Fiddledeedee

Warning: There will probably be no particular point to this post. No beginning, middle and neatly tied up ending. Just some random thoughts.

Tonight, as I was tucking all of the children into their respective beds, I smelled deeply of each one’s sweet head, and scratched all three backs. Plus a tummy and an “underpit” was requested. Hey, I’m here to serve. And I felt content. Very warm and fuzzy. There was no great mishap today, no pithy commentary from the five year old, and no one threw up. So, I really have nothing to say.

Except thank you.

Thank you for taking the time to drop by and listen to me rant and rave most every day. And to leave a comment now and again letting me know your thoughts, and encouraging my writing.

My blogging, including writing, posting, and reading your blogs is restricted to late evening. A time of day that I’m not usually firing on all cylinders. Because by 9:00, I’m face down in the carpet. And all the caffeine is long gone. I am not able to get around and read and comment on all the blogs that I want. In fact, there are very few that I’m able to keep up with through bloglines. I do read each comment you leave carefully, and try to e-mail you to thank you now and again. “I just love you man,” I slurringly type.

I took a seminar last weekend on how to become a writer and/or publisher. I was inspired. It is my secret wish to someday be published. I don’t know when or how, or even if. God hasn’t made that clear to me yet. But when I came home and discussed the seminar with Fiddledaddy, he said some things that really hit home with me. A blogger who loves to write can be somewhat like an actor who prefers stage work over say, film, because he/she loves the immediate connection with the audience. I feel that way. And over the last few days, I’ve been able to relax and just enjoy the exercise of writing. I place a lot of pressure on myself at times to PRODUCE SOMETHING. Even when I’m void of coherent thought. Kind of like tonight. And I still felt compelled to write. I’m complicated like that.

Sometimes I receive comments from y’all telling me how much you appreciate coming by here for a little chuckle, because you needed it. And I also know that some of you are dealing with some extremely difficult life struggles. But let me tell you, you are my inspiration.

So again, thank you from the bottom of my heart, to my cramped gnarled typing fingers.

I’m sure tomorrow someone in this house will either provide me with blog fodder, or my period will start early, and it will be back to the regularly scheduled programming.

One night, a couple of weeks ago, I was commenting to Fiddledaddy how wonderful it was that Jensen was finally sleeping through the night, and how much better I was feeling with, well, actual REM sleep. I mean, WOW, what a difference. I wasn’t so jumpy anymore, or as irritable, and those dark circles under my eyes were just beginning to fade, and I no longer had that glazed, crazed expression anytime anyone asked me “How are you doing?”, which almost always elicited a knee jerk reaction, “HOW DOES IT LOOK LIKE I’M DOING?”

I curled up into my customary fetal position with an ice pack on my head, and blissfully put the day behind me. Then at two in the morning, we were awakened by a blood curdling scream, in stereo. And it was drawing closer to the Master Suite. Fiddledaddy had to peel me off the ceiling, while I was still wearing my black zorro mask.

Cailey had a bad dream. And then gave it to her sister. When my heart started pumping blood once again, I was able to understand the series of events that lead to my two girls running and screaming like small bats out of a hot place. Cailey, who is never one to keep her emotions close to her vest, awoke from a bad dream. And began The Sobbing. Which in turn, woke Emme. Now, Emme is not one to hide her anger, and she was justifiably peeved at being awoken way before breakfast was to be served. So, she yelled “Stop it!” (a bit too loud) which in turn scared the sobbing sister. And then Cailey, much like her mother, who can’t handle being scared, screamed at the top of her lungs. Which scared Emme back, so she screamed at the top of her lungs. That’s when they both jumped out of bed and ran shrieking down the hall in search of the safety that can only be found in the Master Suite. (I stubbornly continue to refer to it as the Master Suite, because that’s what the builder called it. The only thing that makes it “suite” is that it has a functioning bathroom. Which is handy in case someone scares me in the middle of the night. I’m just sayin’.)

It took three hours to get everyone calmed down and back to their respective beds. And for me to clean the ceiling tile from under my nails.

Jensen slept through the whole thing.

