Fiddledeedee

I didn’t have to cook dinner tonight. Oh happy day. No one around here really expects me to cook dinner every single night. It’s something I really put upon myself. And Cheerios for dinner nightly isn’t going to net me that coveted Mother Of The Year Award I so desperately desire. But, sometimes, something has got to give.

Today I took a sick day.

What? Mommies don’t get sick days. Well, it wasn’t really a whole sick day. Just a sick afternoon. By the time we finished our school work at lunchtime, I wasn’t feeling well at all. I put Jensen down for a well deserved nap. Deserved by him, for getting me up twice last night, and spending the morning driving me insane. And deserved by me for getting up twice last night and getting driven to the brink of insanity.

The hypochondriac in me was absolutely certain that I was suffering from an acute case of appendicitis. And since the girls were absorbed in “Mary Poppins”, I did what anyone with a near ruptured appendix would do. I laid down on my bed. To await death.

I tried an ice pack to ease the pain. Then Fiddledaddy brought me the heating pad. And announced to me that he would be cooking hamburgers for dinner. “What?” I raised up off of my death bed. You see, Fiddledaddy + Cooking = Towering Inferno and a visit from the local fire department.

Then he added, “And they will look amazingly similar to McDonald’s hamburgers.” I let out a sigh of great relief. Yes, a trip to the golden arches is just what the doctor ordered. Not for me, but for the offspring. He’s a keeper, that Fiddledaddy.

The heating pad helped. And I’ve determined that I don’t have appendicitis at all. I have a system shutdown. You see, yesterday morning I stepped on the scales. I am now 15 pounds away from my goal, instead of my customary 12. I put myself immediately on the South Beach Diet, Phase 1. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. Usually, I trudge along just fine on Phase 2, but somehow I found myself sadly near Phase 10. If there was a Phase 10. Oreos are allowed in Phase 10.

Phase 1, if you’ll recall, prohibits sugar or carbs for two long weeks. That means no bread. NO BREAD. Fiddledaddy explained to me that fiber is the “sweepers” of the digestive system. It moves everything along.

For the next few days, Metamucil will be my friend.

‘Nuff said.

So, if I appear a little cranky, or angry, or even morose in my next batch of posts, please bear with me. I’m sure that soon everything will be running smoothly and I’ll be back to my regular old self.

As a young Catholic school girl, attending Parochial school, I was forced to attend morning mass, nearly every stinking day during the school year. I would feign everything from a broken femur to cardiac arrest, to keep from entering those swinging double doors in the back of the church that led to the hard unforgiving pews.

It never occurred to me that lying in church was possibly putting me on the fast track to hell.

I mean, it’s one thing to lie. But to lie in church? To a nun?

When our bus would arrive at school in the morning, we dutifully filed off and dragged our feet all the way to the church building. As though the dead lice were falling off of us. Once inside the vestibule (fancy name for back of the church) we would wait until an appropriate time to enter. As long as no one was chanting prayer or slinging holy water the coast was considered clear. Since I was on the short petite side, I could duck beneath the mass of wool coats worn over burgundy plaid uniforms generally undetected. As each wave of bus riders would arrive, I would scooch myself backwards, away from the double doors. Periodically, the nun who appointed herself Nun On Patrol (let’s just call her Atilla) would make a sweep of the vestibule and drag any dawdlers in by their ear. If I stooped to adjust my knee socks, she usually would miss me altogether.

This continued some years until the invent of the guitar mass. Which fascinated me. And by this time the mass was no longer solely in Latin, and I could actually understand some of what was going on. Sort of. But the church had not progressed to the point yet where you could touch the communion wafer with your own hands. Only an ordained priest would do that. It had been drilled into us that we were NEVER to touch the communion wafer. A pretty big part of me really wanted to stick my little finger in my mouth to sneak a touch, just to see if lightening really would come down out of the sky and strike me dead.

But after all the lying in church that I had done I figured I’d better not chance it.

I remember well that if any unfortunate student were to ever vomit after receiving communion, a crew of janitors all clad in brown would appear from nowhere to deftly scoop it up (without touching it of course) and bury it. I’m pretty sure it had to be blessed first. The Blessing Of The Vomit. I always wondered exactly what the priest said to the pile. And if it made him queasy, like it did me. This happened to a handful of students during my Catholic school years. But, thankfully, never to me. When sweeping changes occurred in the church that included being able to take the host into your own hands, from a LAY person (not a priest) I was dubious. And kept my wary eyes to heaven. Watching for the lightening.

With all that said, I want to state for the record that I loved that little Catholic school in Ohio. My parents sacrificed so that we could attend a private school, and it really was a good one. There were a few nuns who had no business teaching, much less being around children at all. But they were a minority. And there was sweet Father Montanus, who we all adored.

