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? 

   
   
    


   
   

An Apology to Pharmacy Patrons

  I have a dear friend - let's call her 'Bear'. (She is a Dutch goddess of beauty with a genius with Bach.) And because she loves me, she allowed me to organize her linen closet. Organizing is my source of joy, my comfort, my stress relief. So when I say that she let me organize her linen closet, please understand that I was thrilled.
   It was the highlight of my day! Children played with Bear's one year old daughter, Lil' Belly, while I refolded pillowcases and designed an efficient way to store and reach spare blankets. It was pure heaven. Bear served burritos while I folded towels into perfect thirds.
   After such a glorious lunchtime, we headed to a birthday party for a four year old friend. I loaded the monkeys into the car and pulled out into traffic while singing, "Who built the ark? NOAH! NOAH!".
   I felt a slight sting and brushed at my arm before shifting into second gear. "Brother Noah built the ark!" As I accelerated, a sharp pain in my leg made me jump. I may have squealed.
   "Mommy! Whatchoo doing?" asked Spiderman.
   "Nothing," I stammered, scratching at my pant leg. "I just - oh!" I swerved to avoid wandering outside our lane. The engine whined that I was unworthy to pilot a standard transmission while I risked a look down.
   Ants. Fire ants. Dozens of them swarmed across my shoes, my socks, my pant legs.
   Shift - demanded the engine.
   'NOOO!' - shrieked the Mommy.
   Move! - honked the car behind.
   "MOMMEEE!" cried the Spiderman.
    "Everything's fine!" I lied. I kicked off my shoes, tore off the socks and chucked them into the passenger seat. Ants swarmed up onto the seat. "We need to make a -- ack! - quick stop." I pulled into the nearest parking lot and proceeded to entertain the corner pharmacy's patrons by dancing like a wild woman. My apologies to Walgreen's and anyone in the parking lot.
   "Mommy?" Spiderman asked. "Are you all right?"
   "It's just a few ants," I said, rolling my dress pants up past the knee and slapping my unshaved-and-not-appropriate-for-public-exposure legs. Shoes were tossed across the asphalt as I hopped from one foot to the other. There were four dozen evil ants still swarming the floorboard of the Jetta, not counting the twenty or so that were angrily regrouping on the pavement next to me.
   "Ants aren't bad," Spiderman called over his sister's singing, 'I will make yooo fishers of meeeeehn -"
   "Everything's fine!"
   "They won't hurt you, Mommy. They ants."
    I yanked the carpet out of the driver's side and beat it onto the ground. "They're just a different kind of ant, buddy."
   "But, Mommy!" he tried again. "Mommy, don't be sad! The ants, they won't hurt you!"
   "I wish that were true," I answered, grabbing a Lysol wipe and wiping the last of the monsters from my pale legs.  I flipped the carpet face down on the wet parking lot and jumped up and down on the rubber backside. "Die! Die!"
     I drove to the party as soon as I thought possible, as death by fire ant is infinitely preferable to being late. (Punctuality is the tenth virtue). I only stalled out once, while trying to save my left foot from a surviving ant. I managed to get through the preschool festivities with only a moderate amount of scratching (and a quick run to the ladies' room to turn every article of clothing inside out). Now I'm home, full of Benadryl, and fighting the urge to scratch everything.
    Spiderman asked on the way home, "Mommy? Were they green ants or fire ants?"
   "Fire ants, dear."
   "Oh," he said in the voice of an entomological expert. "The fire ants, they are mean."
   "Agreed."
   "But they don't hurt your eyes. The fire ants, they not bite your eyes."
   "And that is a great comfort, son. Thank you."
 

The Adventures of Spiderman & the Princess

The Field Trip

   [The following story is true. I have changed the names to protect the innocent,.... er.... the young.]

   My son is four years old. When he grows up, he is going to be Spiderman. This is because I sent him to preschool, where he first heard of Spiderman, and first decided to finish potty training, and first learned to hold a complete conversation. I am grateful to preschool for all these things.

    But this week, we had a field trip.

    My first instinct was to skip it. It meant dragging the baby sister along, and the Princess has just turned two. Without the aid of preschool, she has learned plenty of things already. She can charm a stranger, manipulate a brother two years older, and lose the ability to walk in public.

    Why didn't I skip the field trip? Because I had already skipped the field trip they held in the fall. And I felt Guilt. After all, I would be the Bad Parent if my kid was the only one to miss the amazing field trip to....

   Harris Teeter.

   Not kidding. It was a field trip to Harris Teeter. And we went and joined the milling throng of screaming four year olds. Two other mothers were also there with small, toddling siblings. I took comfort that I wasn't alone. But I was wrong.

