Fiddledeedee

You’d think that by taking the weekend off from blogging I’d have a good 2 or 3 posts stashed away, waiting to be published. You thought wrong. We’ve had the last 2 weeks off from school, so you might think again that I’d have some really good material for posts in my draft folder. Again, you’d be wrong. You might then think I would be embarrassed to trot something out from the archives. Wrong wrong wrong.

The following post was originally posted about a year ago. It’s funny how quickly time flies. And how I’ve made such little progress.

A few weeks ago I dropped Jensen off in the children’s Sunday School at our church. The prospect of doughnuts gets ordinary folks through the steeple doors, but not my son. The draw for Jensen, is the opportunity to play with the cars in his classroom. Fresh cars. Cars he doesn’t get to play with during the week. He has a wonderful stash of hotwheels at home, but he can spot a different car in a split second. This thrills me of course, because I’m able to peel him off of me long enough to attend church service with Fiddledaddy.

So, it’s kinds of like a date.

With 200 other people.

When I picked Jensen up from Sunday School, I didn’t notice until we were in the parking lot that he had lifted one of the cars belonging to his classroom. Not wanting to trudge back into church, I vowed to return it the next week. Which I did. I explained to them that my son is a klepto, and that they should pray over him in hopes that he changes his ways now and avoids a life of crime.

When I got home I found THE SAME CAR in his Power Rangers backpack.

Such a shame, as he really doesn’t look good in stripes.

This week we attended our first co-op of classes that my homeschool group offers. The girls are taking art, Karate, guitar, and worship dance. Jensen even has his own class for 2 and 3 year olds. I worried how he would adjust. Until I spied the box full of hotwheels cars in his classroom. These are his people. They understand his needs. But I warned sweet Emily, the children’s director, to always be sure and check his backpack carefully before he leaves.

When I came to collect him, true to form, he was clutching tightly, 3 beloved cars. I asked him to put them away so that we could visit them next week. He held on tighter. The battle of wills escalated into a full fledged skirmish, where he wrestled me to the floor, and I had to pry each car out of his chubby hands. It was an ugly tangle of arms, legs, and hotwheels. I emerged sweaty and disheveled.

I just love making a good impression on the first day of school.

When the wrestling match ended, and I was victorious, I picked up the wriggling, screaming mass of Jensen and hoisted him up on my hip. No easy feat since he’s weighing in at 40 pounds these days. He retaliated by grabbing my left breast and pinching as hard as he could.

It’s not like he hadn’t already done enough damage to me during the breastfeeding portion of our relationship. Violent nurser that he was. But, I didn’t flinch. I was ready for him. I was wearing my battle bra. The padded one. With the sturdy underwire.

For just such an occasion.

I wouldn’t think of wearing a padded bra for vanity sake. Oh no. I wear a padded bra for protection.

Because it’s less cumbersome than, say, body armor.

I conducted a thorough cavity search on Jensen and we left with no stolen matchbox cars.

As mothers, we wear a lot of different hats. Because our job description varies widely. Everything from chef to chauffeur, stylist to laundry maven.

And now you can just add crime fighter to my ever growing list.

I’m sort of like Wonder Woman. But without the tight abs and fabulous hair.

Posting light today. Took Weight class today. Worked every muscle group in my body. Can no longer lift my arms. Typing with my nose.

Be back tomorrow.

What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger.

Whatever.

We live in the land of baby gates. Small wooden gates, large wooden gates, tall metal gates with latches, you name the gating system, we are either using it, or have used it and threw it away in disgust.

Because we house an inmate. My last and final child is a climber slash escape artist who can and will dismantle an entire dishwasher, if allowed in the kitchen.

And then there’s the shiny, sharp carving knives.

I shudder at that near miss horror trip to the emergency room slash police station.

Now that the little booger has entered his terrible 3’s, he is learning how to get around the baby gates. He doesn’t just open them. Oh no. That would be child’s play. He takes the entire thing apart. And leaves it in a heap on the floor. As he laughs maniacally, carrying his Blues Clues blanket into the forbidden zone.

And now, oh this is fun, he has figured out how to unlock the doors. The front door, the sliders, you know, the ONLY BARRIER KEEPING HIM FROM SPEEDING CARS WHICH FLY DOWN OUR STREET.

Yesterday, I looked down the hall to catch a glimpse of the back end of Junior and Blues Clues Blanket exiting the front door. Odd, I thought. Well, maybe he’s going outside with Fiddledaddy.

Except that just then I heard Fiddledaddy at the other end of the house. I ran out and caught hold of the boy child as he was heading down the sidewalk.

And the adults in the house may or may not have peed their pants just a little.

Today, Fiddledaddy and Junior took a little trip to Lowes. For some hardware. Brackets have been installed, additional locks that I even have to stand on my tippy toes to reach, and there was even a little something for the slider door. A guard dog may have even been mentioned. Except for the fur allergy. And the fact that if I had one more mouth to feed I’d throw myself off of our one story house.

Yes. We have a security system with a high pitched beeping noise that will sound if anyone enters or exits. And it goes very nicely with all the other noises in my head.

And folks, it’s not like I can toss him out in the backyard to play. It isn’t that he can scale the 6 foot fence. Yet. BUT HE’S ALLERGIC TO GRASS, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD.

I console myself by curling up into the fetal position, and repeating, “It’s only a season. It’s only a season.” And I hope and pray that one day this will all just be a distant memory…

And I can look back on my archives and chuckle. FROM THE NUTHOUSE.