I wish I could say it was a one time occurrence. Sadly, no. I’m once again jumpy as a cat in a dog pound, and there isn’t enough concealer in all of the state to help me with the circles. We were able to determine that the bad dreams had something to do with moving shadows on the wall. And Cailey’s bed was up against the wall. While Emme’s was on the other side of the room, behind a bookcase, used as a room divider. About a week ago, during a caffeine overdose, I rearranged the entire room so that Cailey was not up against the wall, and her sister’s bed is now visible to her. Lest she think that she’s all alone. It seems to be helping. But really, I hesitate to admit it out loud. Not that I’m superstitious, knock on wood, and cross my fingers.

Last night, I asked Cailey if she liked being able to see her sister’s face in case she woke up in the middle of the night. She said, “Yeah, but sometimes I stand up by her bed and stare at her, and she doesn’t really like that.”

Who would.

Getting my children to sleep at night, all night, has been my prime directive for the last 7 plus years. And I know that when they are teenagers, I’ll be griping and complaining about having to blast them OUT of bed.

Which will likely be about the same time I’m in the throws of menopausal night sweats. Perfect.

(Updated at end)

I attended many seminars last weekend at the homeschool convention, and one that really stuck with me was titled “Life Transforming Literature and Character.” The speaker was Mark Hamby, who is behind Lamplighter Publishing. This is a company that has found old and rare books which are out of print, and yet tell wonderful character building stories that emphasize faith, forgiveness, and redemption. They then get the rights to these classics and redistribute them, making them accessible to the general public. As a business, I think it’s brilliant. As a mom who wants her children to be inspired by great literature, I’m ecstatic.

One of the things that Mark mentioned in his talk is a program that is being promoted by many churches. He will speaking at length about this in a radio interview that he taped for “Family Life Today,” to be aired in July. It is titled “Turn the light on, and turn the TV off.” August 1st will begin a 30 day challenge in which members are encouraged to turn off the TV, and pick up a good book instead.

Immediately, my palms got sweaty. Couldn’t hold the pencil. I began to think about how much TV we watch in our house. I really think that I could go without watching any TV for 30 days, but that’s only because the season of “Lost” and “24” has wrapped up. But what about my kids? I shamefully admit that the TV is my greatest ally and cheap babysitter when trying to get something accomplished. Or when I need to separate bickering sisters. Or get a 2 year old to stop tearing the house apart. Or I just need a little peace and quiet.

But at what cost? Mark Hamby went on to talk about this generation of children being raised by the television. I had duped myself into believing that because my children were only watching PBS, or carefully selected DVDs, they would not be harmed. But statistics show that our kids are spending too much time in the front of the tube. This is fast becoming a generation of overweight and under stimulated individuals.

Now, I’m no expert. In fact, here’s the vast sum of my knowledge on the subject.

(Cue the crickets.)

Nothing.

I’ve just had my mommy antennae up and have been listening to researchers recently that are telling me what prolonged exposure to television can cause. I am certain that my kids watch too much TV. Since I’ve been back, I’ve been really limiting what they watch. And encouraging more free play, and reading time. And the emphasis is on reading. I’m going to be adding more character building literature into their little library. Right next to “Barbie Meets Ken at the Ice Skating Rink.” My goal is to get to a point, where it is a rare event in our house that the television is on. I know, I’m frightening even myself.

I use to love to read. And somewhere along the line, the titles of the books that grace my night stand all have to do with “How To Be A Mommy And Not Jump Off A Cliff.” Therefore, I’m committed to reading good character building literature as well. My favorite books include the classics, like “Jane Eyre”. As usual, I’m way out of step with the trend. Some of my favorite bloggers, like Callapidder Days and Boomama, have been promoting reading in the last couple of months. And I’m just now getting with the program. I should probably throw out all my old LPs and 45s as well. And those hideous shoulder pads.

I’ll step down off my soap box now, and go find my reading glasses. What is some of your favorite classic literature? (Both children’s and adult books.)

Many times, the reading of a book has made the future of a man.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

(Update: Thank you all for your wonderful suggestions! I’m making a list. And by the way, tonight we caught Emme up reading (wearing Fiddledaddy’s reading glasses) a chapter book. Now, granted it was “Girls Best Friend: Barbie Gets A Dog”, but still. We might have a little book worm on our hands!)

I just returned from the homeschool convention, otherwise known as “The Revenge Of The Cart People.” I’ve never seen more wheels assembled under one roof. Evidently, if you want to attend a homeschool convention, you must bring with you a cart. And not just any cart. These are those four wheeled crates that come with a foldaway handle. And you can accessorize your cart. Some were just your boring black models. Others had lids, so that a tired convention attendee can just plop herself down and take a breather in the middle of the already crowded aisle. Some were covered in pretty floral fabrics, and had all sorts of side pockets to stash the conventioneer’s crap stuff. And all were filled to the rim with convention booty. I found myself eyeballing some of the fancier carts with envy.

