Andrea, my sister-in-law and Courtney’s enduring wife, commented on my last post, about dancing with Court and asked, “I thought he also bumped your mom's head on the stove another time too, didn't he?” Close, but it was me that he rammed into the stove, not mom.
We were dancing in the kitchen, as we liked to do (see previous post). He went for a big dip (now that I think about it, the big dips were the problem), lunging forward, really far forward, pushing me backward. The inertia of both bodies moving in one direction with such force was more than he could handle. He lost all control, hit the floor, and I was thrown into the stove.
But that wasn’t the worst of our accidents. We were horsing around in the kitchen another day. This time he wanted to throw me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry (side note – I almost never knew what was coming. It’s not like he said, “I am now going to pick you up and carry you around” and then I said, “Okay that would be great”. He just came at me with the surprise attack). He squatted down and pulled me over his shoulders, and just as he was about to stand up, he farted. The passed gas started him laughing. He lost his balance and fell, driving my head right into the knobs on the cabinet door. It really hurt, and swelled up, and gave me brain damage.
Honestly, it was like growing up with Babe the Blue Ox.
But, he was also sweet and affectionate, funny and smart, and we spent almost all of our at-home time together. Along with tackling, fireman carrying, and pain-inducing dancing, he liked to read with me. He’d come up to me and say, “Ang, lets read”, so we’d find a book and sit close on the couch or one of our beds, with his head on my shoulder, and I’d read. That was one of my favorite things. Almost worth the brain damage.