Is there a fork in the road or has it become one-way?

Friday, December 19, 2014

A Major decision is in front of me. Maybe it’s a decision for just today, for the rest of year, which isn’t long, or perhaps even longer.  I try to avoid Nevers and Anymores, but it’s not looking so good.

Sunday I bowled a trio tournament at Firs Bowl, my favorite place to bowl. I had a great time regardless of whether I bowled well or badly. I had the most fun bowling than I have had in a long time. Part of the problem is that my bar I set for myself is so damn high up that I seldom bowl satisfactory scores. Yes, that could deflate the balloon of happiness a little.

I think that bar has been welded up there many years ago. People remind me that I’m not the Sue who lived for bowling. I don’t bowl a hundred games a week. I don’t even practice. But it’s not the bar and my inability to come close to it that will cause me to quit bowling. It’s my back. Many of you know how pitiful my body is. It’s not good to be in my 50s but have the bones of a 70-year-old; not even with the new seventy.

Perhaps because I was having so much fun Sunday, I think I put more into my bowling. Opie, one of my teammates was asking Frances, the other teammate, what was up with Sue? I was bouncing off the walls. Think of Tigger the Tiger, and that’s how I was.  We finished in second. It was definitely a team effort. I had some very awful games that makes me shudder to think of them. Every spare scared me silly. I had no faith in myself to even pick up a five pin.

Once my teammates put their hands up in the air when I left a five. Who started this stupid tradition. If I miss the five, I’m supposed to buy everyone who had their hand up a drink. Nobody ever buys. A few weeks ago, I couldn’t even get someone to follow through with their promise of water. I was so thirsty.

Anyway, I threw all sorts of things at my teammates. I hit opie in the head with his rosen bag and he got lost in a white puff. I laughed;they laughed. And I sighed a relief after I picked the spare up.

I had to resort to throwing a backup ball at the right side, especially tens. I tried the regular way once and I picked the ten off of the six. The left side was just missed quite often.

There was a lot of bad bowling going on that day. I laugh when people blame the lanes. It was all on me. If I can’t hit my target or if there’s not a margin for error, I can’t blame the lanes.

So in addition to bowling on challenging lanes where I threw two balls per frame than not, but this meant we bowled more than eight games. I had already resorted to the morphine from the very beginning, but it wasn’t touching the pain. In between the games, the finals that is, I had to keep bowling as I feared what would happen if I stopped. I’d seize up. I probably bowled two games while we waited our turn. It was obvious that i had run out of gas by the last game, but not surprisingly I had my best game, the first two hundred of the day.

By the time I got home Sunday night, I was toast. But isn’t it amazing what adrenalin does?

I had the luxury of having my Family School kiddos Monday. I had been away since the previous Tuesday, and I missed them dearly. Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday I taught my pe classes. Monday I was teaching them a basic eye-hand drill where they had to throw a bean bag up into the air and then follow it onto the floor and catch it right before it hit the floor. I demonstrated this for five different classes. I also do a lot of squatting so I can get to an eye-eye level with the kiddos. I thought I had been taking it easy on myself, but I was so wrong.

By Monday night, my back was mad at me. Some of the pain in my back could certainly been stress. The behavior for my kids was atrocious. I don’t blame them at all. They had me the previous Monday and Tuesday, bt they had subs the rest of the week. Different people come in with different expectations, different thresholds of tolerance. I even apologized to the kids for putting them through this change, especially with the spectrum kids. I have been with them since the end of October, and I’ve got some routines going on. Consistency is all they need.

So, Tuesday was like a refresher bootcamp course. I brought out the white board. I kept score of their behavior and I trounced them. It was as if they forgot that they can’t talk while someone is talking. They forgot that they need to raise their hands when they want to talk. They even forgot that they have to keep their hands and feet to themselves.

Most of the classes caught on to the point system before Tuesday classes were finished and we did some stretching and exercises. We didn’t play any games. The last class of the day didn’t catch on at all and didn’t even get a chance to do the exercises. But I did the stretches and the exercises with the kids. My back grumbled, but I ignored the request to stop and kept going.

