DUSTIN AND THE CHINESE FINGER LOCK
A column by Sarah Smiley
Last week, my husband’s squadron had a Hail and Farewell party. A Hail and Farewell is the Navy's two-birds-with-one-stone answer to our transient lifestyle. At one party, we hail (welcome) and farewell (say goodbye to) all the families who are coming and going.
Isn't it just like the military to be so efficient?
Unlike other traditions in the military, however, there is no standard for Hail and Farewells. Venues and formalities run the gamut. Sometimes the event is held at a bar on a Saturday night. Sometimes it is held at a park, and families come with children in tow. Sometimes it is combined with another squadron function (a holiday party, for example) to maximize efficiency.
Last week's party was held at a restaurant inside a local bowling alley. The children were invited.
There was a time before I was pregnant, when an evening spent at a Hail and Farewell party meant this for me: I would spend hours gabbing with my spouse-club friends, drink too much wine, and come home with a smile on my face. But the bowling alley, coupled with my pregnancy and the children clinging to my leg, gave last week's party an entirely different feel. Instead of coming home with the musty smell of a night-out on my clothes and in my hair, I left the festivities early to bowl with my children. Shortly after the commanding officer had given his customary speeches, I exchanged my strappy red heels for purple bowling shoes and a pair of my six-year-old son’s sweaty socks. Then, with pregnant belly and all, I proceeded to hurl an 11-pound bowling ball down the lane, while my husband watched and laughed.
I am so glad that no one had a camera.
Bowling didn't last long.
Next we went to the adjacent arcade, where I found my true passion and the only sport at which I excel: Skee Ball. I am so good at this game, I've been known to leap over small children at Chuck E. Cheese's when a lane at the Skee Ball machine becomes available. I'm also my family's designated skee-baller. When the boys want an expensive prize they'll never gain enough tickets for on their own, they call me for help. This night was no different. Over and over again, I rolled the skee ball up the ramp, as the tickets come out of the machine like a tongue, folding onto themselves on the floor.
Dustin asked, "Are you close to winning the boys the life-size Batman?"
But you need around 3,000 tickets for the most coveted prizes, prizes that would only cost $2.00 at WalMart, so I was no where near winning the life-size Batman.
After an unsuccessful night of Skee Ball (I blame the pregnancy), I only had enough tickets to win my boys a couple plastic skeletons and one of those Chinese finger traps (you put a finger into the ends of the wicker tube and pull, and then--what fun!--your fingers are stuck).
On our way out to the parking lot, Dustin was noticeably agitated beside me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him struggling with something, but I was too busy making sure our boys didn't get run over by passing vehicles to pay attention.
Then Dustin said in a panic, "Are you going to help get my fingers out of this thing, or do I have to live like this forever?"
He was stuck in the finger trap.
The boys started to cry, "Mommy, can you save him? Hurry Mommy!"
I released Dustin's cinched fingers from the toy. His face was flushed. He looked scared.
"I would have had to wear this same shirt for the rest of my life if you hadn't set me free," he said. "I really didn't think I'd get my fingers out of there."
Then (are you ready for this?) like the true caveman that he is, Dustin put his fingers back into the trap to demonstrate for us how stuck he was.
Right then, I thought back on my night--how Dustin had sipped beer and laughed at me bowling pregnant--and there was a moment, however brief, that I considered leaving my husband with his fingers stuck like that.