The word you might be looking for is “covet.”

I chose not to bring my cart. I carried a basic black backpack. A cart just slows me down. The homeschool convention is the only arena that I can practice my brisk walk, which I had perfected in college. With three children in tow at home, it becomes the brisk drag, as Cailey is a notorious dawdler. So, unfettered by offspring, I’m quite rapid. And I would just be hitting my full potential, when without fail, I would trip over a cart. Or be sideswiped by a cart. And even hit head-on by a cart. And to make matters worse, my trusty crocs failed me. They inexplicably morphed into bright pink clown shoes and tripped me up every 15 steps or so. Even with no cart in sight. I spent an inordinate amount of time on the carpet. You might get the wrong idea and think I had been drinking. But I hadn’t. At least not yet.

A highlight of the convention, was getting to room with two of Fiddledaddy’s sisters, Trish and Cathy. I totally hit the jackpot when I married Fiddledaddy. Not only did I get a really great guy, but I also got sisters that I adore. They are some of my best friends.

So, on Friday I got a call from Fiddledaddy. “How is it going?” “Great, I’ve got another seminar coming up and then a lunch break.” “How long is your lunch break?” “About two hours or so, why?” “Well, I’m in the driveway and getting ready to bring the kids to the hotel to go swimming!”

Silence.

Weakly, I ask, “Really? But, you don’t know how to get here.” “Oh yes, I’ve got the address right here.” And then he repeated the name of the hoopty ploopty hotel where I was staying

Drats. I wrote “Motel 6” on the pad of paper I left for him with instructions. I guess after 10 years of marriage he has some of my tricks figured out. Darn it all to heck.

About an hour later my entourage arrived. It was wonderful to see them. I hadn’t even been gone 24 hours, and I missed them. They stayed and swam for a couple of hours. There was one tense moment when I was intently watching Cailey floundering in the deep end, and I thought I was going to have to jump in, wearing my favorite convention clothes. But, that’s just the way she swims. It makes me a nervous wreck. She dons her orange goggles, sinks like a stone, comes up for a gasp of air, sinks again, comes up, gasps, sinks, and repeats the whole thing about 10 more times. That’s her way of portraying a mermaid. I age 10 years every time I see her do this. And then after a couple of hours, I help shower everyone off, and shove them out the door send them on their way. There was much screaming and crying while being strapped into the van. Fiddedaddy included. Not me, I skipped back into the hotel. And as soon as I cleared the bellboys, I tripped on my crocs. Perfect.

Later that night I was sitting around with the sisters giggling about the events of the day, while painting our toenails red, and drinking Bacardi Wine Coolers. That was the second and third most out of character behavior that I exhibited while conventioning. The first was that I didn’t even bring my retainer to wear at night.

The word you’re looking for is “rebel.”

Well, when you have moms sitting around drinking wine, the topic is going to take a somber turn at some point. We started talking about our babies and how fast they are growing up, and how we really should cherish this time. Even though they are driving us insane. And then I retold the story for the third or millionth time about that guest speaker at my old MOPS group who said that she would give up everything she has just to have her kids back as toddlers. We were all getting misty. When my cell phone rang.

I answer, and hear sobbing on the other end. “Mommy?” “Yes, Emme, how did you get my number?” “You gave it to me,” through more sobs. At this point I hear Jensen screaming in the background, and Cailey crying hysterically. Aunt Cathy and Aunt Trish can hear it too and begin laughing uproariously. Emme continues, “Mommy, please hurry up and come home.” “Emme, where’s Daddy?” More laughter from the Aunts. Eventually I was able to get Fiddledaddy on the phone, and he said he just wanted me to enjoy what he was enduring at home. Alone. Without me.

Welcome to my world, mister. Now buck up and get them to bed.

Later, he called me back when everyone was unconscious to let me know that all was well on the home front. Thankfully no one had bled, and all were accounted for.

Music to my ears.

I’m already planning ahead to next years convention, and my suitcase isn’t even unpacked. And next year I’m going to take my own rolling cart, all right. But mine is going to be equipped with a horn and side air bags. And spikes. Lest anyone get to close to my wine coolers, positioned in the outside pockets of my colorful cart for easy access.

