Baby Jesus, the Potato

   It began with an errant ball, flung by an errant five year old, which tore through my childhood nativity set with a vengeance. (This happened during a piano lesson, of course.)
  Bits of Precious Moments porcelain scattered over the carpet, and Joseph was declared dead at the scene.   One wise man was rushed to the crazy glue, and is expected to make a full recovery.
  My mother heard the news, and said, "Oh! I know exactly which nativity scene you need!"

   That's how a collection of plastic vegetables in bathrobes came to be in our home. Veggie Tales has made a nativity set, featuring Larry as wise man, Jerry Gourd as a cow, Laura Carrot as Mary - you get the idea. I would cry blasphemy, but my children have been very pleased with it. They move the french peas dressed as sheep all around the little stable, and are happy to talk about the Christmas story.

   Which is how I found myself, at the end of a long day, being faced with the following:
   "Mommy! Look!" my son cried, pointing to the scene he had carefully created. "Look! Everyone is standing around Baby Jesus, the potato!"

   Jesus Christ, the Messiah, the King of Kings, the Idaho Russet.

   Oh, Glory.
 

Say the Crazy Out Loud

   It has been a while.


   I haven't posted in over a month. Not because we led lives of complete monotony in the interim (you must know us better than that), but because I'm a coward. Sometimes, the Tired sets in, and Life stops being funny. And I'm too afraid to admit it out loud.

   As the great philosopher Lucy says, "The mere fact that you realize you need help indicates that you are not too far gone". So here I am, back at the empty blog page, wondering what I should say to oust the demon of terror and vulnerability.

    I know! I will tell you the most embarrassing thing that's happened since the hysterectomy surgery in July.

    It started with a complication. Another doctor's appointment, another exam, another "Uh, that shouldn't happen", another "We fixed it this time. Really". SO much fun.
    But it was worse than usual, because when they scheduled the first available appointment, they scheduled me with the cute doctor. The young doctor, who is too handsome and kind for OB work. And through no fault of his very professional exam, I realized that my young life was over.
    I was old. I was having hot flashes.
   And broken. I couldn't have any more babies.
   And ugly. I couldn't seem to lose the surgery weight.
   No one would ever flirt with me again. Ever.


   I drove home thinking, "I don't want random people to flirt with me anyway. Yeah. So there."
   I went back to my chores thinking, "Besides, beauty is on the inside. That's what they say!... to ugly people. Yeah."
   And I spent a whole week in silent battle against Self-Pity, Self-Loathing, and all around Self. I fully admit that Self was the evil, and Self was the problem. It's amazing how easy it is to become Self-absorbed. But that's for another time.
    This time, I want to mention the importance of saying the crazy out loud. I want to confess that when I try to conquer the inner fears by myself, I almost always fail. I should have told my husband that I needed a kiss and a pep talk. But I didn't. Because I'm too cool, and too spiritual, and too strong to ask for help.
    So I waded about in the Slough of Despond for a bit.

    The following Friday, my dear husband took me out to dinner while the kids played at Grandma's. I put on makeup, and a dress, and painted my toenails. I was as pretty as a post operative woman can be, I suppose. But as I sat in Jason's Deli, smiling at my amazing husband, all I could think was:
   - I really hate myself. How can he stand to be seen with me?
   - Smile. That will cover some of the flaws.
   - I should just tell him how I feel. Communication is good. I should talk to him.
   - No! are you crazy? It's a date! You finally have a date! Don't ruin it!
   - But I hate myself.
   - I hate you too! But you don't want him to think you're crazy!
   - I'm not crazy.
   - You're talking to me, so you're certifiable.
   - We'll just sit here and feel old and ugly and gross, then?
   - You'd better believe it. We're fine. Now shut up. He's going to notice you're talking to yourself.

  I went back to my root beer and smiled.

  And then - I'm not kidding -  my OBGYN walked through the door of the restaurant. Straight past me at my table in the random little deli twelve miles from the doctor's office. The cute, young doctor, with his cute, young wife, and their cute, young kids. The whole family trooped right by.

    My dear husband was startled by my nearly spitting root beer out my nose, and more startled by the following whisper: "We have to talk. We have to talk right now. I don't always believe in signs from God, but this is the weirdest one I've ever gotten, so we're going to talk right now and I need you to hear me.
   "I might be going crazy, but I need you to know that sometimes - I hate myself. And I can't imagine how you could love me anymore because I had a hysterectomy and now I'm so old and ugly. And I feel useless every time I see someone with more than two babies, and I know that's crazy because I'm grateful for the two babies we have, but I'm just trying to get the crazy out in the open because... because.... uh... I... see..."

    Then I had to explain about the cute doctor, how much I never, ever, EVER wanted to see a doctor who has seen my unmentionables in public. I really didn't want to see him while I was on a date. And I really didn't understand the cosmic injustice that had brought that particular doctor to this particular deli on this particular night.

   Except that it made me say all the horrible things I'd had stuck in my head all week. It sounds simple, but it was one of the hardest things I'd ever done. In my husband's praise, I must say that he didn't flee the scene. He blinked a lot and said, "Oh," several times, which I consider the work of a very courageous man in the face of so much root-beer-spilling craziness.

   Interestingly enough, saying all the scary bits took the teeth out of the beast. When I heard all the terrors named, they started to lose their power. Not because they weren't valid, but because they weren't true. And they would never be really true unless I gave them the power to wander unchecked through my head.

   I won't lie to you, you readers who have followed so much and laughed along with me, because the plain facts are that I sometimes still fight those fears. But I'm guessing that many of you do too. Those fears will always have power while we fight them alone. So I encourage you to run to your spouse, or your best friend, or your mentor, or someone safe - and tell them the Crazy out loud.

   Because no one, I mean no one, should have to see their OBGYN in a deli.

 
 

The Cuteness of Northern Aggression

   This morning, I woke to the sound of my son's voice.

    Upon tiptoeing to his room, I found that his little sister was cuddled up next to him in bed. The blanket was being happily shared, and she listened, enraptured as he read aloud to her. It was a moment of pure sweetness.

   Which is why I bolted downstairs as quickly and quietly as possible. (I got to drink my coffee alone!)
   Then I prepared breakfast and called upstairs. The padding feet were quick to respond, and they fell upon the toast with the fury of ravenous children.

   "Did you read to your sister this morning?" I asked, smiling down on my eldest.
   "Yeff," my son answered around a mouthful of Raisin Bran.
   "And what book were you reading?"
   "It was about the Sill Wear."
   "The... what?"
   "The SILL WEAR, Mommy."
   "Uh-huh."

    I didn't question him further. Asking him to repeat twice apparently insults his status as a Reader Who Doesn't Need Help, so I let it go and finished prepping the bags for a day at homeschool co-op. But when I dashed upstairs to help in the search for a Sock That No One Can Find But Mom, I glanced at the book lying on the bed.

   It was a Magic Treehouse Book. Awww.

  Civil War on Sunday.

   Uh....



    Less Awwww. More Errrrr. 

    I think I'll lay out "Amelia Bedelia" for tomorrow.
   

General Area

    My son made a friend at the park. They occupied the swings for half an hour, talking about video games and how the other boy was three years older, but Spiderman was going to turn six, and THEN seven, and THEN he would almost be eight. And I was grateful to the older boy for nodding and accepting this explanation without asserting his dominance. It's always a pleasure to meet a kind and wise eight year old.

    Then Spiderman asked, "Where do you live?"
    The boy replied, "Over there. On Fox Glen Drive."

    They swung gently back and forth. 
    Then the boy asked, "Where do you live?"
    "North America," Spiderman answered promptly.


    I'm glad he doesn't give our address out to strangers, but I hope it's not the first stages of protective paranoia. If he's preparing for a life of avoiding the CIA, he's off to a good start. I'd like to see Jason Bourne track down that address.