 

    Once the field trip finally began, headed by an adorable elderly employee who, bless him, meant well, I realized that I should have stuck with my original instinct. We went to the produce. "This is where you can buy bananas."

     Yes, I thought. We've been here before. Twice a week. And sometimes on Saturdary night when we're out of said bananas.

     "And this is where you can buy flowers."

     Yes, I thought. That seems reasonable. It says FLOWERS. And there are flowers.

     "This is where you can buy bread."

     Yes, I thought. They're four, not blind.

  

    Now I know that you're thinking, 'Gee, what a horrible attitude this woman has. Why can't she just enjoy the moment? It's an experience!'

    Because the Princess knows all about Harris Teeter. She knows about the Cookie at the end. She knows that we get a Cart and ride around and are in and out in twelve minutes because Mommy doesn't have time to meander through the meat section. Also, the Princess takes a nap. Every day. Without fail. At 10:52.

     I have used Herculean effort to get this child to push the nap back to 1:00 or 2:00. An afternoon nap is doable and reasonable and coincides with Spiderman's quiet time and would give Mommy some quiet time as well. But she will NOT have it. At around 10:33, the Subtle Whine begins. It foretells the need for a Nap Soon. 

    Then the Whimper begins. And usually a Quick Tantrum. By 10:45, the Thumb comes out.

    All of these things happened, on schedule, in Harris Teeter. And while the other mothers carried their toddlers periodically, the babies were so excited to be with the big kid class that they were happy to stroll along.

    But not Princess.

    She wept for a Cookie. I told her in my quietest voice, "You know very well it comes at the end of the trip and if I hear the word Cookie again you will not get one." She pouted.

    Then she cried when we passed the bananas. I can't blame her. It didn't make sense to her two year old brain that we weren't buying any. Also, there was no cart for her to ride in. I regret that oversight, because she also insisted on being held.

    When we reached the Bakery, one of the other mothers turned and asked, "How are you today?"

    "I can't feel my fingers," I gasped, clinging numbly to my 31lb. girl.

    It says a lot about how much sobbing had already ensued that the mother did not suggest I put Princess down.

     During all this time, Spiderman was learning about meat.

    "This here is pork. Who can tell me where pork comes from?" the tour guide asked.

    From an inhumane farm and a poorly sanitized packing facility, I thought bitterly. I'm not a vegetarian, by the way. At this point, I was just bitter.

    "And who wants to see inside the freezer?"

     The Highlight! It was so exciting! Spiderman went in with the class while I waited by the potato chips and begged Princess to walk. She was curled on my right shoulder (not left shoulder - we tried that - she disapproved) with her thumb in her mouth and refused to budge. Spiderman returned, shouting, "It was COLD!"

    "Yay!" I said. Lock me in the freezer, please? I thought.

    "Who can tell me where milk comes from?" Well-Meaning-Employee asked.

    Really, now, I thought, I'm pretty sure this is just basic parenting. 

    [Note: Because I only have time to blog with monkeys hanging over my shoulder, I will be forced periodically to write things which Spiderman dictates. For example, I must now type: LARRY BOY. There.]

    We survived, just barely. At one point, Princess did walk for a few minutes. I spent the whole of it in the specially concealed agony of one whose fingers are just regaining circulation. At the end, the gave out the COOKIEs. And gratefully, I took my children by the hands and started to leave.

    "Wait!" the guide cried. "Everyone gets a bag!"

     It was a pencil pouch, with a pencil. Harmless. The kids were thrilled. 

I sighed in relief. Then ---

    "And here's a bag of candy for everyone!"

     Insult to injury.

[P.S. It has been four days since the field trip, we are out of bananas, and I still can't bring myself to return to Harris Teeter. How long can we survive on what's in the pantry?]

Nocturne in E flat, Op. 9, No.2

  My husband is in the music room, playing Chopin's Nocturne in E flat, Op. 9, No. 2. It's a lovely, lilting melody, and the perfect balm after a long day of sniffling kiddos. And as I listen, I hear my son approach the bench and say:

"Daddy. Daddy. I wanna play outside."

"Well, I'm practicing right now."

"Why? What are you playing?"

"It's... um... it's...." Trying to talk and play is hard.

"Daddy. Daddy-what song? What is your song about? What's it mean?"

The dh stops playing. "It doesn't necessarily mean anything. it's incidental music. It could stand for lots of thing."

"Oh."

"I think it sounds like singing. Like someone singing a song. Don't you think so?"

"No." J laughs.

"What do you think it is?"

"Well...."

"Does it sound like dancing?"


"No."