I have a favorite faded t-shirt that features a dead stiff cow, laying on its back, hooves to the sky, that says, “Really, I’m fine.”

And never has anything embodied what I’m feeling as well as that thread bare shirt.

I turn it over to y’all. If you were to design a t-shirt, that mirrors what you are going through right now, what would it say?

Have a wonderful weekend! And thank you homeschoolers for your used curriculum sites suggestions! Keep ‘em coming.

I think I’ve logged more time in my kitchen in the last two weeks, than I have in the past 9 years we’ve lived here. And I’ve spent a good amount of time in that kitchen in 9 years.

Completely off topic, but my daughter asked me the other day if I was older than our house. I answered, “I’m older than the dirt under our house. So, yes.”

And I’m aging by the minute.

We’re in the midst of having Jensen’s battery of blood tests performed, to have a much better idea of what we’re dealing with allergy-wise. There is still something else, but we have been unable to pinpoint it. I’ll write more about that next week.

Before I turn it over to y’all to post a recipe this week, I wanted to tell you about a blog that focuses on crock pot recipes. This gal’s name is Steph, and she goes by the name, The Crockpot Lady. She is a doll. She has many wonderful allergen free recipes. I tried one for “Fried Rice” this week, and it was awesome!

Okie dokie. I’ll step aside and let y’all at Mr. Linky. You know the drill. If you have a recipe (does not have to be allergen free, any one will do), link your specific post below. Then link back here from your post.

Have a wonderful weekend everyone! I’m spending Saturday morning at my most favorite used curriculum sale.

In the days leading up to Mothers Day, I wasn’t in a celebratory mood. It had been a particularly difficult mothering week in the house of Fiddle. Hanging my head in shame, I could not, for the life of me, understand why God had entrusted me with three children to mother. I don’t have to look far to see wonderful, incredible examples of mothering goodness. Women who bask in the glow of motherhood, and revel in the ups and downs of parenting.

Not me.

For the better part of the week, I just wanted to curl up in the fetal position, and bark like a dog until someone saw fit to ply me with prescription medications. Just so I wouldn’t feel like such a loser. It didn’t work, everyone just stepped over me. The barking didn’t even phase them, they’ve been wanting a dog for some time now.

I went to bed Saturday night, not really looking forward to greeting Sunday morning. Mother’s Day. A funny thing happened. I woke up Sunday morning with tears on my pillow. Tears of relief from a dream that I had. I dreamed that I was homeschooling my three children. Which I think at times can be rather nightmarish. But my middle child, Cailey, who had been giving more-than-ordinary-grief all week, wasn’t mine. She belonged to a woman standing beside me, who had hired me to teach her. And as I stood there with this woman (who was much younger than me), I saw Cailey come running up to us, her strawberry hair flying behind her and bright blue eyes shining. She came to me and gave me a big hug, saying “I love you, Mommy.” And I thought to myself, “her mother isn’t going to like that.” And I panicked. Oh Lord, this woman could take Cailey from me, move away, and I would never see her again. And I hugged Cailey back, tightly, wanting to hang on to her and never let go.

And I woke up. Tears streaming from my eyes. Af first from grief, but then from the realization that Cailey is mine. And no one is going to take her from me. I believe that God sometimes uses dreams to show us things. He showed me perspective. And on that Mother’s Day morning, I looked at my role of mother with different eyes. And I was grateful for each of my three children. Who love me even when I fail. Who look to me to care for all of their needs. Who think I’m the greatest mom in the world.

Even when I’m not.

I can’t shake that dream. And the feelings it stirred in me. Even now as I write, I have a lump in my throat and am fighting tears.

I remembered a conversation that I had with Emme when I tucked her in bed Saturday night. She was asking me questions about Crystal, her little cousin who died in 2002 from cancer. She was only 11. Emme wanted to know if she would ever see Crystal again, and if her Aunt Cathy still cried. I had answered yes to both questions. Yes, she’ll see her Crystal in heaven, and yes, Aunt Cathy still missed her baby very much.

I cannot fathom what it’s like to lose a child. My grief over potentially losing one of mine, was immeasurable. And that was just a dream.

My Mother’s Day was not what I had expected. It was wonderful. As I hugged my children tightly, I thanked God for each one of them, and rejoiced in the knowledge that they are a gift from Him.

My most wonderful Mother’s Day gift was that dream. And the perspective that it left me with.

Originally published May, 2007

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After a particularly busy week, I’ve been unable to write a post for The Busy Mom’s Club on this weeks devotional. And I don’t want to just hurriedly slap something together and throw it against the wall to see if it sticks. Not unlike most meals I’ve prepared this week.

So, on this day after Mothers Day, I looked back in my archives to see what I had written a year ago. I had forgotten all about this post. But, when I read it, the memory washed over me, like a drowning wave. All of the same emotions surfaced. Fear, relief, panic, and finally, a great sense of gratitude.

And, on those days, when I don’t feel like journaling the days experience, I’m awfully glad that I do. In the years to come, I’m going to look back on each post (well, some I will likely pretend never published) and I will remember where I was and what I was doing when my children were small.

Because, if it were not for my daily ramblings here, I would forget. And I never want to forget. Because some day, sooner than I imagine, these babies of mine will be all grown. And my empty arms will long to hold them in a tight embrace. One more day.

Happy Belated Mothers Day, all you blogging, and blog reading mommies!