Sharing

   Spiderman (age 5) and Princess (age 2) sat down to dinner.
   There was Quiche, which was not in favor, Cornbread, which was almost edible, and green beans, which were the greatest thing to happen to a dinner plate in forever. We eat a lot of green beans. And broccoli. They're on the "I'm-not-up-to-fighting-through-dinner" foods. We don't know why.

   Anyway, the kids sat down to dinner because Daddy wasn't home yet and Mommy was getting ready for piano lessons. (I know, I know - the shattering of the nuclear family began when we stopped sitting together for meals. Some nights, we have a real dinner with manners and everything. Honest.) And they whined about the menu, and sighed when there was a promise of dessert - because that dessert was forever unattainable while a slice of quiche stood in the way.

   And while I prepared for lessons (wardrobe change,checking teeth for green beans, etc.), I warned my son not to whine. So he did.
   So I sent him upstairs to "think carefully" about his next move.
   After five minutes, he recanted the whine and promised faithfully to be sweet. He returned to the dinner table. And shrieked.

   "MOMMIEEEEEE!" he cried. "MOMMIEEEE!" (My children accent the last syllable. The long 'e' sound is easier to shriek than the short 'o' vowel.) I came to his aid, expecting blood.
   "Mommy!" he accused, finger pointed at his little sister. "She took my cornbread!"
 
   The princess paused, mid-chew. Angelic eyes swiveled from the big brother to me. She swallowed, then tottered to his side, cornbread held out (dropping crumbs over the freshly swept floor). "Here," she said, "Here you go." 

    Her brother took the piece back, pacified, and placed it safely on his plate (where he was certainly not going to eat it). He said, in tones of grateful relief, "Thank you."

    The Princess beamed. "MOMMIEEE!" she cried, delighted with herself. She ran to me with a triumphant grin. "Mommy! I SHARED!"
    
    
   We're getting there...

"WHAT did you DO?!?"

   
    I am not the woman who drops the kids in a perfect 'educational community' with rainbow-colored walls and lots of IQ testable toys before jetting off to an executive meeting. I am Wife first (dinner on the table), Mommy second (wipe the noses), Housekeeper third (ha-ha...ha...), and a Piano Teacher.

   Someday, my studio and my house will not be at the same address (that's the dream, anyway). Someday, I will not mix homeschooling, bathroom cleaning, and lessons in the same afternoon. Someday, I will be Professional.

   But the parents of my students are very understanding - especially since the fees are discounted on account of the 'I-may-have-to-dash-upstairs-and-put-out-a-fire' clause. And my kids almost understand the need to play quietly while Mommy teaches lessons. Sometimes, I get through a half hour without screaming interruptions.

   Not yesterday.

   Yesterday, the baby went viral (runny nose), and my son went crazy (he turned five with a vengeance).
 
   I was addressing a particularly feisty Telemann passage, reveling in the excellent technique of my ten-year-old student, when I overheard the parent in the living room tell my son to wash his hands after he blew his nose for the umpteenth time.

   Son sighed, rose, and stomped past the studio. "I hafta wash my hands," he growled.

   "You obey Mrs. B," I told him.

   "Ugh." He shut the bathroom door with less than perfect respect, but I didn't have time to address it. Fingering is everything in these jumpy baroque fantasias, so I had to stay focused.

   Two measures later, Son shrieked.

   The door was flung open.

   Student and I spun about. "What is - ?" I began.


   "MOMMY!" he cried. "WHAT DID YOU DO IN THE TOILET???"

   Student looked at me. Parent looked at me. Son looked at me.

   Silence.

 
  Then I remembered. "Son," I said, "it's called toilet bowl cleaner. I know it's blue, and distressing, but all you have to do is flush it away. It will clean out the bowl. I forgot that I put that in there, okay?"

  "Oh!" Son nodded. "Okay." He slammed the door.



   Silence.

   "Well," I admitted to my student, "that could have been phrased better."

    She collapsed into laughter.



   Someday, I'm going to have a studio with a door. That closes. And then I'll wear high heels to my lessons, and severely dark blouses, and scary narrow spectacles that I don't really need. And I will ooze Professional. But until that distant day, I will treasure these moments of pure humiliation.  They keep me humble.


 

Slogans are Stupid

At three in the morning, very few things make sense.

Marketing slogans on yogurt, for example.

   If you lie awake long enough, with a well-meaning cat breathing halitosis into your ear, you start to lose a sense of reality. Perhaps, you think, a snack will fix this. A little nibble will surely solve what three hours of counting sheep and tossing and turning hasn't accomplished.

(The body can't physically stay awake forever... right?)

   This morning, I descended the stairs at nearly-four-a.m. with the hope that an organic raspberry yogurt would quiet the lingering resentment of this mortal body long enough for my brain to shut down entirely. But when I pulled the small cup from the back of the refrigerator, a bold and unreasonably perky font glared up at me and asked:

"LIKE TALKING FOOD?"

- and my first thought was, "No. No one would like that. Talking food - that's just creepy - oh, wait. Right."

An easy enough mistake, right? (Just humor the crazy tired person - 'Yes, yes, an easy mistake'.)

And seriously, how hard could it be for Stonyfield's online promoters to honor syntax and type: 'Do you like talking about food'? Don't they care that zombified customers are being maliciously and momentarily startled?

The moral of the story is: Don't end sentences with a preposition. But for pity's sake, please use them!

My Feelings Exactly

  There are two kinds of books for children.

  As immortalized in the Brian Regan comedy routine, there is the board book, with a total of sixty words about a happy clock with an obscene price tag of $12.99. I don't mind board books, because I can read four or five of them to my daughter in the space of three minutes, kiss her goodnight, and get on with a long evening of laundry and mindless television. (What? You never watch mindless television at the end of a long day? You're the person who always finds a good book? Then tell me how you can fold underwear and prop a book open with  your toes and I'll join you.)

   Anyway, there's the second kind of book for children: the well-meaning STORY book. It has 40,000 words, detailing the emotional state of a butterfly who can't find it's shoes (or something like that), and it takes two hours to read out loud (including intermission). I wish I could say that I look forward to curling up with my children and reading them unabridged versions, but I confess that I may sometimes just point to the picture and say, "Where is the doggie? Good! Did the doggie get a bone (after a lot of unnecessary angst?) Good! Yay! The end!"
   Unfortunately for me, my eldest son, Spiderman, he of the now FIVE YEARS of age, can read. He reads well enough to know when I'm skipping, and he will stop me. "Mommy, you didn't read that word!" I can't adequately explain to him that my plot summaries are much better than the actual books ( there's a Twilight burn in there somewhere...) - so I am doomed to nightly long version renditions.

   Until THE book was discovered.

   The best book, the Terry Pratchett "Where's My Cow?" book. The book that has a children's book within it, and a series of inside-jokes for Discworld lovers surrounding. It has saved me. But more than that, it has a series of very readable words - followed by long paragraphs that are much more difficult for a five year old.

    I knew that salvation had come at last when Spiderman insisted on reading it to his little sister, Princess. They cuddled angelically on the sofa, and arranged the fuzzy blanket just so. Then he began, "Where's my Cow? Is that my Cow? Is says, 'Quack-Quack!' It is a duck. That is not my Cow."
   Then he turned the page - stared silently - and declared:

    "This is too many words."
    He turned the page and skipped on.

   "Where's my Cow? Is that my Cow? It says, 'Neigh'. That is not my Cow...."


    That's my boy.
 

More Valium!

   Vowels are such pesky creatures. Diphthongs are worse ('combination of vowel sounds' for those who didn't take Diction 101 for fun in college). Some words are doomed for failure in the initial attempts by small children.

   But not TV-associated words. 'Television' and 'movie' and 'watch' were no problem for either of my kids. So I was surprised by the following interchange:

Spiderman: "Mommy! I need more valium!"

Me: "Um... what?"

Spiderman: "Valium! Please may I have more valium?  I can't hear it!"

Me: "Right. Okay. Yes. You may have more VOLUME."

Spiderman: "Yes. I need more valium."

You and me both, kid. 

My Anchor Holds

Thou art the Lord who slept upon the pillow,

Thou are the Lord who soothed the furious sea,

What matter beating wind and tossing billow

If only we are in the boat with thee?

