Bonus Post: Crazy Head

Lindsay was probably nine years old and Lucia eleven when we were playing soccer in the front yard and Lucia antagonized Lindsay. I don’t remember exactly what the issue was, but Lucia was clearly at fault and Lindsay clearly was not. So I got irritated with Lucia, spoke sharply to her, and banished her to her room for ten minutes or something. We all went inside for a break, Lindsay disappeared for a couple of minutes, and the next thing I know, I’m enduring Superstorm Lindsay.

“You need to let Lucia out now, Dad!” I do not use the exclamation point lightly—she yelled this at me.

“She can come out when her ten-minute timeout is over,” I said.

“She’s sorry, Dad! You need to let her out now!”

“I appreciate that she’s sorry, but she still has to spend the ten minutes.”

“No, she doesn’t! She and I already made up.”

“I’m glad you made up, but the consequence is the consequence. She has to spend the ten minutes.”

“That’s dumb. That’s not fair. She’s sorry, and I’m okay, and I want her to get out and we are ready to play!”

“Yes, but I am the parent, and I decide.”

“No, Dad! She’s sorry! You need to let her out now!”

I shook my head. “This makes no sense. She picked on you for no reason, and she’s not begging me to let her out. You are begging me to let her out.”

“Cuz it’s not fair, Dad!”

Fair clearly had a pliable definition in Lindsay’s mind, but this is Lindsay. She is full of ferocious, unyielding loyalty coupled with a fierce temperament. In another yard soccer game, her 300-lb brother knocked her flat. She rolled over and came up swinging without fear or hesitation. She calls that brother “Gatito,” or “Little Cat” in Spanish as a spinoff of “Grantito,” which is “Little Grant” or more directly “Little Big One.”

Today, Lindsay is eighteen and out of the house at Lock Haven University where she is wrestling and studying to be a physician’s assistant. In her first year of anatomy and physiology, she believes she is now qualified to diagnose your arthritic knee as a torn ACL or your headache as a brain tumor. She’s our family’s only pseudo-medical professional.

When she was much younger, I took to calling her Crazy Head and singing her the Gnarls Barkley song “Crazy.” If you knew her then, you understand. Happy birthday, Crazy Head!