For Wednesday, my focus was on the kids to see if Tuesday’s shakeup changed anything. The first class had no clue that I was thinking about free choice as i hadn’t taken anything out of the closets. When their behavior was so amazing, it didn’t take long for them to trounce on my score. Good news for the kids. Not so good news for my back. On Wednesday, I played basketball. Football catch. volleyball. I didn’t do floor hockey or haul the mats out, but I did enough to make my back scream.Little blue ball

I’ve only been out of commission since Yesterday, so I don’t know if three or four days of restricted movement will open the door to more bowling or if the door stays closed for a while.

I haven’t been this bad for a long time. I can’t walk. Can’t bend. Can’t move without extreme pain. At least time in my green recliner, I can get my back to relax. A hot bath. Ice on my back. And drugs are helping.

I’m supposed to be on the lanes in a little more than two hours; it’s the funnest night of league, but I am starting to realize that there’s no way I can get off the chair, yet alone into my car, to the lanes, hauling thirty pounds of balls, and then actually participating. The pain is taxing my imagination. Drugs aren’t helping.

What i don’t know is whether this means I may be at the end of the road for bowling. How many days of being in extreme pain worth that one day of fun? I guess only time will tell. I am going to take some advice from Jefferson Starship to help me find my way back. Back where i’m not sure.

Can you name your all-time favorite group?

Sunday, December 7, 2014

I had heard perhaps two to five notes on the digital classic rock station and knew immediately that the Doobie Brothers were about to sing, “Listen to the Music.” They are on my list as my most favorite music. Always have had a special place in my heart. I’ve only been to their concerts twice.

I got to thinking about how many groups are up in the rankings of my most favorite. The number could be in the hundreds. Supertramp. Genesis. Beatles. Chicago. Fleetwood Mac. Bonnie Raitt. Kenny Loggins. Seals & Crofts. It’s an endless list.

Whenever an amazing songs on, it sort of takes my breathe away. The song that followed the Doobie Brothers had about the exact same response: Boston. “Don’t Look Back” from 1978, my high school graduation year, goes right to the core. It’s more than sharing my Birth State. I like their lyrics and the instruments. Lots of electrified notes bouncing all around. Now wouldn’t it be amazing if the station chooses Electric Light Orchestra next?

When I listen to stations,, whether it be Pandora or the Digital Music Channel, I try to guess the song and the artistic. As I mentioned, there are some songs that immediately bring up memories.

Sometimes there’s just a slight familiarity. I don’t know David Gilmour, but I recognize “Wish You Were Here.” Makes me think of Pink Floyd. They said he was born in Cambridge. I’m assuming this means Cambridge, England and not Cambridge, Massachusetts.

No wonder he reminds me of Pink Floyd. Duh. I should have read a few more screens to be told of this. I like his guitar work.

I’m trying to think back to my formative years, growing up with my older sisters’ music. I know Neil Young, and I’m pretty good about identifying Crosby, Stills, Nash, but I really can’t tell the difference between when Young is in the picture or not. In fact, in the Cinnamon Girl, he’s all by himself, and I couldn’t have guessed that for all the tea in China. I know this song like the back of my hand, especially that amazing riff at the very end.

Oh My God! This next song has me pumped me up. Lots of Percussion. I’m going with Led Zeppelin. “Kashmir.” I don’t have the slightest idea what Kashmir is, but this 1975 song was one of my most favorite songs to play the drums while listening to it. I probably was listening to a radio and had headphones on. The music was cranked. If you ever borrow my car, make sure you turn the volume down before you turn the key.

I didn’t have a drum set, but I did have a pair of drumsticks. I don’t know if the sticks and the drum pad were a Christmas or Birthday present, but they were the last presents that I would get from my mom. If she died in a November, I’m guessing that the sticks were given to me in March of 1972. I still have them, the sticks that is.

Imagine a 12-year-old plugged into a Led Zeppelin song that’s being blasted into the headphones. I’m on the bottom bunk and banging away in my own little world. What i would be banging depended upon my mood. Was I my dad, other humans, the world, or even God? If I was, chances are good that I would be using my thighs as drum pads. If you know me, you know how I type. Well, I drum to about that same loudness and degree.

At least I could always blame getting hit in the thighs by pucks to cover the self-induced black, blue, purple, and orange marks. I will say that a puck hitting that area after hurt quite a bit, even with pads. Lacrosse balls, those little hard white balls probably did as much damage, though I mostly got struck on the inside thigh where the pad left me unexposed.