Hold us in quiet through the age-long minute,

While Thou art silent, and the wind is shrill;

Can the boat sink while Thou, dear Lord, are in it?

Can the heart faint that waiteth on Thy will?

- Amy Carmichael, Toward Jerusalem

    I confess that I had hoped recovery would be funnier. I thought the aftermath of unexpected, life-altering surgery would be a bit more hilarious, and redeem itself by providing amusing anecdotes for you, the reader. But this week, I find myself feeling very trapped in a leaky sloop, frustrated by lack of wind and the shore of Wellness that seems very far away. (Did I take that metaphor too far?)

   

    Anyway, I have spent the last week in various stages of embarrassing agony, and this only serves to keep me away from - what I have always thought was - my goal: returning to Normal! 

    This surgery has not precipitated a series of hilarious events, but it has brought one hundred gentle moments of love. My son, the Nutrition Police of the previous post, helped his father to purchase ice cream at the store and brought it to me announcing, "Here, Mommy! This will make your tummy better!" I have passed more precious hours in cuddling with my children than 'ordinary' life would allow. My friends and family have showered me in love and blessings (like doing the dishes).

    I have always been taught that 'in our weakness, He is strong', but I wasn't in a desperate hurry to be weak. And when I found WEAK plastered on my forehead a few weeks ago, I thought that HE would be strong in miracles, or thunder, or something amazing (and funny, if possible. The blog monster needs feeding).  But I found Him to be a strong cup of tea brewed by my best friend, or a strong cleaner applied to my floor by friend Bear, or my strong brother who could pick up the caterwauling Princess when I could not.

   There is no outboard motor in my boat. (I checked). My Lord can sleep amid any furious sea, and bids me rest in faith with Him. And while I doubt I'll be able to stop chafing today, or even tomorrow, I will cling to the fact that He is in the boat.

    And my Anchor holds.

The Nutrition Police

I'm really trying. I'm drinking spinach smoothies. I'm walking. I'm snacking on fresh fruit. But recovery is long, the pain is lingering, and my will power dwindles.

So when my dear husband asked me what I wanted for dinner, I smiled guiltily and answered:

 "Soft serve ice cream?"


But never fear, dear readers. 

   Four year old Spiderman immediately turned on me with a serious scowl.  "You can't have ice cream. Ice cream," he informed me, "is not healthy. You need to eat healthy food."


    Remind me to keep my mouth shut the next time he rolls his eyes at his green peas.

A Quick Summary of Events Thus Far --

  "How may I help you?" the uniformed concierge asked.
  "I'm here for surgery!" I answered brightly. Nothing like the House M.D. episodes, where someone runs screeching down the hall, "SHE NEEDS SURGERY!" Just me and my dh and my father in law and my pastor standing in a well decorated lobby and asking for surgery like we do this sort of thing all the time. (We'd like a table for four - oh, and do you have room for an appendectomy?)
    Anyway, the concierge misunderstood my initial request and made me say the word, "Hysterectomy. Hysterectomy. HYSTERECTOMY!" three times in successive degrees of volume. And when he finally did understand me, he blushed. "Oh."
   Off to a fun start.
   Then I was scolded for my lack of veins by a nurse, for which I apologized profusely.
   My support team came in to pray for me, which was greatly appreciated.
   The dh gave me a kiss.
   And all the prayers must have been heard, because I didn't feel the least bit nervous. Okay, at least I didn't think I was nervous about Surgery, but I wouldn't stop talking. The anesthesiologist eventually stopped answering my questions and just popped the big mask thing over my face. He didn't have much of a sense of humor, which is a real failing in a doctor, but I suppose the power to make someone shut up really goes to one's head after a while. Anyway....
   The surgery went great. And the hospital stay was made completely worth it because I discovered that Blue Bell makes popsicles! Rejoice, oh civilizations! Lift up your heads, oh ye drugged patients! There are orange Blue Bell popsicles!
    They sent me home after 24 hours - before I ate all the popsicles. I was awfully glad to see my own bed. And my son promptly diagnosed me: "Your tummy hurts!" he said in a sage and serious tone.
   "Yes," I admitted, "but that's okay. It's going to help Mommy get better."
   He disappeared and returned fifteen minutes later with the Children's Robitussin that he had managed to get out of the bathroom cabinet. "It's for you!" he said sweetly. "To make you all better!"
   "Oh, sweetheart, that is so kind of you!" I answered, adding, "Never, never, never, never get into the medicine cabinet, okay? Let's tell Daddy to get a lock on it right away..."
    The amazing in-laws helped me up and down the stairs and wrangled the bebes so well that I was hardly missed and mostly ignored (which can be a good thing when one is so loopy that one forgets to use punctuation in a text message. It was a low point). My darling MIL bought pretzels for me, the real Snyder's quality pretzels, and my friend, Bear, brought Red Velvet Cake ice cream. (Let that sink in, friends. It exists. Red. Velvet. Cake. Ice cream. This world is a glorious place).
   Of course, no one expected that my recovery would go smoothly.
   The next morning, I woke with a headache. I have had headaches in the past, even migraines, and I'm not sure that this deserved the same term. I can't really find a better word for it, but it outranked the pain of my labors, my C-section, and my appendectomy. Whatever happened to my head, it took forty minutes for me to stop the tears and be able to take deep breaths again. Even now, I shudder to think it could happen again. And the nurse we called told me to go to the E.R. and get a C.T. scan.
   So we went back to the hospital. E.R. doctor ordered scans and, unfortunately, said the words,
brain bleed'. At this point, the poor dh was looking a little pale and worried, so I begged him to go and get some lunch. He refused, in a very gallant fashion, to leave my side. The male nurse entered and heard us in the midst of our loving disagreement. He looked at my husband and said, "Go. Go get lunch. I'm taking her to get the scan."
   "No, I should stay," dh said. "How long does the scan take?"
  "An hour at least," the nurse said brusquely. "Go eat lunch."
   "See?" I said, relieved. "Go, my love, and eat a burger. I'll see you soon."
   Dh kissed my forehead. "All right," he said. "But I'll hurry back."
   The nurse wheeled me away. "He seems like a great guy," he said.
   "Oh, he is the very best," I said. "Does the scan really last an hour?"
   "Of course not," the nurse answered. "It's like three minutes. But he looked like he needed lunch."
   "You are officially my favorite nurse ever," I informed him.
   The dh did look so much better when he came back. The scans came back clear, the doctor was kindly and sympathetic and said that some people react badly to anesthesia and hopefully the headache wouldn't happen again. Home again.
   All this to say - thanks to all who have prayed for me this week. I am healing quickly - I think; at the very least, I am able to climb stairs and use commas again. Pray mostly for the children, who are grieved that Mommy will not pick them up. And pray for the dh, who is temporarily nurse, valet, chauffeur, cook, diaper-changer, and morel support.
    Much love to you all. I have a whole stack of books that ought to be read at once.

Idioms and Their Dangers

   English is a difficult language, there's no denying. Who hasn't stumbled over a pronunciation of an 'ough' suffix (Through? Bough? Cough? Dough?)? And who hasn't blushed after hearing someone say, "For all intensive purposes -" ('Intents & Purposes', people) ?
   And then there's my particular pet peeve: "I could care less". The correct usage is, "I couldn't care less", but no one remembers this. Obviously, one could care less, but how much less? And as opposed to what? What kind of power lies behind the suggestion that one might care a bit less?

   *ahem*
   All this to say....