I left the Catholic church when I turned 18 and was out on my own. But, I have no regrets about my upbringing. The Church instilled in me a tremendous amount of faith. Which carried me through until my early 30’s, when I felt a distinct thumping on my head. It was God. Calling me back. I found myself planted in a wonderful Evangelical Bible believing church, surrounded by a group of Christian women who literally loved me into the fold. No judgment. No criticism. Just love. And I ventured my way back to a childlike faith. One that has taken many twists and turns and still is growing, some 16 years later.

We were sitting in church last Sunday. Next to me was my SIL, Tiffany. Her two year old daughter was dancing with abandon in the aisle during the praise song. I leaned over and whispered, “That’s what we call worship dance.”

I saw a few church goers turn to see her and they smiled. And sang a little louder. I think that’s what Jesus really wants us to do. With the faith and carefree abandon of a child.

Just dance.

I was sitting in the hall talking to my Dad on the phone the other day. He had just asked me how his darling grandchildren, the ones who can do no wrong, were doing. And I was gladly extolling all of their numerous virtues to him in great and glorious detail. And at the same time clutching the phone with my left hand while plugging up my ear canal with the other, so as to attempt to drown out all of the bickering, yelling, and general mayhem that was occurring just a few short feet from where I was hunkered down.

I was fooling no one.

All of a sudden I heard two giggling sisters and I looked up to see my son rounding the corner of the slippery linoleum, arms flailing, while shakily maneuvering himself on his 7 year old sister’s princess roller skates. He was clad only in a diaper. The combined look of fear and jubilation on his two year old face will forever be etched in my mind.

“ARE YOU INSANE?” was all my father could hear as I let the phone clatter to the ground while I jumped up to admonish the sisters and at the same time rescue the little brother from a near cracked cerebellum.

When I composed myself, I picked up the phone. I was certain that my father was stifling a hearty chuckle.

Revenge is indeed sweet.

I learned two things today.

#1. Always call my Dad AFTER the children are in bed.

#2. Always keep the camera handy.

Okay, maybe three things.

#3. I may need to rethink my “It’s Okay To Skate In The House” policy.

I long for the day when I’m on the receiving end of the phone, and my children are recounting their children’s antics to me. But then, I would be guilty of wishing my life away. And I want to savor every moment of this insanity. Because the years will dull my memories. As a coping skill which I have perfected, I know that I will choose only to remember what I want to. But through my own grandchildren (God willing I live that long), I pray that all the memories will come rushing back with a single phone call.

And I’m certain I’ll be guilty of stifling a hearty chuckle or three.

I went out to my mailbox today and found this!

My sweet friend, Lisa, wrote this wonderful study and just sent me a copy. It’s called “The Busy Mom’s Guide to Bible Study”. It’s a 15 minutes, 5 days a week, for 3 months plan to study God’s Word and at the same time, happily nourish a busy Mom’s heart and soul. Now, that’s something that I can do!

I’ve known Lisa for about 100 years, and when we met, she was pregnant with her 3rd child, while her other two were still in diapers. At the time, I was single and child-free. If I had half a brain in my head, I would have been following her around taking copious notes. Thank you God she writes books. So, what I’m saying, is if anyone knows busy, it’s Lisa. And this is a woman who loves Jesus more than anything and is passionate about ministering to Moms who are face down in the trenches of motherhood. And that’s just where I find myself most every single day.

So, I am really excited to get started on this. And not just because she’s my friend.

Last Fall, I wrote about traveling to Nashville with Lisa to film the DVD for “This Is My Story.” It is a Bible study that uses the format of a scrapbook to create a lasting legacy of faith. This is out now too! The kit is absolutely beautiful and can be purchased for individual study, or as a group study. Even the most scrapbook challenged of women can do this. And I’m pointing the finger right at my head. Because if it was up to me, my baby’s pictures would be scotch taped onto white pages, and labeled with felt tip magic markers. The permanent ones.

Commercial over. And no, I’m not getting a kickback. I just love this girl and want to support her ministry.

Have a wonderful weekend, y’all.

Cailey positioned herself in the middle of the family room floor this morning, clutching her imaginary microphone. Her baby brother’s attempts to drag her off to another part of the house to do his bidding were in vain. “I am going to perform!” she announced to him. Finally he gave up, and went in search of the older more compliant sister.

I watched from the safety of the kitchen as she cleared her five year old throat and began her rendition of “When You Wish Upon A Star,” complete with forced vibrato and sweeping hand gestures. At the songs end, I stifled my applause when I heard her begin to critique herself.

Critic Cailey: “Well. That was NOT very good.”

Performer Cailey: “What was wrong with it?”

Critic Cailey: “Well. For one thing, you got the words wrong.”

Performer Cailey: “I knew that.”

Ordinarily I would say that she is preparing herself to audition for “American Idol”. But since she has blissfully never seen or heard of the show, that theory is out.

I quit watching some years ago when Bo Bice did not win. And then the following season, when Chris Daughtry didn’t even make it to the top two, American Idol was removed from my speed dial and they lost me forever.

Unless I find myself driving my five year old songbird to the auditions in the next couple of weeks.

Where I really think her only competition will be Simon.

And he won’t stand a chance.