Music and Sport for me has gone hand in hand. It’s the best way to get pumped up before a game, especially hockey. Music even helped me concentrate with bowling. I bowled much better if I had a song playing in my head. I think it helped me not think about what I was physically doing. I had gotten to the point where I had to just trust my body to know what it was doing. Talk about obsessive. Bowling was one of those activities that took over as if I were possessed. I had to get better. At all costs, though I’m not sure what the cost would have been? Friendships? Time doing anything else? I can’t say that I lost friendships; they just changed. If you were a bowler, chances are I knew you or at least recognized you.

For several years, the desire to be the best that i could possible be, pushed me beyond all limits. That’s all I did if possible. I’d wake up early in the morning and practice. Early on this old guy George took me under his wings. I don’t remember his name; he’s been dead for a while. He helped me, coached me. Ray Anderson, from Firs Bowl, hung around, giving me pointers, riding my case.

When I first started to bowl, like many women, I threw a back-up ball, and to me being told that I “threw like girl” was one of the worst insults. Ray gave me the soda pop drill to do to teach my muscle memory to turn the ball to the left rather the the right. Sometimes it would feel like I was doing it correctly, but Ray would laugh at me and tell me to practice more. He would make me stand at the line and throw the release over and over. That’s not much fun, but after awhile, something clicked.

So many people. Robbie McCoy. Karen Triplett. Elly Bright. Joyce Clayborn. Many more names of the people who pushed and prodded me. There were people that I strove to be as good or better. Kollen Gaul Kelly was one of those bowlers that I felt honored to beat, but she was far superior in talent and power. She and Tami Nelson made it look so easy.

Bowling never came easy for me. At the peak of my career, I was bowling at least a hundred games a week. I told you that I was possessed. I took clinics. Did research. And practiced my fool head off.

The saddest part of this story is that the better I got, the the level of fun declined. Being the best in Eugene, shifted to being the best in Oregon. (I’m only talking about against women.) There were many bowlers in Oregon that I struggled against. Kathy Tribbey, an amazing person end phenomenal bowler, is the first bowler that comes to mind. I never got to be the best in Oregon, but my 217 average was up there. When I advanced to competing against the Pacific Northwest, that’s pretty much where I met my match in overall numbers. Kristy Whitcher has had record numbers when it comes to perfect games and eight hundred series.

I paid for my professional card and I had a lot o fun bowling on the Northwest Regional tour, but the few times I bowled against the National Bowling Professionals, it’s as if I had a split personality, and that other person can’t bowl at all. And it wasn’t any fun, to boot. No high fives from Carol Giannoti-Block, not even a look in the eye.

When I got lucky and won the Oregon Queens tournament in Portland it was one of the strangest Sweet and Sour experience. I as happy that I won. But I was all alone. I didn’t have any support in the enemy territory of Portland. Winning and being a lone isn’t as fun as losing while being around friends. With that, I knew that my end as coming.

It has taken me quite a bit of reprogramming to be able to bowl and not take it very serious. I still get disappointed with my performance, but I no longer practice and only bowl in a social league once a week where I focus on having fun; if the bowler in me shows up, all the better.

It Really Is a Wonderful Life

Thursday, December 4, 2014

I’ve only seen the movie, It’s a Wonderful Life a handful of times, unlike my former boss and amazing writer, Bob Welch, who has seen this movie at least a hundred times. He probably has it memorized by now.

But the message can’t be told often enough: This Life is Wonderful. I’ve been guilty of taking this life for granted too many times. Just as George learned that his birth, his life, his actions effect everyone around him. The butterfly effect.

The other day I was watching a talk show, not something that I do that often, but I had the afternoon off so while I reheated my ham and mac & cheese leftovers, I pushed the button to turn the Boob Tube on. There was an organization, Roses for something, that donates monies to families in order for members to gather to see a loved one for the last time or provides a cancer patient with a last wish. I’m not alone, unfortunately, to say that Cancer has had a huge impact on my family. My father died of Lung Cancer. His sister died of cancer. My cousin Judy is a cancer survivor. And I am a cancer survivor.

But what jolted me was when I listened to a grieving mother who had recently lost her child to a rare form of Kidney Cancer. Wilms’ Kidney Cancer. Wow, that could have been me.

In a recent blog, I wrote about how instead of biking between Seattle to Portland like planned, I underwent an emergency radical nephrectomy, though I wasn’t as specific when i wrote of battling against Cancer instead of peddling my butt off.