   English is a difficult language, even when you're being raised on it. My four-year-old son isn't the most amazing communicator at the best of times, so colloquialisms can be very difficult for him. Yesterday, while having lunch with our friends Auntie S--- and Baby E---, my phone rang.
   "Hello, darling!" I answered.
   "Hey," my husband said.
   "How are you, oh delight of mine eyes?"
   "I was just checking in on you," he replied, unfazed by my ardor.
   "We are hanging out with S--- and E----," I said, adding, "Oh, king among men!"
   "Are you feeling any better?"
   "I'm having surgery in two days, beloved," I answered, "And I'll feel better then."
   "Mommy!" Spiderman interrupted softly. "Mommy - please, may I talk to Daddy?"
   I passed the phone over.
  "Hi, Daddy!" Spiderman said brightly. He frowned, concentrating. "Yes," he said. Pause. "I'm eating lunch. We - uh..." he fought for the words, and his little nose crinkled. At last, he said, "Yeah. We are hanging Auntie S--- and baby E---!"
   Auntie S--- nearly spit spinach omelette across the table. I managed to hold my guffaws long enough to whisper, "Hanging OUT, son. Hanging OUT with."
   "Oh!" He nodded, too cool for embarrassment. "We hanging out, Daddy."
 
 

Let Go

  Last week, the Lord spoke to me in Barnes & Noble.

  There was no still, small voice. No fiery foliage. No rending of upholstery. My eye was merely drawn inexorably to a particular set of words. They were so appropriate that I laughed out loud.

   All right, I'll admit it: I think God spoke to me through a rainbow-colored refrigerator magnet.

   *sigh* This is embarrassing. I would much rather receive divine inspiration from one of the gorgeous leather journals. But I was trapped in a never-ending line, contemplating the logic of owning seven cash registers while only using one, when my attention was arrested by the following pithy proverb:

LET GO OR BE DRAGGED.

 First, I really wished there was a comma.
 Second, I hate almost all pithy proverbs. Life is complicated, and I think true communication suffers a lack of potency when it's watered down into something that fits on a T-shirt.
 Third, I shivered at the awful simplicity of the mental image.

   Let Go, I heard the Almighty say, or be dragged.

   The last two weeks have been one smashing revelation after another, each one proving to myself (and any human being unfortunate enough to live with me), that I have a teensy-weensy control problem. My subconscious believes it inhabits an omnipotent being, and plans Life accordingly. Stressful events? No problem! Emotional upheaval? Be proactive! My conscious body hadn't had a solid night's sleep in over a week because my brain fought every attempt at sleep with a violent passion.
  I was still in control! I cleaned under the kitchen sink at four a.m. because even desperate sleeplessness couldn't make me unproductive. I stumbled through VBS, ignoring the nausea of sleep deprivation. I looked past the bright flashes in my vision which begged "MAYDAY... please... let us... go to bed..."

    I was going to be fine if it killed me!

    Today, it occurred to me that if I insist on a battle of wills with 'death' as my only parameter, against a God who knows the hairs on my head, I could very well lose. Sheer obstinacy is not a virtue. Self-control is, but not My-Self-Controlling-All-Things. I must either learn to live as a broken human, with limitations, with needs, or I will destroy myself in a folly of delusion.

   The Holy Scriptures do not tell of a God who is mediocre in His work of sanctification.

   .... so it appears that I had better learn to let go. I had better release all the things I cling to that are not God, because it will hurt if He has to pry my fingers open. And He will pry my fingers open, because His love for me is greater than my tantrums.




  The good news is that my dear husband took me to Barnes & Noble and bought three new books to keep me company while I'm in the hospital.  I'm almost looking forward to my upcoming surgery... !

Homonyms

 Spiderman was demanding my attention. "Mommy! Mommy!" he whispered, "Mommy! Mommy? Are you on the phone? Can I talk to Daddy? Mommy!"
  "Husband," I said into the phone. "I have to go and discuss proper etiquette and respect with our son."
   "Fair thee well," he answered - or something like that.
   I hung up the phone and turned on the eldest offspring.
   "You were very rude, demanding, and interrupting," I said. "Dear, there are conse-"
   "No!" he shouted. "I'm not!"
   "Do not interrupt-"
    "I'M NOT AN ANIMAL"
     I blinked. "I'm.... sorry?"
    "I'm not a deer!" He frowned. "Don't call me that! I'm not an animal."
     It took my several seconds to get it. Then I fell over laughing.

     He's a clever one. I never did finish my speech.

Princess: 1, Potty-Training:0

   It was Saturday, the kind of day when the husband mows the lawn while the children watch Thomas and the Mommy plots adventures. Today, we were Potty Training.
   The Princess is 2 + a bit, so there's no reason to continue sinking cash into bulk shipments of Luvs. She is interested in "potty", especially when anyone using one wants privacy. And this week, we purchased a brand new baby doll, who lives on the shelf behind the toilet and awaits the Big Girl who can Use the Potty. So this morning, Mommy prepared.
    We had the apple juice. "When you drink the juice, you will need to potty," I said. "When we need to go, where do we go?"
    "Da-Poddy!" Princess declared.
    "That's right!" I encouraged her brightly. I put her on the potty. Nothing happened. "Uh, wanna get down?" I asked. "We'll try again soon."
    "Yes!" She stepped back into her diaper, walked into the living room. Commence Accident One.
    "Okay," I said, undaunted. I put her in a fresh diaper. "Let's review. Drink Juice. Need potty? Use potty."
    "Poddy!" She grinned.
    "Diaper stays dry."
    "Dry!" she giggled.
    "All right. In ten minutes, we'll use the potty, okay?"
    Ten minutes later, the diaper was wet again.
    "Let's go outside," I said, changing tactics. "We'll wear big girl underwear, okay?"
    "Okay."
    "Mommy!" Spiderman cried. "She's not wearing pants!"
    "That's okay," I said. "We're going to play outside and use the little red potty."
    "Poddy!" Princess ran around in her pink straw hat and underwear. I prayed the neighbors wouldn't peek into our backyard and call Social Services.
    "Ready to go on the potty?" I called five minutes later.
   "Yesh!" She proudly sat down.
   "Wait! Stand up!" I took off the underwear. It was wet.
    She sat on the potty. "Poddy!"
   "Yeah..." I heaved a sigh. "Look, kid, there's one more strategy I've read about, and we could try it...." I scanned the yard. "You can run naked for a few minutes, all right?"
    "Juice!"
    "Yes, you drink the juice. You go on the potty."
    She sat on the potty. Nothing happened. I gave her a cookie anyway. "Good try, I said. "We'll try again in a few minutes, all right?"
    "Okay." She stood next to me and drank her juice while I read Agatha Christie.
    My attention was called away from M. Poirot by the Princess saying, "Is-DIRTY!"
    I looked down.
    "Well.... thank heaven you missed my foot," I said. "We really shouldn't poo wherever we're standing, my darling. Where do we poo?"
    "Is dirty in POTTY!" she declared.
    "Yes." I wiped her down and cleaned up the *ahem*.
    My dear husband opened the door. "Hey..." he said sheepishly. "You know those cookies you bought for the potty training?"
    "Yes." This can't be good.
   "Guess who just accidentally knocked all of them onto the floor?" He gulped. "It was me."
   "Oh."
   Silence.
   "I think we should potty train another day," I said.
   "I concur."
   I'm putting the kids down for Nap and going back to the Orient Express.

I Can't Do Nothing!

"You have several options," my doctor said kindly.
"But the best option," I said, "is to move. This is the plan. I have already started packing. I can move all our belongings to a new home in the next three weeks, have the surgery I need, recuperate for a few days, unpack, settle, and get my son started at his new school by August 13th."
"You... could do that," he said.
"You don't think I can?"
"I don't doubt your ability," he said. "But you need to realize there is more than one option."
"Very well." I scribbled 'Scenario #1' in my notebook. "What other option do you see?"
"You could do nothing."
"Come again?"
"Nothing," he said kindly. "You could not move. You could rest, in your home, for the summer while recuperating from - let me remind you - major surgery."
"I don't understand."
"You could do nothing," he went on, "and find another school option for your son."
I stared at the blank page. "What is this... 'do nothing' of which you speak?"


 Of the Seven Deadly Sins, I have never feared Sloth. I have feared Murder often, as when something gets in the way of my plans. And speaking of plans....
   
