Fiddledeedee

Our Pastor had just begun a prayer. All heads are bowed in reverence. All eyes closed. Except for one eye. Mine. I have perfected the ability to be able to sing, pray, and read the Bible all while keeping one eye on the blank LED sign at the front of the church. It’s a fairly new system for our congregation. When a child is checked into Sunday School and the Nursery, a parent receives a lovely orange or lime green plastic bracelet, that identifies the corresponding number of the child dropped off. So that when service has ended, we can reclaim our child. And more importantly, if a problem should arise, we can be notified during service. Quietly and unobtrusively. I wear three such bracelets. The LED system doesn’t get used very much. In fact, I believe that the few times it has been employed, has been to display the corresponding number belonging to my son.

He’s a rather reluctant Nursery attendee. I’ve instructed the ladies, to have me “paged” if he screams longer than 10 minutes straight. It’s not that I’m adverse to my angel of a boy screaming, because he does his share of it at home. And 10 minutes is just a warm up. But I see no need to subject the sweet underpaid and overworked staff to the ear shattering screeches of my young son. And besides, good nursery help is hard to find. I certainly don’t want us to be the reason the entire nursery staff quits en masse.

The last few weeks, the Sunday School building has been all abuzz at how well Jensen is adjusting. His teachers know all of his tricks. They have fashioned the restroom door so that he cannot drink from the toilet, or float the other children’s toys in his makeshift pond. They have also introduced him to the joys of fruity Cheerios, a delicacy that he cannot find in his own pantry at home. So I have actually been able to worship in service, sitting next to my husband. As opposed to say, the cry room, which I otherwise affectionately refer to as HELL.

Last Sunday, we left service, hand in hand, on our way to pick up all of our children from the Sunday School building. We were greeted at the entrance to the building by the Superintendent. Smiling and holding her trusty clip board, she approaches us. This can’t be good. Already I know which of my children is listed on that clip board. “Well,” she begins, “Jensen did really well today. Except…” she pauses to take a deep breath. Here it comes. Still smiling, she continues, “He spit on all of the children.” “All?” I respond trying to look shocked. “Yes, all 13 of them.” As she continued the story, I ascertained that my son got of hold of his drink cup, took a large swig, and spewed out the contents onto the children. Running from the nursery workers, he continued this behavior, thusly christening most of the classroom. Once his own cup was wrestled from his chubby clenched fingers, he went after everyone else’s sippy cups and made sure that all had a proper baptism.

Oh dear heavenly Father. I forgot to warn them to limit his sippy cup usage. I apologized profusely to the Superintendent, and pretty much anyone I passed in the hallway. When we got to his classroom, I saw my little serial spitter, with his chest puffed out, holding his Blues Clues blanket in one hand, strutting around like he owned the joint. The other children were taking great care to avoid him. We thanked the workers for all that they endure whenever we come to church, and offered our heartfelt apologies to any parent also picking up their own dampened children. As we began to carry Jensen away, he started screaming, pointing to his now empty sippy cup that had been imprisoned on a shelf way up high. Oh yes, we mustn’t forget the weapon of choice.

I guess the cry room won’t be so bad. It’s rather dark. At least no one will recognize us through the tinted glass.

Shannon at Rocks In My Dryer had a recent brush with the law. I thought this might bring her some comfort.

Warning: if you’re squeamish or depressed, you may want to move on to another blog.

I’d been feeling a little frumpy and housewifey. Maybe it’s that I haven’t put on anything that required zipping and tucking. We spend a lot of time at home and frankly I’ve been lounging about in my stretch pants and big t-shirts. It’s easy to let yourself go, I suppose. I needed to touch up my roots for about a week, or a month. And I hadn’t gone near a tube of lipstick in far too long.

I didn’t think I could look worse. But then came The Pimple. In my eyebrow. Who gets a pimple in their eyebrow? Not even during the acne heyday of my teenage angst did I ever get a pimple in my eyebrow.

And it hurt, too.