I did mention that I hadn’t played goal in a few years because I got tired of getting hurt, and that position seemed to always bring out the Kamakazee Pilot within me. But the team needed me, so I caved and said that I would keep goal. Little did I know that that decision perhaps saved my life.

I have told this story so many times, but I don’t think I have written the story down that many times. Spoken words don’t seem to reverberate as much as the written words. It’s as if with the words, I am forced to really face the experience.

By this point in the story, some of you have figured out that something must have happened. I got kicked in the stomach as a result of my throwing my body on the soccer ball as if a goal scored on my watch would really mean that much.

As a result, I got the wind knocked out of me. I probably walked it off and continued to play. I’ve always been tough. Give me physical pain. I can handle physical pain a lot better than I can deal with psychological pain.  I am a firm believer that I sought out physical pain in order to fend off emotional pain. Instead of becoming a cutter or an erasor as some teens do, I used sports to create bruises, strawberries (really bad scrapes), broken bones, and torn ligaments.

After getting kicked in the gut, I went about life as scheduled. I was an inventory expert for RGIS. I sure was a whiz on a ten key pad. I told my boss that I may have to cut out early as I wasn’t feeling so good and that perhaps I had broken a rib during the soccer game. I was joking around with the crew, asking people what it would feel like if I were bleeding internally. My imagination tends to go off the deep end most of the time, but this time it was as if I were forecasting my own future.

i went to the doctor, though i didn’t realize at the time that I probably had the worst doctor in Eugene, though she became a minor character quickly, another thing that may have saved my life. (I have a friend who claims that this doctor that I had had misdiagnosed her sister’s cancer and as a result her sister died.)

Remember that this was happening in 1988 where the medical field was not as advanced as it is now, though so much better than it would have been in  1965 when I was supposed to have been diagnosed with Wilms’ Cancer.

I’m getting ahead of myself.

My general practioner ran me through the usual Xrays. Nothing showed up. it didn’t see the soft-ball sized tumor that had consumed my right kidney. I was scheduled for an Ultra Sound the next day.

Anyone who has had kidney stones, like my brother-in-law or my close friend Lori, you can relate to what I was to experience that night. Instead of feeling like I broke a rib, it felt as if I were being stabbed in the back. I had never felt pain this bad, so searing.

I don’t remember if I waited until my scheduled ultra sound or if I went in to the emergency room. Not only did this happen a long time ago, but at a certain time, the amount of pain medication I received changed what I remember, mixing those memories with my imagination.

Sylvia had already left to bike the STP without me since the doctor reassured us that my injury wasn’t serious. To come to her defense, the doctor that is, she was not the only professional to get buffaloed by my cancer presentation. As Sylvia racked up the miles, I was racking up my own miles as the pain grew exponentially.

The Ultra sound only gave the doctor’s  the notion that something was wrong with my kidney. I had been hit by a car when I was twelve, and it wouldn’t have surprised the doctors that that impact had injured my kidney. But we were grasping straws. The ultrasound didn’t see the softball-sized cancer.

My faith on medical science was waning. I just wanted something to stop the pain. Anything. Death seemed like a viable option at that point.

I was admitted to Sacred Heart General Hospital. It hadn’t grown into a medical center yet. Sacred Wallet was what many people called the institution. At that point, time’s a blur. I remember seeing my grey  cat Stanley in my room, though he would just run by, never taking the time to sit with me. But there were more important things to deal with than my minor hallucinations.

Earlier in this story I mentioned that I was kidding with co-workers about what it would feel like to be bleeding internally. that’s exactly what started to happen. This experience taught me that I needed to be careful in asking for things as so many times we get our prayers answered, though perhaps not when we want it.

Blood in my urine. Acute abdominal pain. A fever. These ingredients created a recipe for Emergency Surgery. I’m not even sure who gave the doctor’s permission. Perhaps my dad did. Somehow friends had contacted him and he caught the next flight from Florida to Oregon.

Just like a baked-stuff Lobster, I was split up the gut so the doctor’s could see first hand what was going on in my body since the baseball-sized tumor was able to hide on the Xrays and on the Ultrasound. But this Wilms’ tumor was so tricky that even when the doctors were looking at the mass, they came to the conclusion that it was probably just a cyst. It didn’t look like anything that anyone had seen before. Lucky me. Why couldn’t I have won the lottery instead. I probably had better odds of winning the lottery than being diagnosed with Wilms’ Kidney Cancer.

