Thanks to everyone for all the well wishes and “welcome backs”. It’s been a really hectic few months, that’s for sure. My birthday was the sole bright spot amidst the chaos – and the Black Friday sale at Joann’s was awesome. But mostly I’ve spent the time going to the doctor’s with Paul and listening to him complain. He’s such a whiney baby, I swear to God.
And Christmas was…..interesting to say the least.
We all remember Preemie baby, right? Well, this little Christmas tale has to do with him.
First off, a little background: Preemie baby lives in a house with his father (Preemie Dad) and his grandparents, Grandma and Grandpa. OK – so we have that straight?
OK – so we never do anything for Christmas. To us, it’s just another day. Well, this year our only real concession to the holiday was buying things for our two favorite and competing “best boys”. Mine being my friend Val’s little boy, and Paul’s being the preemie kid. Well, we went to Val’s and all was well, and best boy Luke was so cute and happy and nice and…well, that kid is taken care of rather well by his family, so we bought him a couple token presents and that was that.
Then, for Christmas, we were invited over to the preemie kids house for Christmas dinner and to give them their gifts. Now, as I said, there are three generations living in this house. The parents, Grandma and Grandpa Preemie, Preemie Dad, who is 21, has 16 dozen fucking kids all over town and is a worthless piece of fucking shit who doesn’t work, is on felony probation, and doesn’t pay attention to his kids, let alone support them, and one of his sons, the preemie kid, who is 2, also lives in the house full time. The preemie kid is Paul’s favorite kid in the world. Paul does everything with that kid, plays with him, takes him places, buys him things, and just adores him. Paul spends lots of time and love on kids, despite his outward gruff appearance. And it’s only exponential with THIS particular kid.
So, because this kid doesn’t really have anything resembling a father and the father bought the kid NOTHING for Christmas (hard to buy shit when you have no jobby job and no money), and because that burden always falls on Grandpa and Grandma Preemie, who have other grandchildren too, Paul and I bought the kid a bunch of crap for Christmas. We went over about noon, and Paul opened gifts with the kid, helped him put some shit together and played on the floor with him for a few hours.
All this time the kid’s father, was just in a foul mood. I don’t know if it was because of the guilt of having gotten his kid nothing for Christmas and seeing how his parents and – fuck, even the fucking neighbors – had to do that for him, or if the chip on his shoulder was just there because his mother hadn’t bought HIM anything, choosing instead to spend her limited resources on her grandkids, or maybe it was just that he’s a worthless piece of shit and it was just another day. But he was a ticking fucking time bomb just ready to explode.
And the dynamics in that house are geared towards Preemie Dad’s moods. He controls that house through fear and intimidation. He will ask his mother for money, and if she says no, he does shit like oh…..breaks the fridge door off, or……slams a TV to the ground…..or……puts his fist through a wall. No shit. That’s what he does. His parents have repeatedly told him “You’ve got to go.” but he won’t leave. He has nowhere else to go. He has no job, he has no money, where’s he going to go? But if his mother doesn’t do what he says, he threatens her “I’m leaving – and by the way – my kid is coming with me.” And this works, for some reason. His mother backs down every single time, because she lives in total fear of him taking the kid away.
So, Christmas Day, we are there for dinner, and everyone is eating. And preemie kid is sitting at this little table and chair thing that Paul and I got him for Christmas. One of Preemie Dad’s OTHER kids, preemie kid’s brother, was also at the house for Christmas. This kid is like a year younger than preemie kid. So preemie kid’s brother is wandering around, and he starts picking at the food on preemie kids plate. Preemie kid gets pissed. He shoves his brother back with one hand, and the kid falls on his ass. Doesn’t cry. I mean, he’s got 40 pounds of unchanged diaper to fall on, right? No big deal. Most normal fucking people would say “Preemie kid! You don’t push your brother! That’s bad!” then they’d pick up the brother – maybe change his fucking diaper – and distract the kid with something else other than picking food off of someone else’s plate.