You know the kind of pimple I’m talking about. The kind that you feel deep down in your pores, and you know you can’t rest until you take two fingernails and SQUEEZE THE PUSTULE until it makes a popping sound and ends up on the bathroom mirror. Only then will you be satisfied. And then you have to wear a flesh colored Band-Aid on your face to hide the fact that you now have a gaping hole where your left cheek used to be. But it was totally worth it. Except that you’re going to meet your future in-laws that night, only you have no idea they are going to be your future in-laws because you and their son are “just friends” but still, you always want to put on your best face, as it were. And you’re hoping above all hopes that no one notices the flesh colored bandage on your face, but really, WHO COULD MISS IT BECAUSE OF ALL THE BRUISING ALL AROUND IT, from, you know, the pinching. And your future husband notices it and suggests in front of your future in-laws and other assorted friends that you’ve “been picking your zits again, haven’t you?”

And he’s just lucky that he ever got promoted from “just friends” to husband after that.

Where was I? Oh, The Pimple in my eyebrow. And so the next morning you wake up and your whole eye is nearly swollen closed. Well that’s just great. I’m frumpy with roots and I look like Rocky Balboa. Starring in Rocky 10. Then your husband takes a good long lingering look at The Pimple and announces that it looks to him like a boil. “A boil? Isn’t that what really old people get on their buttocks?” At this point you just lose all sense of decorum and you sigh, and mutter, “I’m a butthead.”

And then your period starts. A week early. And you get those cramps that make you want to reach in and remove your own uterus.

Sometimes, when you’re in the midst of a little personal crisis, it’s just hard to find the humor in the situation. It’s times like these when I’m awfully thankful for wide brimmed hats, big sunglasses, chocolate, Motrin, friends who understand, and especially Jesus who loves me just like I am. Pimples and all.

Last week I posted about taking Jensen to the doctor’s office. This was a new doctor, who was unfamiliar with what it takes to deal with Jensen, the human tornado. Jensen began The Screaming the minute we entered the waiting room, and The Screaming didn’t cease until we were safely deposited outside the medical office building.

Everyone was flustered. The staff, the elderly patients who shared the waiting room with us, and the Doctor was particularly shaken. I was impressed with the speed in which they ushered me out of the waiting room, and into the examining room. The Doctor was especially expedient with his examination.

While the Doctor was examining (and I use the term “examining” loosely as I’m not sure he ever actually was able to touch Jensen) his little patient, he remarked that I might try to give him DHA for Kids, found at the local health food store. The Doctor told me that this might help “calm” Jensen down. “Really?” I said weakly as my voice quivered slightly, watching my diaper clad boy bounce from one door to the other, and then drop to his belly to taste the flooring. I do remember at that point the Doctor adding, “If you can get it in him.”

If you’ll recall, I made a beeline for the health food store and purchased a bottle of this magic elixir. DHA is a dietary supplement which is “EFA support for learning, attention and concentration.” But like I said before, it’s really nasty tasting. I consider myself pretty adept at hiding needed nutrients in Jensen’s food. Things like vitamins and vegetables. I didn’t fear this medicine. And I only needed to administer 1/2 teaspoon, twice a day. Child’s play for me. First I hid it in his beloved yogurt. The wall ended up wearing the yogurt. Next I put 1/4 teaspoon in his cottage cheese. Same result. Milk? Pushed it away and gave me a look like he was on to the fact that I was trying to poison him. The apple sauce was rejected as well.

I was whining to my husband about all that I’d gone through to try to get his son to swallow this vile concoction. He said, with conviction, “I’ll get it into him.” “How?” I laughed heartily. Fiddledaddy went to the cabinet, extracted two medicine syringes, and filled one with 1/2 teaspoon of the dreaded syrup.

Novice. And so confident. “I want tickets for this show,” I snickered.

But then I watched as he filled the other syringe with pancake syrup. Interesting approach. Intrigued I followed Fiddledaddy into Jensen’s room, and watched while he wrestled his son onto the changing table. He held the two syringes with one hand, and hog tied Jensen with the other hand. Before Junior could open his mouth to protest, Fiddledaddy had both syringes working, depositing the medicine, then following with a shooter of pancake syrup. It worked. All the medicine was in the boy. And the parents and walls were still clean.