   I was going to move to Mooresville this summer. I was going to take Life by the throat drag it along after me while I gathered new piano students, sold a house, unpacked the china, chased the children, and prepped for my son's first year of school. *sniff!*
    I was going to do a lot of things.
   The only way that I learn, apparently, is for the Lord God to smack me with a 2x4. This week, I am picking the metaphorical splinters out of my teeth.
   On Wednesday, I took my children to church, and met with the babysitter who kept them busy while I decorated a room for VBS (with wall decals that I created myself). I met with my co-teacher, divided up the work for next week, cleaned up the debris, gathered the children, made a quick stop to deliver cookies to a friend, and grabbed Wendy's on the way home. Then I put my daughter down for her nap, left Spiderman to play chess with the babysitter, scrubbed the kitchen, tidied the downstairs, vacuumed, and showered in the twelve minutes remaining. Then I woke the daughter, loaded everyone back in the car, dropped the babysitter off with many grateful thanks, took the children to play at a friend's house, came home, and finished preparing for my piano lessons. Then I taught the piano lessons (and not like a brainless maniac).  And while I ate leftovers, I cleaned the upstairs bathrooms and picked up the kids' rooms because the realtor arrived to look over our house at seven. Then I looked over the paperwork, put the children to bed for the night, talked over our options, baked cookies, fed and thanked the realtor, waved goodbye when he left at nine, poured myself a glass of wine --

    -- and burst into tears.

   My dear husband had the good sense to stay on the far side of the kitchen.
   "Would you like a hug?" he asked.
   "NO!" I shouted. "I - am not - sad! I am angry!" I remembered that I needed protein and grabbed a knife and the cheddar.
   "Um..." he gently took it from me. "Let me slice the cheese all right?"
   "Ok-ay," I sobbed.
   "Why are you angry?"
   "Because!" I started to wave angrily and realized I ought to put the wine down first. "I can't do it all! I can't do everything in the next three weeks!"
   "I see," he said.
   "We are going to have to stay here another year!"
   "That does seem to be the wisest option."
   "I was okay with this stupid surgery!" I bawled (for new readers, let me explain that I am not a pretty crier. If you have ever seen a tomato sweating, it's about the same thing). "It was taking away my options, but NOW!" I hiccuped. "Now, it's messing with my - SCHEDULE!"
    "I see," he said, offering the cheese. "Let's go sit down."
    "I'm not sad yet," I fumed. "I'm still angry. My son won't get to go to the private school, and it's all my fault because I needed a surgery!"
    "I will point out, for the record, that your hysterectomy will in no way be your fault," the dear man said. "Spiderman will be just fine. He's not even five yet. We can home school for a year and reevaluate next year."
    "And you'll still waste two hours every day stuck in traffic! We were supposed to move so you wouldn't have the same awful commute for another year!"
   "I don't mind."
   "Well, what am I supposed to do?" I asked the universe in general. "What am I supposed to do... just... do... NOTHING?!"

    I really hate losing control. I hate crying, raising my voice, and spilling wine on the linoleum. What I want to be is that woman whose godly spirit shines through even in the worst of trials. Instead, I find that all it takes to bring the sin of Anger out of me is for circumstances to mess with my carefully laid plans.
    I write this, not to beg for your sympathy, but to beg you to whack me with a 2x4 when I start to slip into hubris again. Because the sin the Lord hates first, according to Proverbs, is Pride. I cannot seem to learn what it is to let go of my pride and ask only for faith for each new day, but I am very certain that my God will not stop teaching it to me.
   So pray with me, and for me, that I will learn whatever lesson I must (because I'm really, really tired of having surgery. The hospital apparently does not have a 'Buy Three surgeries, Get One Free!' policy).
   I won't really be doing 'Nothing'. I have a a son to read to, a little girl whose hair is in constant need of braiding, two cats who demand constant affection, a husband who appreciates my attempts at cooking, piano students who need to be scolded for their technique - the list goes on.
   Tomorrow, I shall not go "to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business "... because I will be busy teaching VBS.  More than that, I do not know what will happen tomorrow. I only know that, if the Lord wills, I will survive VBS. 
   And then I will survive the laundry and the coordinating of babysitters for a six-week recovery. And, Lord willing, I will survive the surgery and the long days of being stuck in bed. Lord willing, another year will teach me to bloom where I'm planted and will bring a host of blessings to our home.
   Don't whip out the address books, friends, because the Hodge B&B will still be here. At least, it is here for today. Lord willing.
    
    

The Adventures of Spiderman and the Princess: Internal Logic vs. Emotional Attachment

   My daughter, the Princess, is going through a blanket stage. I know that this is not unusual in a two-year-old, but it is new to me. My eldest son, Spiderman, is attached to a particular quilt, but only at bedtime. Princess, however, has taken to dragging her polka-dotted blankie Linus-style (i.e. everywhere).
   Unfortunately for the Princess, her brother has a finely tuned sense of internal logic. Things go where they go, and stay where they ought. This is so important to Spiderman that he routinely helps Princess to clean her room and put away her toys, even when she has grown wise enough to stand solemnly and watch him do the work for her. "See?" he says happily, "We are cleaning up!"
   "Yes," I answer, "You are." Then Princess rolls her eyes at me and puts one toy away.
   This modus operandi has worked well enough for Spiderman's four and a half years of life, so I haven't discouraged him. A healthy sense of logic can be useful -
     - that is, until one's baby sister starts dragging a blanket about in a fit of pure madness.

    I found them standing in the music room, caterwauling.
    "MYYYY! MYYYY!" Princess shrieked, hanging onto her fuzzy green blanket.
    "NOOO!" Spiderman cried, pulling the other end in a desperate tug of war. "IT'S A BLANKET! IT GOES ON YOUR BED!"
    "MINE!" Princess bawled. "LEGGO-A-MY!"
    "LET ME HELP YOU!" Spiderman wept.
    "STOP YELLING!" I yelled.

    I managed to separate them into two separate heaps of sobbing.
    "My!" Princess said.
    "You have your blanket," I said, "Stop crying."
     She sniffled in a beautifully pitiful fashion.
    "What are you doing?" I demanded of Spiderman.
    "I-was-helping-the-blanket-on-her-bed!" he stammered.
    "Well, she wants to carry it around," I said. "She has the right to misuse her own blanket."
    Spiderman began to cry again.
    "I appreciate that you were trying to help," I explained, "but girls react badly when you assault them and rip away their emotional attachments. You need to know this."
    "MY!" Princess stated and cried harder than her brother on principle.
    "Who wants to watch Curious George?" I asked brightly.

    Four minutes later, they were cuddled gleefully together while the Man in the Yellow Hat left his monkey unattended yet again. Irony loves parenting, for I was begged to bring the big fuzzy blue blanket at once. Then both Spiderman and the Princess insisted on my spreading it across the couch so they might share it.

   This week, I'm going to teach my daughter to clean up after herself. Wish me luck.
 

The Five Stages

*TMI WARNING: The following may contain more personal information than the average reader will want, more humor than the average situation would warrant, and more heretical ponderings than the average Presbyterian will allow.*

  I have no patience with people who are defined by their physical illnesses, so Almighty God has given me a full set. I roll my eyes at people who talk ceaselessly about their health problems, so I have been given my own 'thorn in the flesh'. And instead of developing a full-proof method for all who suffer to pull themselves up by their boot straps and deal with it, I have developed compassion and empathy. It wasn't what I expected. 

   I was supposed to see the doctor in January, so I finally showed up last Wednesday. I'm not particularly fond of doctors, their frowns over my list of symptoms, or their propensity to say, "Gee, I don't know what's wrong with you. You seem normal to me", which proves how little they understand about me.

   The lady said, "I remember you!" (It's been a tough two years.)
   I said, "Yes, I was here a lot last year. (You know, before I gave up hope and started living with the symptoms). You were very kind to me."
   The lady said, "Well, the good news is, we found something."
   I said, "Oh, THANK GOD! That means we can fix it! I have cysts?"
   "Oh, yes," she said. "But that isn't your problem."
   "Oh."
   "You also have fibroids," she said, "And that isn't your problem either."
    "Uh.... that can't be good....."
   "You need a hysterectomy. And I would recommend that it be very soon."
    

