Mrs. Flinger: A work in progress

UPDATE TO Mrs. Flinger October 16, 2015

Because the Universe has a wicked sense of humor, after this delcaration, my blog threw up all over my last upgrade.

So I'm starting over using Craft. Turning 40 and kid entering Jr High next year, sometimes it's just time for a change. These archives will still exist in the way the last child goes off to college and their room is the same for 20 years, but it's just time to move forward.

Snow and Stitches: A Flinger Holiday Story Nov 29, 2010

#Life#The Flinger Family

Get ready for a boatload of snow pics. This one? My backyard.

Wow, y’all. Was that a week or what?

boy in snow

The week started out as usual. Monday morning came with the furry of gathering children to breakfast, rushing them to dress and hurrying out the door. The snow started just hours later and by noon, [all of Seattle] I was in a mass panic to get to Sea-Tac in a [blizzard] light snow storm.


With my parents secured, already bragging of 80 degree weather the day before in Houston, we managed to safely (SOMEHOW) get back north. Let me tell you, it was life-threatening snow flurries! Or very small flakes! Either way, I managed to navigate the treacherous freeways. (No, seriously, just watch the news if you don’t believe me. What? The news exaggerates more than a sixth grader talking about the size of his penis? Hu.)

ER trip #2 for LB

My daughter managed to trump the snow in her pursuit to be more like her mother. While dancing in the living room, as she does, her socked feet slipped out from under her and she crashed, chin first, on the hardwood floor. Blood, tears, and screaming soon followed. Oma, having gone through this three times with her own young daughter, a very young me, quickly assessed that stitches would be necessary. Mr. Flinger and I took our sobbing six year old to the ER where we thanked netflix mobile for hosting Astro Boy, which kept her calm and quiet before the doctor could make it around. “Seven stitches!” he declared. And so began the fixing, cleaning, stitching up of my young daughter. She bravely sat, big blue eyes wide, and held our hands. I remembered being in her position, at six, looking up at the bright light above me, the doctor working, and the kind nurse telling me I could squeeze her hand as hard as I wanted to. We will have matching scars now, my daughter and I. (And apparently most of facebook, according to your chin-scar-stories. Thanks for taking that uniqueness away from me. I thought I was the only one with stitches on my chin. But what’s that? You only did it once? Oh, I did it THREE TIMES. That’s right. I win teh ugly chin! Take that, facebook.)


Aside from that, the family arrived, the food was prepared, the snow was thrown, the wii was used, the booze was drank. The turkey may have been dry and the green beans a bit stringy, but the cranberries were delicious and the yams were mashed by my cousin and aunt. The women gathered in the kitchen while the men talked history. The children played and spilled things and another year of memories began in our new house.

And now, let the holiday season begin.