This is what says about my kind of cancer:

T”he first sign is normally a painless abdominal tumor that can be easily felt by the doctor. An Ultrasound, Computed Tomography, or MRI is done first. A tumor biopsy is not typically performed due to the chance of upstaging the cancer and seeding the abdomen with malignant cells.”

My Wilms’ tumor wasn’t playing by the rules except for the one that said that biopsy will increase the diagnostic stage. But since these experts concluded that they were only dealing with a cyst, they did the biopsy while the tumor was still in me instead of taking the whole ball of wax out and then taking a sample. There are five stages of cancer. Five”s the worst. Instead of being a stage I or II or III,  my prognosis shift to stage IV. I don’t remember seeing that card when I played the game of life as I drove my little plastic car around the board with my blue and pink passengers. But that’s the card I was dealt in my life. I spent the next couple of years playing 52-card pickup. Every time I thought I had picked up the deck, something would happen to cause the cards to go flying around the room. Perhaps there’s some truth to the suspicion that I’m not playing with a full deck as some have thought.

It’s possible that I was born with the Wilms’ tumor. It is after all a children’s cancer. Typically the tumor is discovered during yearly checkups as the cancer has the disposition to grow rather large and a simple palpation ought to discover this mass. My mass was a master of hide-and-go-seek and instead of being diagnosed before I was eight, it wasn’t discovered until I was twenty-eight.Wilms_tumor

I hope I never have to go through cancer therapy again, but I’m glad that I did do it when I was young and healthy. Being active in soccer, lacrosse, and biking had my body rather fit. But fifteen months of chemotherapy and seven weeks of radiation really did a number on me. I probably only weighed 120 sopping weight at the time, but when the scales  dipped to just two figures, I wasn’t looking very  good.

I remember when the diagnosis of having a children’s cancer finally sank in, it was like I put in a missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle that was my life and things started to make sense. When I was young, I lost a friend to Leukemia. I hadn’t experienced death and my friend’s family had moved away before Gayland Gates died, so I was removed from the harsh reality, but I did pick up on how his death had a ripple effect of all of the people around me. Being the mini dramatist I tended to be when I didn’t get my way, I started to think about the ways I could make my parents, especially my dad, pay the ultimate price. My death would that price. I basically started praying  for this destiny; these death wishes increased after my mom died. My plan of revenge was despicable, but I was just a child. I did eventually grow up and stopped wishing for something so ridiculous, but it’s possible I had planted the seed. I learned that I had better be careful in what I pray for as I got exactly what I wanted; I just didn’t get it when I wanted it.

For all of the research I have done on the internet, I’ve not found anything on adults having Wilms’ Kidney Cancer. I know I can’t be the only one, but it is so rare there’s no data to suggest otherwise.

This is where the movie, It’s a Wonderful Life, helps me put things in perspective. If I had been diagnosed before 1965, the odds of my survival wouldn’t have been that good; the chemotherapy probably would have been harder than the cancer. And yet, I wonder what the wider ramifications would have been if I were diagnosed in 1965. Would my mom have sobered up or would she had gone off the deep end sooner rather than later. I’m not sure what the purpose of these meanderings are, but that’s what my brain tends to do.

The only thing I know for certain is that I’m alive and have been cancer-free since 1988. I’ll let you do the math. And this reminds me to not take this Wonderful Life for granted.

Flash back: Derek and the Dominoes

Wednesday, December 3, 2014

I have been having a grand old time listening to the “Classic” Rock station. There are so many songs that I’m familiar with the group or singer’s names and the song, which would of course include the lyrics. But sometimes I know the song name, like Layla and the Lyrics. I recognize the group name of Derek and the Dominoes, but their name doesn’t land on the tip of my tongue. If their name is in the memory bank, it’s tucked way back in the beginning of a very cramped file cabinet. I wish I could take all of the information and burn it on a CD or DVD or Blue Ray Whatever that is called. But damn that would take a lot of sorting. I don’t need everything that I have stashed in the inner file cabinet. I need someone to help me sort through the mental files. Is it possible to sift through and recycle the stuff I no longer need so I can access the stuff that I really need? I have so much more that I want to add, but I think I’m already at max capacity.