I. Denial

   "Oh buddy," my Person said. "I'm so sorry."
   "It's not a big deal," I said. "I'll have to go soon - I have to vacuum."
   "What for?"
   "I teach lessons in an hour."
   "Dude," my Person said. "You are NOT teaching lessons."
   "Why not?"
    "You're a wreck!"
    "Am not. It's not a big deal."
    "Cancel the lessons," she said in her very-effective-firm-mother voice.
    "Why?"
    "Cancel the lessons. You wouldn't let me teach after a shock."
    "It's not a big shock."
    "Are you listening?"
    "Fine." I cancelled the lessons.  
     And then it hit me.
    "Why am I crying?" I sobbed over the phone.
    "Because it is a big deal," she said. "It's taking a huge option away from you."
    "I thought I had more time!" I cried. "I didn't expect the door to be shut for me. And then the hinges torn off! And now it will just be a weird breezeway that wasn't in the original architectural plans!" (My Person doesn't mind my babbling.)

   I went home and did a web search for "I Don't Need A Hysterectomy". And I found several helpful websites claiming organic all-natural therapy healing. And then they would get to my particular diagnosis and say, "In this case, hysterectomy is the only cure." So much for that.

   My husband came home and said, "Are we sure you need a hysterectomy?"
   And I said, "HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT?! Who cares??? What good am I if I cannot produce a full quiver of sons for you?"
   And he said, "Come here and let me hold you. I couldn't care less about that. I'm terrified that you need another surgery."
    I should have stayed away from his loving embrace, because as soon as he held me, I started to cry again. "Don't you hate me?" I sniffled. (I am not a pretty cryer. Imagine a large, tomato colored face with a German nose crumpling into blotches and you'll get the idea. He loves me anyway, dear man.)
    "Uh... no."
    "But I hate me."
    "Dearest," my husband said patiently. "You and your uterus are not the same thing."
    "Oh." I hiccuped. "So... we can just resent my uterus?"
    "Sure. We'll resent it together."



II. Anger

   Adenomyosis - Most cases of adenomyosis, which depends on estrogen, are found in women in their 40s and 50s, with a low incidence after menopause. (Mayo Clinic)

   I am twenty nine. 

   My grandfather has always patted me on the shoulder and espoused the glory of my German heritage. "You are a German woman," he says. "Pull plow, have many sons!" I stopped sighing over my enormous hips because at least they were good for birthing. And sure, I can never find jeans, but my unreasonably curvaceous figure is built for nursing, balancing babies, and simultaneously ruling the world. Brunhilde and I are cut from the same cloth.
   I confess to being outraged that I will now be forced to spend hours shopping for a dress that fits correctly without the comfort of my old-school fertility.
    Don't worry, I completely understand that I am blessed. I already have two gorgeous babies, and it's not like I have cancer, and this happens to lots of women, etc. etc. But I'm not really raging about the health issue so much as its effect on my schedule. I have piano lessons to teach. I have children to raise, VBS to teach, and a house to sell before kindergarten begins in August. My life was already planned to the fullest, and now I must find six weeks to do nothing?!?
   
   Whatever it is I'm supposed to be learning about convalescence, I haven't learned it yet. This will be my fourth surgery in four years, because I have a varied and ironic form of luck. I have finally decided that somewhere in my past, an ancestor of mine offered to carry a gypsy up the mountain and dropped her halfway, whereupon she rolled back down screaming curses all the way.

III. Bargaining

      "This won't be so bad," I told my dear husband. "After all, I'm kind of an enormous manatee when I'm pregnant. Who wants to see that again?"
   "You are no such thing," he said diplomatically. "But you do seem to be unhappy and unhealthy during pregnancy. Besides, we've always wanted to adopt."
   "But don't you want more biological children?" I asked. "I love having babies with your pretty blue eyes."
   "I think I'll be fine with the two we have," he said. (In the background, one caused the other to screech in outrage. We ignored them).
   "Wait! I've got it!" I said. "My defunct system is no reason that you can't have more children."
   "Uh...."
    I smiled wickedly at him. "After all, I believe in the biblical model of marriage."
   "Where is this going?"
   "I'll get a maid servant!" I said proudly. "And she can have sons for me!"
   "Uh.... No."
     I frowned. "I suppose it would be nearly impossible to find someone named Bilhah in today's world."


IV. Depression
   
   I used to think that depression meant being sad. I am not sad. I am panicked.
   How will I get everything done if I'm recovering? Should I try to get it all done first and put off the surgery?    
   I've boxed up all the baby things and marked them for friends who need the stuff more than my attic does. Why does that make me sad when I know that a newborn means waking up every 90 minutes?
    
   "How will I do it all when I'm so tired?" I asked the ceiling. 
  
    I've stared at the ceiling a lot this week. At 3:30 a.m. one night, I found that my sister-in-law was on Skype. She lives in England and was happy to talk. How providential is that?
   "I can't sleep," I told her.
   "Do you remember," she said, "when you got pregnant with Spiderman? He was completely unexpected. You didn't want children so early in your marriage. But he appeared, despite all the birth control, and you decided to give him another to play with, and now have two beautiful babies."
    "He was a shock. I thought I had all the time in the world," I mused. 
    "I'm not saying you can't grieve," she said sagely. "I'm just reminded how gracious is our God, that he planned your children in His own time."
     And what other glories are in the making, I wonder?


V. Acceptance

    I am almost there.
    I have no trouble with acceptance of the surgery - I'm perfectly ready to start getting well and living without fatigue and anemia.
    I am almost able to accept that I will have to ask for help. Gulp. Because I can't do it all. The horror.

   (My best friend has answered my calls a dozen times this week. She's let me cry and talk in circles and rage and then she's sent me to take a nap - which is what I needed. And she helps me plan all the things I will do while I'm resting, because she knows me well enough not to assume that I will actually rest.) 

   My real task will be the acceptance that I cannot control all things. I have hated my varied health problems because I cannot defeat them through sheer will power. My mind is my own, or so I like to think, and I am able to bend it to tasks as I choose. But in this physical body, God has more control than I do in a way that I cannot escape. He keeps my heart beating when I can't even manage to shave more than one leg (look - I've been distracted this week, all right?) 
   
   Thus, I am waking each morning now and learning to await the next challenge without dread. For whatever the day brings, whether I feel prepared or not, I can only be certain of one thing - that I will be given grace for it. I won't be able to do all of it myself, and that is the beauty of the mortal veil. 






   

What It Means to be Female

  The Princess, aged two, discovered my high heels yesterday.
  She is usually content with my flats, since they are "RED"!
  (My daughter only speaks in shouted, capital letters, because life is apparently too short to be anything less than overwhelmingly enthusiastic. Most of the time, this is utterly adorable. "MOMMY!" "KITTY!" "I'S-GOT-A-DUCK!" And then there's 7:45 a.m. "MOMMY!" I'S-A-CEREAL!" "YOU'S-A-COFFEEE!" But I digress - )

    My little Princess found my black heels, and proceeded to put them on - on the wrong feet, of course. Then she frowned, and looked at me with a pout of pure, innocent, bewilderment. "OUCH!"
   "Yes, they are ouch," I agreed. "It is the nature of high heels."
   She took a step. "OUCH!"
   "You needn't wear them," I pointed out. "You could wear Mommy's red shoes."
   She stubbornly took another step. "OUCH!"
   "Child," I said, "you could just take them off."
   She stared at me, uncomprehending.
  "Why don't you take the shoes off?" I asked.
   "OUCH!"
   "Do you want to take them off???" I asked (in a voice perfectly calm and not at all exasperated).
   She was miffed. "NO!" Then she toddled off, wobbling in pain.
   "Very good, my daughter!" I called after her. "Embrace the pain, because they are fantastically beautiful shoes! This is what it means to be female!"

