Weekend progress. Floors! Curtains! Cat nipples!
The kitchen, living room, and hallway all connect to form a circuitous route, and Zenny has decided this is an ideal athletic track. She charges through the house in circles, and I sit on the couch watching her patter by on her little toddler muppet-legs, wondering if I will ever relax about her head injury. Maybe I won't remember when I stopped fretting. Maybe I will be forever banning her from contact sports and embarrassing her at the ice rink with her friends by skating around after her with protective padding. I was thinking about this yesterday as I buckled on her helmet, helped her climb the slide at the playground, and then ran headlong into a steel ledge.
The gods will have their due.
But exactly which gods are out for our brain pans? Research into responsible head-injury deities points to Czernobog (specifically, Neil Gaiman's representation); Slavic tradition says you can keep him at bay by swearing into a bowl on feast days. This is easy, I already do that practically every day (although clearly NOT ENOUGH). And just to play it safe, I can make an appeal to John Licci, Patron Saint of traumatic brain injuries. He appears to have been fond of building walls, and then healing people who fell off of them. He was also good at the bread and wine trick. So I will eat lots of bread and wine, and cuss into them, and that should cover our bases.
This is why libraries are important, people.
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