Triumph!

Torin Young has successfully made it through nursery without suffering from the following:

Typical symptoms of acute myocardial infarction include sudden retrosternal chest pain (typically radiating to the left arm or left side of the neck), shortness of breath, nausea, vomiting, palpitations, sweating, and anxiety (often described as a sense of impending doom).

This description is very fitting to Torin's nursery experience, but worry no more--he has conquered with a thumps-up! We now have hope that Torin will go to Kindergarten!

– BMY
 

The Nature of Blame, Part III

In a way, I can't blame them for trying.

“The search for a scapegoat is the easiest of all hunting expeditions.” 

― Dwight D. Eisenhower

The Nature of Blame, Part II

When I was still in single digits, I stole Dream Team tattoos from supermarket sodas. I knew it was wrong, but I blamed Brandon’s peer pressure.

In my very early teens, I scribbled notes on school desks to communicate with Landon’s luscious ladies. (Speaking eye-to-eye was unimaginable.) I knew the act was wrong, but societal guidelines were to blame.

A mid-teen decision was to hide my friend’s quad. His brother, Little Sweetie, habitually parked it in an empty field adjacent a busy Broadway, causing crooks to salivate. I knew it was wrong—and a subsequent police report confirmed this—but I placed blame on the naivete and irresponsibility of his brother.

Thank heavens humans grow beyond this childish blame game. Otherwise, we'd never hear the end of blaming the likes of Katrina or Sandy, Fannie or Freddie. It would become languishing listening to blames on bosses or Barry, government or gun owners. The 1% would be blamed nonstop! And every other poor decision or misfortune would be blamed on parents, kids, competitors, Wall Street, the devil, discrimination, fame, inequality, God, gas prices, weight, war, love, hate, limited quantities, debt, disabilities, genetics, aesthetics, schooling, weather, marriage, heritage, sleepless nights, the sniffles, or the cough.

It would grow old.

The Nature of Blame, Part I

On busy workdays, hours can pass without a single has-anyone-of-importance-contacted-me phone check. This can be unfavorable, because a timely response is nearly always desired. Some days ago, work was like sailing into the teeth of the gale, and as I returned to my three-and-a-half walled slave station, I longingly took that glance to quench my contacts (not-so-) long-forsaken inquiries.

I discovered that only moments ago Brooke had called six or seven times within a few minutes.

This was abnormal; I was nervous.

I promptly returned her call to discover Torin had locked himself in one of the basement rooms. It was dark and gloomy (and maybe even damp and smelling yucky), and he was frightened. Brooke felt helpless, as she was unable to release him from his prison. Decker was wailing. I zoomed homeward.

A flat-head screwdriver and cool turn of the wrist uncaged the innocuous convict. I had ridden in on my silver horse and emancipated the distressed. Dad had saved the day! (That’s what we do.) Maybe there would be milk and cheese for dinner after all. Hooray! Surely a giant bear hug was in order.

But, no!

While shoving my hands back through the opening door, Torin shrilled and impetuously smashed it shut. Huh? He was mad at Dad. His instinct was to blame his imprisonment and pain on another. His discomfort and confinement were of course not the fault of his own. He’s two and naturally blaming.