Fiddledeedee

The weekend, there was little to nothing but cold air whistling around in the refrigerator. It was time for my big bimonthly grocery shopping extravaganza. The one I usually reserve for dark thirty on Saturday mornings. However, Jensen has been getting us up at all hours. Again.

So, any semblance of a schedule is out the window. For now. And this is really wreaking havoc on my early morning workout routine.

Sleep deprivation + no exercise = heightened depression.

I’m a bundle of fun lately.

“It’s just a season. It’s just a season.” (repeat while rocking oneself in the fetal position)

I took my two girls to brave the aisles of a very crowded Wal•Mart, to hunt and forage for our meals for the next two weeks. They are really well behaved as long as I don’t leave them to their own devices. Or let them steer a cart. I gave Emme the job of marking off the items from our list, and Cailey was to retrieve items from the shelf, and then alphabetize them in the cart.

It helps to keep Cailey really really busy.

Our cart was filled to the rim, and we had just a few more aisles to conquer. I noticed a young man, probably in his 20’s standing a few feet in front of us. He was blocking a cart from clearing the corner. At first I thought it odd, but then assumed that he must know the owner of that cart. And there was some good natured kidding going on.

Because I am awesome at pretending the sun is just one big smiley face, and everyone is happy, and there really is a Santa Claus.

Then, this young man had some sort of seizure, fell to the ground, unconscious, foaming at the mouth.

My heart stopped. I froze. There was complete silence around us for what seemed like an eternity. Instinctually, I reached for my cell phone, at the same time someone yelled “CALL 911!” Another gentleman was a faster draw than I and was calling on his phone, and already kneeling by the unconscious man checking his pulse and hollering orders.

I thought to myself, I want that guy to be shopping near me should I ever hit the concrete.

Turns out, he was an off duty police officer, just picking up a few things from the store.

I felt completely helpless. And I hated that feeling. I wanted to aid the unconscious man in some way, but my wringing of hands seldom lends help in any emergency I’m faced with.

I steered my girls out of the way. They were very shaken up and had many many questions. I answered them to the best of my ability. And then right there, in the middle of the chaos, I put my arms around my girls and we prayed for that man on the floor.

And a rush of peace came over me. And my daughters. A knowledge that even in calamity, God is on the throne.

I don’t know the fate of that young man. I know that help came swiftly. And I thank God for those men and women who choose professions that save and protect lives. I’m sure the mother of that young man feels the same way.

Sometimes I forget. I’m never completely helpless. The power of prayer, even the kind of disjointed prayer that falls out of my mouth in the produce aisle of Wal•Mart, trumps fear every single time. And like Anthony Hopkins as C.S. Lewis in the movie Shadowlands says: “I don’t pray to change God, but so that God can change me.”

“What seem our worst prayers may really be, in God’s eyes, our best. Those, I mean, which are least supported by devotional feeling. For these may come from a deeper level than feeling. God sometimes seems to speak to us most intimately when He catches us, as it were, off our guard.”

C.S. Lewis

(Update: My site came back up Saturday night. I’ll keep Saturday Stirrings open throughout the weekend! Sorry for the delay.)

I just told Fiddledaddy that I needed to sit down at the computer to throw up my Saturday Stirrings post. Which may have been an unfortunate choice of wording.

Time is of the essence because at midnight tonight, my web server is shutting me down for server maintenance. My technical advisor tried to explain it to me, but gave up when my eyes glazed over. This process could take anywhere from 5 minutes to 48 hours.

So, it’s not a technical malfunction that I caused by spilling a caffeinated beverage on my keyboard. Just so you know.

To make a short story excruciating, that’s why I’m “throwing up” this Saturday Stirrings post on Friday. Since having 3 children, I’m never early for anything.

This whole wheat waffle recipe is what I’ll be making on Saturday morning for my family. In fact, I make up a big batch twice a week, lay them on a cookie sheet to flash freeze them in the freezer, and toast them for everyone to enjoy throughout the week.

These are popular with my bunch of animals. They are the best tasting waffles I’ve ever eaten. Yes. I’m bragging. I found the basic recipe on-line, and just started experimenting with making them healthier and tastier.

Think of me as Rachel Ray. But without all the money. And the TV show.