I’ve probably already written about my first computer, the Commodore Amiga, that had 512K memory. Damn that thing would crash and take with it so many things I wrote. The first time I used it to write a paper for Marilyn at the University of Oregon. Marilyn Farwell. I had procrastinated and left this paper for the last minute. Not a good idea with a very tough and righlty so grader.

After an “all-nighter”, something I was famous for in my undergraduate time, which is probably why it took me until I was thirty to get that first degree, my brand new state of the art computer that I bought from the UO bookstore, (Beautiful color screen was much better than the Mac….,) it froze. I was shit out of luck. I had nothing. No notes. No rough drafts. I had poured my heart and soul and everything that I knew on the subject, from my head through my fingers and through to the computer. Hitting re-boot was the hardest thing that I ever had to do. Well, not really, but to make it more dramatic, that’s how I felt. I believe I was the first student to ever tell Dr. Farwell that my computer ate my paper. I still see her smile and hear her laughter. I still lost a grade for my paper being late. Ouch!

Back to the subject at hand. Sometimes my mind is like a game of Dominoes where one thought may lead to other things, but many thoughts fall down as a result. I just have to wait for the clickity sounds of the dominoes falling to stop before I can start from the beginning again.

No wonder Derek and the Dominos are tucked way back in my file cabinets. I may have only been nine when they were together, but talk about the Domino Effect. No, I have never heard of the American soul revue or Delaney & Bonnie and Friends, but since Eric Clapton and Steve Winwood were byproducts, that’s amazing as those two names have been moved closer to the front in my memory drawer. I’ve never seen Clapton in concert, but I’ve seen Windwood. I think he was touring with Bonnie Raitt. Maybe Jackson Browne. Amazing show. Derek_and_the_Dominos

I’m gonna skip the dirt about Clapton falling in love with George Harrison’s wife…I didn’t have a clue then. Probably don’t need to add that information to the memory banks, but some of you may think this is interesting… . And yet even this bit of gossip plays a part in this story.

The song I was listening to was “Layla” and it wasn’t until a few seconds ago when the bells in my brain were going off; it’s like an alarm was sounding for trying to access a very old file, a file that may be covered with a lot of dust. Of course Layla is very familiar to me since I own so many Eric Clapton CD’s. I even had my family read an Eric Clapton song, the one about his father’s eyes, at my dad’s funeral. I will never be able to listen to this song without crying, but I will never stop playing it either.

Now all of this makes sense.

Scooters versus scooter

Monday, December 1, 2014

I can’t believe that it’s December, but that’s a different story that I may or may not get around to writing.

I came across this horrible email describing accidents that Scooters can cause: spin_prod_1031419812

“Here’s a sobering statistic to ponder before buying holiday gifts for your kids: A new study shows that a child with a toy-related injury is treated in a U.S. emergency department every 3 minutes. Much of that increase was due to one type of toy: foot-powered scooters.

The researchers found that about 3.3 million children with toy-related injuries were treated in ERs between 1990 and 2011, and the toy-related injury rate rose nearly 40 percent during that time….”

As some of you know, I’ve been teaching elementary physical education. Lots of tears have been shed in this gym, though mostly are of the emotional sort. Tears are tears and they really pull on my heart strings.

Unfortunately, until I got really strict on the usage and rules in playing beyond safe, I was having multiple students a day get hurt because of scooters. One student even lost part of his front two teeth. The above statistics were sickening to think that I had put these little kiddos in harm’s jeopardy.

And then I saw the picture of the scooter that the above article was talking about. Pedal-Powered doesn’t mean just that the feet are used to propel an object like the scooters my kids use. They don’t stand on these small square pieces of plastic with four wheels, aka scooters; they are nothing to be compared with against the two-wheeled Scooter that ought to have helmet laws attached to its use.

If you are worrying about me and my choice of activities that I closely monitor, breathe a sigh of relief as the scooters that let these kids use are about three inches from the floor. The square surface is being held up by four wheels. They can sit on the scooter, lay on the scooter, but they can’t stand on the scooter. Ever since I made the kids actually pay attention to where they were going, injuries have been non-existent.

These younguns have the same odds of getting hurt if they were playing badminton or catch. I’m not even sure if Duck-duck-goose will prevent bruises and other various wounds. Sometimes I have to look very closely to even find their wounds, but I treat them just the same. Maybe this is why I am falling in love with these guys.

Oh, by the way, one kid asked if he could pull out the unicycles? Absolutely not, negative. Never!