All in a Mother's Day

    I woke to the sound of shrieking children. But it was Sunday, so I rolled over and went back to sleep. On Sunday morning, they are not my children until 8:30 a.m.
    I woke again with that jolt that all parents know - wait-what-time-is-it -- and remembered. It was Mother's Day. I absolved myself of the guilt of waking at nine (sloth!) and instead breathed a sigh of relief. From below, the smell of breakfast that wasn't my responsibility wafted up the stairs. No smell is quite so heavenly.
    I heard the sound of Handsome's footsteps on the stairs and arranged myself beautifully in bed (managed my Medusa-like bedhead out of my eyes). As he opened the door, the sound of weeping rose from below.
    "Good morning," he said cheerily.
    "Good morning!" I said, awed by the site of hot french toast topped with fresh strawberries. "What ails the offspring on this fine day?"
    "Well, I cooked toast," he said, offering it to me. "And then I brought it to you."
     I blinked. "Wait, these are the first two pieces of toast?"
    "Yes."
    "Are you mad?!?" I gulped. "I mean, thank you. Thank you, my love."
    "You're welcome. Happy Mother's Day." He kissed my forehead. "And now I'm going to feed them before the hysterics are irreversible."
   I ate breakfast, while it was hot, and drank my coffee, while it was hot. And my dear husband brought seconds.
   "By the way," he said, "you're not to concern yourself with anything this morning in the getting-ready-for-church department. You're only responsibility is yourself. You can just read and get dressed whenever."
   I did not quite burst into tears of gratitude, but it was a very near thing. And I took a shower, a looong shower, and I had time to blow dry my hair. A dear friend at church informed me that I looked "beautiful" and I both thanked and believed her.
   It was a lovely morning, and the two children were pictures of adorableness at church. At least, they were angelic until it was time to leave. Church, you understand, is a magical place full of people who love and adore them. To leave church is a difficult thing, and my son was quick to point out the great injustice of this life while being dragged to the car.
    "But-I-wanted-da-playground!"
    "Not now, sweet pea," I said gently. "It's time to go home."
    "Don't-wanna-g-g-go-home!" he sobbed.
    "We're going to have lunch, dearest," I said, placing a firm hand on his back and propelling him across the grass.
    "I don't want lunch!"
    "That can be arranged, my love," I said through gritted teeth as I helped him into his carseat.
    "I want the playground! I don't want a nap!" he wailed. "I want Chik-Fil-A!"
     Bending down to finish securing his straps, I said very firmly, "Beware my son. You need to think very carefully before you open your mouth again. Are you listening to me?" He sniffled and pouted. "If you speak disrespectfully one moment more, you will be very, very, very sorry."
    He hiccuped and fell silent.
    I stood up - and came face to face with one of the young women in our church. I had been blocking her  way with the open door and my enormous backside. "Hi...." I said, smiling. "I was just... you know...."
    She smiled.
    "And now you know that I threaten my children," I said brightly.
   The dear husband found this enormously funny as we drove away.

   After the dreaded Nap, I found my son to be much more charming. He had received $5 from his great-grandparents for Easter, and this treasured bill had been the topic of much conversation between us. He had waited eagerly for a day when we could go get ice cream together. And as I was growing tired of  laundering the said bill twice a week, I thought we could use the afternoon for a Mother-Son date. So Spiderman and I went off to the mall, with the bill safely in his pocket. Periodically, he would pull it out to assure himself of its existence.

   We fitted him for shoes, and told the sales lady that we were getting ice cream.

   We bought shoes for him and his sister and checked the status of the dollar bill. It was still in his pocket.
 
  When we approached the play area, he held out the $5. "Mommy, you hold this," he said. "You keep it in your pocket."
    "Sure," I said, immediately forgetting about it. "Are you sure you want to play here?"
    "Yes," he said.
    "All right. Go, be free, gather viruses," I said, resigned. I watched as he touched every possible surface, and mentally calculated the chances of our family sharing a cold for the next two weeks. After twenty minutes of sharing germs with the local populace, I told Jack that it was time for ice cream. We arrived at the Dairy Queen and ordered ice cream with M&Ms in it (bliss!)
    "That will be $3.47," the cashier said.
    "Would you like to pay?" I asked Jack.
    He reached into his pocket and frowned. He checked the other pocket. "Mommy!" he cried. "My dollar! It's gone!" He turned out his pockets in cartoon fashion and looked forlorn.
    "Oh, buddy, that's okay," I said quickly. "I will pay for it, all right?"
    He nodded, relieved, and far less distressed than I had anticipated. "Okay, Mommy. You pay for it."
    I handed over the plastic and the cashier swiped it.
    Instantly, Spiderman turned to me and said, "Mommy, my dollar is in your pocket." He pointed.
    I had completely forgotten! "Oh," I said. "Okay, here it is - "
    He grabbed it and stuffed it safely back into his pocket with a grin. "Thanks."
   The brilliance of his timing suddenly hit me. "You are a very clever boy, mister."
    He grinned. "Yeah."

 


   Happy Mother's Day to me - my son is an adorable charlatan. And my daughter is too pretty for her own good. But my Mother-in-Law thanked me for providing grandchildren, so I'm feeling vindicated in my career choice. After all, the long-term benefits package may not have a 401K, but it includes the chance to grow old, get crazy(ier), and surround myself with offspring that I can terrorize.
    I can see me now, in an enormous purple hat, causing trouble at reunions, saying the things no one else will say out loud, being their rock during the tough times, and embarrassing them in public.

  Yup. Totally worth it.

The Scent of Water

Excerpt from a character's journal. The entry may be fictional, but for anyone who has stared at the monster known as Insomnia, the thoughts are not:


  "There was the bad thing, fear and darkness pressing in, and there was the glad singing of love, the 'Yes, I will," that is my song. I had not known before that love is obedience. You want to love, and you can't, and you hate yourself because you can't, and all the time love is not some marvelous thing that you feel but some hard thing that you do. And this in a way is easier because with God's help you can command your will when you can't command your feelings. With us, feelings seem to be important, but He doesn't appear to agree with us...
   ... But the light, that seemed such a small beam in comparison with that infinity of blackness, kept the channel open and I fled down it. There was room now to run. I ran and ran and come out into the light."

- Elizabeth Goudge, The Scent of Water

Tattle-Tale

   I was engaged in something very useful (certainly not cruising Facebook to research why everyone I know has a better, happier, prettier life) when I heard the distinct sound of chewing.

   Smack, smack.   Little lips at work.

   I turned abruptly from my extremely useful endeavor of, let's say, Diligent Housewifery - 

         - and I found my two year old daughter standing behind me.

 "Monkey Two," I said, "What are you eating?"

  With a perfectly straight face, she declared, "Nouffin'."

  "I can see it in your hand," I said. "And don't talk with your mouth full. And don't lie. And don't eat over the carpet. And -- what do you mean, 'nothing'? I can SEE that you're eating!"

   Frozen in place, she maintained a face of stoic denial. Any defense lawyer would have proud.

   Then Spiderman entered, stage right. "Mommy!" he declared, running up and pointing. "She has candy!"

   "Thank you, Captain Obvious. I can see that. I wonder who gave it to her, hmm?"

   Fie on you again, Harris Teeter field trip and your bags of free candy. You have brought nothing but woe.

   

Beware the Supplicant

    I prayed, "Lord, I am weary. Look down on me, your humble servant, and see the schedule ahead. See the energetic children. I am weary with much laundry and cooking disasters. I desire nothing so much as NOTHING. Oh, Lord, grant me rest."
    I prayed, "Lord, I am unworthy. I have not practiced enough to play the violin in the concert in four days. I have not more time to practice and verily, I will make a fool of myself. How can I avoid this?"
    I prayed, "Lord, I am afraid. I am constantly anxious for the well being of my loved ones. I do not trust myself to be kind or faithful or even polite if someone ever risked hurt to my babies. This tendency toward homicide is not of You. Oh, Lord, how can I face this fear and conquer it?"
  I prayed, "Lord, I am unable to sleep. My doctor bids me practice calm. He orders me to create a mantra of peace, he advises me to meditate, and when I ask how to do this as quickly as possible, he sighs, for I have missed the point. Again. I can't make my brain shut up either waking or sleeping. Oh, Lord, let me truly, deeply sleep."