But, no, that’s not with Preemie Dad did. Oh no. He started swearing “You motherfucking bastard fucking brat son of a bitching fucking asshole cocksucker. You wanna push someone you little fucking scumbag? Here!” And people, I swear on all that’s holy to me – he hit that fucking kid across the face so fucking hard that kid FLEW into the wall that was a good 2 feet away and just slid down the fucking thing. And it wasn’t just a slap, it was like a roundhouse fucking slap – like he had a bat in his hand and was hitting a knuckleball.
Oh my fucking god.
I immediately stood up with my dinner plate in my hand and I went into the kitchen. I was …trembling. I don’t know if it was out of fear, shock, anger or what it was. But I just started shaking and I couldn’t stop. I’ve never actually BEEN dazed and confused. But now I know what it’s like. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know if I should go back in the dining room. I didn’t know if I should just go out the door. I didn’t know why my dinner plate was still in my hands. I didn’t know if I should just put it down….it was the strangest and most weirdest feeling I’ve ever had. Like I truly didn’t have control of my thoughts or feelings. I couldn’t even speak.
And Preemie Grandma went running and picked the kid up and brought him into the kitchen and put a rag on his eye. And she says “I think he’s going to have a black eye.” And that’s all she wrote, folks, I was fucking done. I slowly started to get my senses back and I just had to get the fuck OUT of there. Paul was still in the dining room with his fork halfway to his mouth , frozen, not even believing what he had just seen, and I went to the dining room and said “Paul, look dude, you can stay here if you want, but I’m fucking out of here. If I stay here, someone’s getting their fucking ass kicked, and it won’t be a fucking 2 year old. I gots to go. NOW. Right NOW.”
So Paul took me home. He still had to wait on Preemie Dad’s older brother to get back to the house, because Paul was giving him a ride back home to Tupper Lake, so he said “Look, I’m going back over there and have Preemie Grandma call him and tell him to get his ass back to the house – and I’ll give him a ride home, and then I’ll be back.” And Paul leaves.
Not even a half hour later, Paul is back home. And I knew something was up because it takes an hour or more to get to Tupper Lake and back.
Paul comes in the house and he’s yelling “Kim, Kim…..come here and see if I need stitches!” I go downstairs and he’s covered in blood and he’s got a black eye and his head is split open.
Apparently, Preemie Dad wasn’t done with the ass beating of his son. When Paul got back to their house, Preemie kid and his brother were playing with toys. Preemie kid got pissed off because, as all kids do, there was one car they BOTH wanted. They were arguing back and forth about the car and just after Paul got back there, Preemie Dad picked the younger kid up and had him on his hip, and he yanked preemie kid so hard by the arm Paul said he really thought it was going to come out of the socket, and he DRAGGED the kid up the stairs, and the kids head was bouncing off of each step. Then he took the kids into his bedroom, LOCKED the door behind him and proceeded to STOMP on the kid. Preemie Grandma told me later that he was stomping on that kid so hard that she actually thought they were going to bust through the floor and come crashing through the living room ceiling. But it wasn’t the stomping that got Paul – it was the screams. Paul said that it was such a blood curdling scream that the hair on the back of his neck was standing straight up. Paul looked around the room at the kids grandparents, the kids two uncles, the kids aunt and no one was doing a thing. All they were doing was shaking their heads saying “You know, he’s really going to hurt that kid one day doing that shit.” And the screams were getting louder and more desperate, and Paul looked at them all and said “What the fuck – are you just going to sit here? Fuck that. No one beats a fucking kid like that in front of me. You all might be afraid of this fucking punk, but I’m not.” And Paul went up the stairs.
He tried to open the bedroom door, that’s when he found out it was locked. Paul said all he could think was “Who locks the fucking door behind them when they are disciplining their kid? Especially when they are willing to hit him like a man in FRONT of people.” So, he picked up his foot, and
smashed the door in.
As he did that, all he could see was that Preemie Dad was bent over the kid and had the kid laying on the floor in front of him and Preemie Dad was punching him and as Paul came through the door, Preemie Dad turned around really quick and punched Paul right in the face. Paul punched him back and they fell to the ground and Paul was beating the shit out of him so Preemie Dad reached over beside the bed and picked up this huge glass ashtray and swung it at Paul’s face. Paul ducked and the ashtray broke right over the middle of his head and split his head wide open.
