr. Douchebag? Look at my daughter!! She’s dying!!“ “That sweet little girl playing with the otoscope, laughing? There’s nothing wrong with her, sir. If the pain persists, give her Tylenol and put some ice on her arm. Have a good day.“
Lord Evil Poppy stares at me, laughing: “Don’t ever ignore me again, Clown Douche“.