(Note: Before anybody goes and gets all offended, please know that I am a serious and committed homeschool mom. The convention blessed my socks off. I came home feeling empowered, uplifted, and confident about our next homeschooling year. And yes, I also came home with red toenails.)

This post was awarded the “Perfect Post” by Owlhaven. Thank you!

Well, I’m off to the spa homeschool convention for the weekend. (Please keep Fiddledaddy in your thoughts and prayers.) I thought I’d drag something out of the archives, from the beginning of the year. This is one of my favorite posts. Probably because I didn’t write it. Have a wonderful and safe Memorial Day Weekend everyone!

The Perfect Gift

With Valentines Day fast approaching, I think I’ve found the solution to every husband’s dilemma regarding what to get for the little woman. A Pocket Taser Stun Gun. It’s the perfect gift. In this day and age, we can never be too careful. So, girls, you might want to pass this tidbit along to your husbands. I know I will.

My friend Don, always looking for something special for his wife, gave me the idea, and even found the following testimonial for this most excellent gift idea.

Pocket Taser Stun Gun, a great gift for the wife. A guy who purchased his lovely wife a pocket Taser for their anniversary submitted this :

“Last weekend I saw something at Larry’s Pistol & Pawn Shop that sparked my interest. The occasion was our 22nd anniversary and I was looking for a little something extra for my wife. What I came across was a 100,000-volt, pocket/purse-sized taser The effects of the taser were supposed to be short lived, with no long-term adverse affect on your assailant, allowing her adequate time to retreat to safety….

WAY TOO COOL!

Long story short, I bought the device and brought it home. I loaded two triple-a batteries in the darn thing and pushed the button. Nothing! I was disappointed. I learned, however, that if I pushed the button AND pressed it against a metal surface at the same time; I’d get the blue arch of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs.

Awesome!!!

Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to Betty what that burn spot is on the face of her microwave.

Okay, so I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself that it couldn’t be all that bad with only two triple-a batteries, right?!! There I sat in my recliner, my cat Gracie looking on intently (trusting little soul) while I was reading the directions and thinking that I really needed to try this thing out on a flesh & blood moving target. I must admit I thought about zapping Gracie (for a fraction of a second) and thought better of it. She is such a sweet cat. But, if I was going to give this thing to my wife to protect herself against a mugger, I did want some assurance that it would work as advertised.

Was I wrong?

So, there I sat in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my reading glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, directions in one hand, and taser in another. The directions said that a one-second burst would shock and disorient your assailant; a two-second burst was supposed to cause muscle spasms and a major loss of bodily control; a three-second burst would purportedly make your assailant flop on the ground like a fish out of water. Any burst longer than three seconds would be wasting the batteries.

All the while I’m looking at this little device measuring about 5″ long, less than 3/4 inch in circumference; pretty cute really and loaded with two itsy, bitsy triple-a batteries) thinking to myself, “no possible way!” What happened next is almost beyond description, but I’ll do my best…

I’m sitting there alone, Gracie looking on with her head cocked to one side as to say, “don’t do it master,” reasoning that a one-second burst from such a tiny little ole thing couldn’t hurt all that bad.. I decided to give myself a one-second burst just for the heck of it. I touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button, and HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION!!!

I’m pretty sure Jessie Ventura ran in through the side door, picked me up in the recliner, then body slammed us both on the carpet, over and over and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the fetal position, with tears in my eyes, body soaking wet, both nipples on fire, testicles nowhere to be found, with my left arm tucked under my body in the oddest position, and tingling in my legs. The cat was standing over me making meowing sounds I had never heard before, licking my face, undoubtedly thinking to herself, “do it again, do it again!”

Note: If you ever feel compelled to “mug” yourself with a taser, one note of caution: there is no such thing as a one-second burst when you zap yourself. You will not let go of that thing until it is dislodged from your hand by a violent thrashing about on the floor. A three second burst would be considered conservative.

SON-OF-A-… that hurt like …..!!! A minute or so later (I can’t be sure, as time was a relative thing at that point), collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and surveyed the landscape. My bent reading glasses were on the mantel of the fireplace. How did they up get there??? My triceps, right thigh and both nipples were still twitching. My face felt like it had been shot up with Novocain, and my bottom lip weighed 88 lbs.

I’m still looking for my testicles. I’m offering a significant reward for their safe return.”