At this point, Preemie Dad’s brother came through the door and he got Paul out of there and took the kids out of the room. Paul went down the stairs and went right over to Preemie Grandpa and said to him “I just did your fucking job motherfucker.” And Paul came home.
About a half hour later Preemie Uncle, Preemie Grandma and one of the other guys who were at the house came over to our house to see if Paul was OK and the two guys took Paul to the hospital. Paul had 22 staples put in his head and had to have x-rays and shit to make sure he was OK.
Preemie Grandma stayed here with me while the guys went to the hospital. She did her hemming and hawing about “Oh, I told Preemie Dad to leave but he won’t…..” And I told her flat out. “Oh, he’ll leave. Because the fucking police are going to escort his ass out when I fucking press charges.” And she did her song and dance about “Oh, maybe that’s what he needs….” YA THINK?????? Then she says “You know, if you call over there and just tell him that you called the police, you know, act like you’re pressing charges – I’ll bet he’ll leave because he won’t want to be there if he thinks the police are coming. ” And I was like “No, honey, you aren’t understanding me. I am calling the police – they really ARE coming. There’s no fucking ‘let’s pretend’ about it. Your son needs to be fucking stopped. He’s violent, dangerous and out of control. And he doesn’t need to be around little kids. YOU may be afraid of him, but I’m NOT. And I AM calling the cops. And guess what? Paul is right now telling the people at the hospital exactly WHY he was beating your son – and hospital personnel are mandated reporters. The hospital is calling CPS as we speak. So honey – you’re fucked. Your days of protecting him are fucking over. And you may not realize it NOW – but Paul just did you a huge fucking favor – because your kid is going to be in jail and not at your house fucking terrorizing you anymore. He’s on FELONY FUCKING PAROLE. You can’t hit people over the head with a fucking ashtray and be on FELONY PAROLE.”
So, Paul didn’t get home from the hospital until like 2 in the morning. Not because they were busy, but because Paul was a fucked up mess and they had to do x-rays and staples and a Cat scan and they found he also had a broken rib, which Paul didn’t even know he had and he doesn’t remember getting hit in the chest so maybe that was something from the motorcycle accident, I don’t know. I mean, adrenaline is a powerful drug and I’m sure it was coursing through Paul’s body hearing that little kid scream like that – but Paul was still a mess from the accident – limping around and already with a leg in pain. He didn’t need this shit.
But I was right in what I told Preemie Grandma, even though I was talking out my ass and didn’t know what Paul was going to say at the hospital or if the hospital would call CPS. But they did. And while we were at the police station the next day giving statements and taking pictures, CPS showed up at Preemie Grandma’s house and she was right, too, in what she said, because Preemie Dad DID leave the house and he’s hiding out thinking the cops are coming for him any minute, which they are. The cops said that they are charging him with “Assault with a Deadly Weapon” and “Endangering the Welfare of a Child”. They are charging him with the latter charge because that automatically means he can’t be in the home with the kids until CPS sorts it all out. When the cops were at Preemie Grandma’s house they took pictures of the door Paul busted in and they took the ashtray that Preemie Dad smashed over Paul’s head.
And CPS and the cops took pictures of the kid. He had the requisite bruises all over him to ensure that “Things will be done – up to and including a change in custody” is what the CPS worker told me when he came here for our statements. So, no more threats from Preemie Dad that he’s leaving and taking the kid with him.
And even though I think that Paul gave Preemie Grandma and Grandpa the BEST present ever- he got that fucking worthless piece of shit LEGALLY out of their house – and I think he gave Preemie Kid the BEST present ever – he got rid of the kids abusive father – Preemie Grandma and Grandpa still haven’t talked to Paul since all this happened – it’s all Paul’s fault, of course, according to them, and they are still sticking up for the worthless piece of shit and hiding him out at their house DESPITE the CPS worker saying that he can’t be there. So, you know, what was the use of any of it, in the end? You can lead a horse to water, and all that.
You know how that goes.
So that was our Christmas.