Oh. Here’s an interesting factoid. I learned from Martha Stewart (my pretend best friend) that using fresh baking powder makes a world of difference in your baking. Evidently, baking powder only stays fresh for about 6 months. Imagine my embarrassment when I realized that I had been using the same tired old baking powder for FIVE YEARS. That explains a few things.

Without further adieu, I present, the worlds most perfect waffle.

Wonderful Whole Wheat Waffles

3 Cups Whole Wheat Flour
1 Scoop Protein Powder
3 t. Baking Powder
3 T. Splenda *
3 T. Light Brown Sugar *
1 1/2 t. Salt
3 T. Wheat Germ
1/2 Cup Pumpkin
1/2 Cup Pureed Sweet Potato
3 Cups Milk
3 Eggs
3 T. Canola Oil

* I have used all Splenda here. I noticed no difference. You could also garden variety sugar, for you purists.

In a large bowl, stir together dry ingredients. Add pumpkin, sweet potato, milk, eggs and oil; mix well.

Cook in a preheated Waffle Iron until golden brown. This makes approximately 12 waffles. Maybe more. Hard to get an accurate count when they are eaten right off the waffle maker.

If you have a Saturday Stirrings post on your blog, link up with Mr. Linky. For more instructions, click here.

Have a wonderful weekend everyone!

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Wednesday night, Fiddledaddy sensing I was on the cusp of yet another nervous breakdown, offered to take my place as a Spark’s leader at Awana. Thusly ensuring his super hero status in my fragile mind.

The next day, he alerted me about the evenings events. It seems that as he was hurtling down the road going anywhere from 40 to 50 MPH, Emme chose that moment to announce to her father that she was engaged.

She’s 8, people. I was at least 9 before I was engaged.

My eyes widened. I hadn’t heard this tidbit of information. “Who’s she engaged to?”

Fiddledaddy sighed, “I have no idea. An explosion went off in my head, and everything was a little fuzzy. I may have used the word ‘inappropriate’.”

I was surprised he didn’t total the car.

We both looked over the kitchen counter at Emme, who was busy nibbling on a bagel. Her daddy asked her who her “friend” was that she was talking about last night.

Oh my word. The smile that lit her face. We got a first name out of her. And we discovered that he goes to our church. Bonus. And that he’s in Awana, but not in our particular group. Double bonus. And that he is homeschooled. Ding, ding, ding.

At least I can keep my eye on her.

We had another one of our impromptu conversations about how great it is to have lots of friends, and boys make really nice friends, as well.

The word friends was stressed a few hundred dozen times.

And we did it all while not freaking out and keeping a straight face. But, I watched my husband age a few years.

His baby girl is growing up right before his eyes. And he’s powerless to stop it.

She wants to do more grown-up things. Dangerous stuff. Like drive without a booster seat. Straighten her hair. Pierce her ears.

She’s been really campaigning hard about the ear piercing thing. Especially since her girlfriend from Awana got her ears pierced last week. Her younger girlfriend.

So, last night, Fiddledaddy took advantage of the situation. Emme and her newly pierced friend, Ainslee, were sitting and coloring a Bible picture, while discussing earrings.

Fiddledaddy asked Ainslee, “Did it hurt?” “Yes,” she answered matter-of-factly. “It felt like a car ran over my head. And I can’t sleep because they bother me. And they have to stay in for 6 whole months.” She continued with her coloring. And reiterated, “It felt like a car ran over my head.”

Emme’s eyes were wide as saucers.

Mission accomplished. Not a word has been said about having her ears pierced since Wednesday. This is the squeamish daughter.

She scared the stuffing out of us yesterday when she was in the bathroom. We heard a scream. Followed by, “MOM! I’M BLEEDING. REALLY REALLY BAD!”

Well. I nearly broke a femur clearing a baby gate to get to the bathroom. All the while imagining the worse. Early menstruation. Somebody kill me. However, I discovered that she had picked an ant bite on her leg. And ALL THE BLOOD? It measured in circumference the size of a pin head.

Leading me to believe that she’ll have to be sedated when her menses really does begin. I believe we’ll all be needing some type of medication.

There is hope. She’s not as grown up as she would like. And that fact was solidified in my mind when I saw her get out of her bed last night and head into the family room. Where she scooped up her beloved puppy dog and thread bare yellow blanket. She held them close to her heart as she padded down the hall back to her room.