I witnessed a miracle. I was greatly humbled. And impressed with Fiddledaddy. I’ve even gotten to the point where I can give the boy his medicine with no objections. As long as I have that chaser of pancake syrup.

I have a huge glimmer of hope that the DHA Oil is working, as Jensen is using more words, and his baby signs. However, I must report a bit of a setback, as the nursery workers at our church will attest to. There was an “incident” on Sunday. And that’s another post for another day.

I was preparing dinner Saturday night. I cooked the chicken breasts in the oven to perfection. The meat thermometer read 170 degrees. I had my cutting board prepared to receive the breasts, and I began slicing them. Halfway through the second breast, a large black spider DARTED OUT OF THE CHICKEN and ran across the board and then cowered underneath it. I screamed. My husband, who was in the next room, within certain earshot, didn’t emerge until I had been shrieking a good 20 seconds. If I had been ablaze, I would have been ashes on the floor. Smoldering.

He use to come to my aid much more quickly. Like when we were courting.

Years ago, I lived in a small house, and since I painted furniture, I spent a good deal of my day outdoors working, so the fumes wouldn’t overtake me. And it was California, where the sun was always shining, and the temperatures were mostly pleasant year round.

One day, I noticed a large mangy cat prowling around my yard. He spotted me and hissed. In MY Yard. He was frothing at the mouth. Never a good sign if you’re of the cat variety. So I retreated indoors. He began stalking my house, and terrorizing my indoor cat by hissing, spitting, and then charging at the sliding glass door that she was behind. I called animal control, but they said that they could do nothing unless the cat attacked someone. They helpfully suggested that I catch Psycho Kitty, and bring it to them. Then I suggested that they…well, never mind what I suggested.

Some time went by. One day I was working outside and Psycho Kitty appeared out of nowhere, looking at me menacingly. I was not going to cave this time. I was going to defend my home and my right to be out of doors. I picked up the garden hose, turned it on, and let Psycho Kitty have it. Right in the puss. This made Psycho Kitty angry and she began to charge at me, even through the water spray. I was backing away, with the garden hose squirting at full capacity, screaming my head off. That cat had me cornered, and I continued screaming. No one came to my rescue as I was being accosted. My neighbor later told me that she thought I was “playing” with the cat.

Allrightythen.

Finally, I gathered up what little courage I had, threw the hose at the cat and made a mad dash into the house, with Psycho Kitty close at my heels. I made it inside and slammed the door in his whiskers. I called my fiancé, who is now my husband. I was hysterical, and he could barely understand what I was saying. All he understood was “Psycho Kitty” and “attacked”. With visions of his fiancé being mauled by this cat, he hopped into his little Honda and raced to my rescue. When he arrived, the hose was still running and Psycho Kitty, sat across from my door, soaked to the skin, glowering. He came quickly in, but was a little miffed I think, that I wasn’t a bleeding heap of shredded ribbons, as he had imagined from all of my carrying on.

We called animal control, and this time they came to ensnare Psycho Kitty, and drag his sorry self away. Good riddance. I was told that he would be “put down” if no one came to claim him in a week. I wanted to be the one to pull the switch.

Two weeks later I was happily working outside. I felt like someone was watching me. I turned to look over my shoulder. There perched on the concrete retaining wall, was Psycho Kitty. Staring at me. I called animal control and was informed that Psycho Kitty’s owner had come to claim him. At the eleventh hour. Someone actually claimed that cat? I began working indoors. What harm could a few paint fumes do. I would be moving within the next two weeks anyway.

After ten years of marriage, I suppose my husband has heard his share of wife shrieking. Perhaps I am a little high strung. But come on, when a spider comes out of your chicken breast, doesn’t that warrant a scream? Or four? When I analyzed the situation though, I came to the conclusion that a spider really couldn’t have come out of the chicken breast. When he fled across the stove, just at the time my alfredo sauce was boiling over, the spider was incinerated. Ex post facto, he was not impervious to heat.

Despite this reasoning, no one was really hungry for chicken after that. Especially the spider.