"Does it sound like Larry Boy?"

"NO!"

"Does it sound like a kitty cat walking?"

More laughter. "No!"

"Well then what does it sound like to you?"

"It sound like... uh... it sound like... "J sighs. "Daddy, it sound like THE PIANO!"

Silence.


"All right. I guess we'll try this again in a few years."

"I wanna play outside!"

"I'll get my shoes."

The Monkeys, Part II

The Dear Husband has informed me that he overheard our children singing new lyrics to a classic song:


    "The wise man built his house upon the rock,
          The wise man built his house upon the rock,
     The wise man built his house upon the rock --

       AND THE MONKEYS JUMPIN' ON THE BED!!!"


Note to self: Get an audio recording of this phenomenon.

   The newest obsession in our home is the book, "Five Little Monkeys".  I am required to sing it in the car, in the kitchen, and during diaper changes. J reads it out loud to little sister, A, before naptime and before bed. They shout it in unison while I fetch toast in the morning.
    And now, they have turned it into performance art.

   Rehearsals go like this:

   (Center stage, two small children jump up and down on a toddler bed with enthusiasm.)
    Children: "Four-liddle-monkeees-jumpin'-on-da-bed!"
    (Enter Mother, stage right.)
    Mother: "Absolutely not! Get down at once!"
    (Children collapse into angelic sitting poses and display their innocence with large grins.)
    Mother: "No more jumping on the bed!"
    (Mother exits, pursues laundry)
    (Children wait until she is gone. Then they stand and begin to jump on the creaking mattress again.)
    Children: "Momma-call-da-doctor-and-da-doctor-says - NO MORE MONKEEYS JUMPIN' ON DA BED!"
    Mother (off stage) : "You know that sound travels, right? I can hear you!"


   Needless to say, it's riveting. And since Mother is willing to enter, say her lines at the appropriate moment, and then exit with an optimistic view of her offspring's obedience, the Children are usually able to get down to "One-monkey-jumpin'-on-da-bed" before they are sent to separate rooms for Consequences.

Jesus & the Seal

   My complaint about parenting is the lack of an accompanying manual. When you bring the bundle of joy home, you learn under fire - or under poo. The following years teach a parent the balancing act of keys-phone-purse-groceries-wriggling child. There's the eyes-in-the-back-of-the-head scenarios, designed to make the parent fear peaceful quiet. Linguistic skills are routed through a new portion of the brain which says only, "No," "Yay," "Juice," "Say please," and a careful array of expletives designed to pause adult language in  its tracks.
    (Ex. "Shi..... ver me timbers! What a cute little mess you've made! Don't cry - Mommy can get vomit out of the upholstery.")

   My eldest, a distressingly clever son, approached the Easter season with lots of questions this year. And I was unready to explain the violent nature of the Passion of the Christ to a four and a half year old child. So while we drove to our church's annual Easter egg hunt, I began the conversation with:

   "Tomorrow is Easter!"

   "What's Easter?" asked J.

   "Easter is a time to celebrate new life! We thank God for Jesus and the new life we've been given." I was pretty pleased with myself. It covered the basics, skipped the heresy of an accompanying Easter bunny, and kept the focus clear.

   My son pondered this. And then he nodded sagely. "Jesus."

  "That's right!"

  "Chessuzz!" shrieked the little sister.

   I exchanged proud glances with my husband.

   "Yeah," J continued. "Jesus got eat-ted(eaten). He got eat by the seal!"

   "What?" I was sure I had misheard.
 
   "The seal!" he enthused. "It was bang-whack-grrr - and Jesus beat up the seal!"

   "WHAT?!"

   "Bam! And the seal and the Jesus and they fight!" J began to demonstrate the epic battle with a serious of hand gestures. "And Jesus beat up the seal!"

   "Okay - new subject!" I declared brightly. "Who wants candy?!" (Parenting: the art of distraction.)

    Throughout the day, I took several moments to wonder  exactly what  the Presbyterain preschool was teaching my son. The projects that had come home in his backpack had contained a serious of drawing projects featuring Golgatha, but I hadn't noticed any marine life.

   I called the grandparents to inform them of the situation before J said something about Jesus in public. Instead of dismay, I was awed by my father-in-law's wisdom

   "It's simple," he said. "Jesus and the seal. He means the seal on the tomb."

   Of course. The seal. Stupid homonyms. J had only heard of a seal in the sense of a large, gray animal. It was quite logical. I was greatly relieved.

   But I confess that I refused to correct J. Next year will come plenty soon enough, and there will plenty more conversations I am unprepared for. For now, I am savoring the image of Jesus locked in mortal combat with a seal.