   And then, I went out into the world.


   The title of this blog should warn readers from the beginning that I am a platypus. I am a creation of many things which, thrown together, can only make an observer laugh. I believe that the platypus and I share the burden of glory to make God laugh as well. And when I do go before the Throne, I go with confidence as I ought, and leave with more confidence than I should - for who knows what will happen when the Almighty answers the prayer of a platypus?

   I left the doctor's office, armed with ideas on how to conquer sleep (because that's how that will work), went out into the world, and fetched my daughter from a friend's house. I played her favorite cd and sang "I will sing of the mercies of the Lord  FOR-EV-er...." And I stopped at a red light with plenty of space between myself and the next car.
   Unfortunately, I had no control of the space between me and the car behind me. Or the car behind it.

   Crunch. CRUNCH. That very depressingly expensive sound. There is no sound like it. 

   "Baby?!" I spun around. "Princess? Are you all right?"
    She blinked at me, bewildered, then grinned. "YEAH!"
    "Okay, okay." I drove quickly into the cutest gas station in town (Cashion's at Old. Statesville) and noted with relief that both drivers behind me followed. I called 911, gave the pertinent information, got out of the car, and gathered my girlie into my arms. At this point, she had begun to cry, because the Princess hates parked cars.
    "Is she okay?!" asked the older driver of the white car. 
    "Yes, I think so," I answered.
    "Oh, good. My dog is okay too."
    "Oh, my GOSH - is she okay?" asked the college student driver of the green car. "Oh my GOSH - this is all my fault. I was looking in my backpack - "
    "And I had my dog in my lap -"
    I spent fifteen minutes calming her until the police arrived. I found my license and registration like a mature adult, and as I related to the officer what had happened, I suddenly realized ---
      -- I hadn't raised my voice once. I hadn't inflicted bodily injury on anyone. I wasn't homicidal. I was sore. And relieved.

    The fire trucks arrived. Princess shrieked in delight and waved and smiled and melted the firemen. "Are you all right, little lady?" one asked.
    "Yes!" she informed him. She batted her eyelashes.
   "Ma'am? Are you all right?" he asked.
    "Oh, yes, I'm fine," I said.
    "Would you like to go to the hospital?"
    I blinked. "I have to vacuum."
   "Oh. Yes." He exchanged glances with his colleague. "I'll be back later."


    He came back with a medic. "Hello," the medic said. "How are you?"
   "Just fine," I said. "A bit sore, now that you mention it."
   "Why don't you come over to the ambulance and let us check you out?"
   "Oh, I'm all right." I pointed to Princess. "She seems okay, but would you look at her?"
   "Wallace and Gromit!" Princess said, clinging to my smartphone and its Netflix app.
   "Would you like to come to the hospital?" Medic asked kindly.
   "Oh, no!" I said. "I would hate to waste medical resources!"
    Medic turned to Fireman. "I have never heard that phrase before, have you?"
    "Nope," Fireman shook his head. "That's a new one."

    My knight in shining armor arrived. I threw myself into the arms of my dear husband and immediately felt all the calm rush out of me. I was shaking and sore and so glad to see him. (He is tall and handsome and perfectly suited to embraces that allow one a moment of respite).
   "Are you okay?" he asked.
    "We're fine," I said.
    "Daddy!" squealed Princess, immediately leaping into his arms. I may have momentarily wished I could do the same.
    "Hello, sir." Medic reappeared. "Just asking your wife how she's feeling again."
    They turned on me. "I'm fine," I said. "Just sore."
    "Maybe you should get checked out," the Dear Husband said.
    "I have to pick up Jack and make lunch and clean before my lessons."
    "You are doing none of those things," my better half answered firmly.
    "But - "
    "What is your recommendation?" he asked Medic.
    "I always recommend a trip to the hospital to be safe," Medic answered. "It's my opinion and our policy."
    "Then we'll get them checked out," DH said. He put his arm around me. "Just to be safe."
    "What do I do to be useful?" I asked Medic.
     He smiled. "Nothing. You're officially a patient. You are to do NOTHING."

     First, let me just say that the initial miracle of the moment was my acquiescence  I nodded and stopped arguing. And second, I had just been ordered to do Nothing. I gulped, remembering my request of the Lord. 

     
    The ambulance ride was the highlight of Princess's week. She squealed and smiled and put on the pulse monitor  and shouted, "GO! GO!" at the driver when we stopped at a red light. 
   "It's a stop light. We have to stop. It's best if other people stop too," I told her.
    She ignored me. "GO!"
  
     By the time we arrived in the E.R., she was a Queen. She rode in her carseat-upon-stretcher as if the parade of people were gathered in her honor. She waved and smiled and said, "HI!" to everyone we passed. The Medic and his associate were quick to commandeer toys and stickers for her once we were situated in our room. 
   The doctor poked and prodded. "Does this hurt?" he asked.
   "Everything hurts," I said.
   "Unfortunately, it will only become more sore over the next three days," he said. "You will need to rest."
   "I'm not great at that."
   "Well, your neck is going to be so stiff, you'll have to."
   "My neck!" I grabbed it. "But! I have to play the violin! On Friday!"
    "Uh..." he frowned. "I don't think that's happening."

     I racked my brain. What else had I prayed for? What other horror had I called down on my head? While I reviewed my petitions to God, the doctor turned to the girlie.

    "Hi!" Princess said.
    "How are you?" the doctor said.
    "Ah-boom-CRASH!" she told him.
    "I see." He offered his stethoscope. "May I listen to your belly?"
    "BELLY!" she lifted her dress.
    "And can we dance?"
    As he moved her arms all around, they performed a rousing rendition of the "ABC" song.
    "I think she's fine," he said. 
    "Yeah," I said. "I think she is." And a weight lifted from my shoulders.


    "And this medicine, you shouldn't drive if you're taking it," the nurse said, handing the prescription over. "And this medicine, I'm begging you not to drive." He looked at me. "No alcohol."
     "All right."
     "And this medicine will knock you right out."
     "Do I really need all of these?" I asked. "I'm sore, not dying."
     "Eh, better safe," he said. "You're going to get a lot more sore."
     "Okay."
     "I wouldn't take these two," he pointed, "until bed time. They'll make you sleep like a baby."
     "Sleep?" I stared at the paper. "Sleep? I'm going to sleep?"
   
    
     DH came to rescue us from the hospital, having fetched Spiderman from preschool and deposited him safely at a friend's house. "I cancelled my lessons!" I informed him proudly.
    "Good," he said. "I was going to cancel them if you hadn't."
    "And..." I took a deep breath. "And, the Lord has answered my prayers. I wanted a rest."
    "You're getting one," he said. "You're going home, and going to bed."
    "And," I bragged, "I didn't kill anyone for nearly hurting my baby. I wasn't even mad. I was just grateful to hold her. I've conquered my greatest fear!"
    "I'm very proud," he said.
    "And," I said, "I don't think I can do the concert this Friday. My neck is killing me."
    "Sounds reasonable," he said.
    "And," I handed the prescriptions over and beamed, "I'm going to sleep!"
    "That's all settled then," the dh said. "I got lunch."

     And so, with Bojangles iced tea between us, we went home. And I have been doing NOTHING ever since. I have not done laundry or dishes, and I thanked my husband for my dinner and my nap. In a moment, I am going to take the first of the medications that my Protestant pride insists I don't need, because my back disagrees.
    But before I slip into the land of muscle-relaxant-induced stupor, I wanted to relate the faithfulness of the Lord. He clothes the lilies and hears my prayers. Even more terrifying, He sees fit to answer me. I am thankful for His provision, grateful for His mercy, and bewildered by His methods.

   Call to Him, all you who are weary --  but don't stand near me when you do.
       Who knows what marvels may ensue?