And I hold that image close to my heart. She is, after all, still our baby girl.

…that fell from the same tired old truck.

Sometimes it’s difficult for me to adequately describe how extremely different my two girls are. But, I think I’ve found a way.

For an Easter present, they each received a disembodied head.  Courtesy of the clearance aisle at Toys R Us.

Exhibit A) on the left, belongs to the sister who can burp the alphabet. She chooses her wardrobe by “eenie meenie miny mo” and never met a puddle of mud that she didn’t like. She delights in inappropriate bathroom humor, and lives to push her sibling’s buttons. In fact, she has them on speed dial. She’s a free spirit who would style her hair with the electric mixer, if I would permit it.

Exhibit B) on the right, belongs to the sister who color codes her closet. She is the proverbial backseat driver who is ever vigilant so that she can inform the driver (me) if they are about to break the law in any fashion. In a preemptive sort of way. She does not limit her driving critique to her own family van, but will also alert other drivers of their wrongdoing with a well placed scowl. She’s our resident narc. And every hair on her curly head is present, accounted for, and in it’s proper place. Or we don’t leave the house.

Oh, and she has a crush on Mr. Rogers (but is blissfully unaware that he is, in fact, dead.)

I’ll let you decide which head belongs to which sister.

Someone should have told me that today was “National Visit The Zoo Day” so that I could have just stayed home. Trish and I took our 6 kids for a little impromptu field trip. As homeschoolers, we usually have the place to ourselves during the week, but not today. I actually had to stalk an elderly couple as they walked ever so slowly out to their car, so I could secure a parking place in the same zip code as our zoo.

The monkeys were an exhibit choice popular with all 6 children. Because, I suppose, they can all relate. We were pressed up against the fence, watching two spider monkeys frolic and pick bugs off of each other. A crowd had gathered all around us, and we all delighted in the monkey mischief.

During a moment of silence, I heard Cailey’s 6 year old voice ring out loud and clear, “WHOA, LOOK AT THAT HANGING DOWN THING. OFF HIS BOOTY. HE’S GOT A HANGING DOWN THING. SEE? RIGHT THERE. A HANGING DOWN THING. OFF HIS BOOTY. WHAT IS THAT?” At this point, Trish, who was closest to her, tried to quietly shush her. Which I know from experience, only makes her louder.

I heard unmistakable snickering rippling through the crowd. I whispered to Trish, “psst, let’s make a run for it.” Alas, we were hemmed in, and would have caused even more of a commotion had we attempted a hasty retreat. Especially if we had left Cailey behind. Which, I will admit, was a temptation.

I sent up a silent prayer, as I noticed the primates paying more attention to one another. “Oh dear God, please NOT THAT. Anything but THAT.”

Then I busied myself by alphabetizing the interior of my purse. Avoidance is one of my favorite coping mechanisms.

When I looked up, we had cleared the exhibit. No one was there except our 6 children, and two uninhibited monkeys.

“GO WOMAN. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD, LET’S GET OUT OF HERE.”

I remember my mother didn’t negotiate moments like that well either, in my youth. When I was about 8, she made the unfortunate decision to take my 5 year old brother and me to see Romeo and Juliet. The film version.

And by the way, I carried a torch for Leonard Whiting well into my teens.

During the pivotal kissing scene between the fair Juliet and her Romeo, my brother blurted out. loud enough for the ticket takers to hear, “LOOK MOM, THEY’RE MAKING A BABY!”

Because every 5 year old knows that anytime you kiss someone, you get a baby. And we were raised in a good Catholic home. Sex was never a topic on the table. Or anywhere else for that matter.

My brother continued, because he reasoned, mom must not have heard him. “MOOOOM. SEE? THEY ARE MAKING A BABY.” She simply slunk down into her seat, and attempted to cover his mouth with her greasy- from-all-the-popcorn hand.

I remember being equally horrified. WHAT? Because by the tender age of 8, I had already kissed a neighbor boy.

Twice.

I know I can’t bury my head in the sand my purse forever. I’ll have to have “that talk” at some point.

Sooner, I fear, if we continue to frequent the zoo.

But, fiddle dee dee. I’ll think about it tomorrow. Tomorrow is another day.

Um, any good curriculum y’all might recommend?