Fiddledeedee

One of my goals was to run an innocuous errand to the bank today.  I didn’t even have to get out of the car.  Simply feed a check into The Machine for my husband’s business account, collect a receipt, and drive on my merry way.

I usually don’t chose to do business with The Machine.  Because A) I fear it, B) I’m fairly sure it’s smarter than I am, and C) It hates me.

But I was forced to use it because I didn’t have any preprinted deposit slips.  I pulled up to The Machine and carefully fed the lone check into the slot, making certain that there were no bent corners. While I spoke nicely to The Machine, making polite small talk.

The Machine spit the check back out at me with disgust.  ERROR ERROR!  Wrong ink on the check.  The ink must be either dark blue or black.  And with that, the window went blank.  Like TALK TO THE HAND.  But there was no hand.

WHO WRITES A CHECK WITH TURQUOISE COLORED INK?  BARBIE?

I make a mental note to tell Fiddledaddy to ask his clients to use a REAL pen.

Thusly I was forced to drive all the way around the bank and get into the drive-thru line.  And yes, I could have actually unloaded all 3 children and gone INTO the bank.  But I can proudly tell you that I haven’t stepped foot inside the bank since Emme was born.

Can you imagine Jensen inside a bank?  He would likely render the security guard weapon free and clear out the tellers of all their lolly pop stash.

No thank you.

Where was I?

So, I drove around the bank and got into the drive-thru line.  When I reached the nifty machine that sucks stuff up into the ceiling, I realized that it was fresh out of deposit slips.

Disgusted, I drove around the bank again, and got into another line.  This is when All The Questions began.  “Mommy, I’m getting dizzy, why are we driving around in circles.”  “Mommy, why do we have to go to the bank?”  “Mommy, can’t you drop me off at the house?”  “Mommy, when are we going to be done?”  “Mommy, did you bring snacks?”  “Mommy, SHE STUCK HER TONGUE OUT AT ME!”  Pfffffffttttt!  (Sound of my head caving in.)

So.  I pulled up and what luck, deposit slips!  However, I was unable to open my window, as a swarm of wasps had ascended the machine that sucks.  And by swarm, I mean one big nasty mean looking wasp.  But they seldom travel alone.  I waited for a couple of minutes, hoping the wasp would give up and leave.  Nothing doing.  He was looking for a spot to nest and breed.  And I just knew that if I were to open my van window, there would be a suction action of my own. The heated air would be forced in through my driver’s window, bringing the giant wasp in with it.

And I did consider it for just a moment. As that transaction would give the children something fresh and new to complain about.

A line was forming behind me.  Therefore, I circled the bank yet again, and went to the commercial window.  Daring the teller to shoo me away as I wasn’t a commercial account holder.  But she was very sweet and apologetic of the wasp infestation, and gladly handed me a deposit slip.  After the transaction was blissfully over, she asked me if I wanted lolly pops for the children.  I thanked her and DECLINED.

Crazy maniacs in the back of the van.  Working my very last nerve.  If anyone deserved a treat, it would be ME, and it should be some sort of chocolate.  Or cocktail.

As I drove away to my next adventure, I wondered if anyone were to review the bank security footage from today, if the sight of a crazed housewife circling the bank ad  nauseum, in a van while swatting aimlessly at children in the back seat, would arouse any sort of suspicion?

My friend Greg, who has been married to my best girlfriend for like FOREVER, sent this to me a while back.  Since Fiddledaddy and I celebrated 135 years of wedded bliss on Sunday, I thought I’d share this with y’all.

I think it’s remarkably accurate.

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1. HOW DO YOU DECIDE WHO TO MARRY?
-You got to find somebody who likes the same stuff.. Like, if you like sports, she should like it that you like sports, and she should keep the chips and dip coming.
– Alan, age 10

-No person really decides before they grow up who they’re going to marry. God decides it all way before, and you get to find out later who you’re stuck with.
– Kristen, age 10

2.  WHAT IS THE RIGHT AGE TO GET MARRIED?
Twenty-three is the best age because you know the person FOREVER by then.
– Camille, age 10

3.  HOW CAN A STRANGER TELL IF 2 PEOPLE ARE MARRIED?
You might have to guess, based on whether they seem to be yelling at the same kids.
– Derrick, age 8

4.  WHAT DO YOU THINK YOUR MOM AND DAD HAVE IN COMMON?
Both don’t want any more kids.
– Lori, age 8

5. WHAT DO MOST PEOPLE DO ON A DATE?
-Dates are for having fun, and people should use them to get to know each other. Even boys have something to say if you listen long enough.
– Lynnette, age 8

-On the first date, they just tell each other lies and that usually gets them interested enough to go for a second date.
– Martin, age 10

6.  WHEN IS IT OKAY TO KISS SOMEONE?
-When they’re rich.
– Pam, age 7

-The law says you have to be eighteen, so I wouldn’t want to mess with that.
- – Curt, age 7

-The rule goes like this: If you kiss someone, then you should marry them and have kids with them. It’s the right thing to do.
- – Howard, age 8

7. IS IT BETTER TO BE SINGLE OR MARRIED?
It’s better for girls to be single but not for boys. Boys need someone to clean up after them. –
Anita, age 9

8. HOW WOULD THE WORLD BE DIFFERENT IF PEOPLE DIDN’T GET MARRIED?
There sure would be a lot of kids to explain, wouldn’t there?
– Kelvin, age 8

And the #1 Favorite is ..
9. HOW WOULD YOU MAKE A MARRIAGE WORK?
Tell your wife that she looks pretty, even if she looks like a dump truck . –
Ricky , age 10

I say AMEN to #9.

I don’t know why this suddenly came to mind, but a few weeks ago, Jensen had a concern that he wanted to quiz his father about, after he (Jensen) was admiring the contents of a nearby stroller.  “Daddy, am I allergic to babies?”  “No, but your parents are.”

Happy Monday!

First of all, let me say thank you for all your well wishes.  My tongue is almost back to normal, and I’m taking my meals with a fork once again.

Life is good.

Well, we did it.  Today we went on our planned field trip to the Kennedy Space Center.  And although you may find it hard to believe, all of the children behaved very well.  Even Jensen.

Except for that one fateful moment of panic when I looked down at the camera to find THE RIGHT DADGUM BUTTON TO PUSH, and then looked up to discover that Jensen was GONE.

NOWHERE TO BE SEEN GONE.

We began frantically hollering his name and running in all directions.  When we heard a faint, “WHAT?”

He had scampered into a display rocket capsule, and was preparing for lift off.  (That whole leash idea?  It’s still on the table.)

But other than that, he was very good.

And I’d love to be able to tell you that the day passed with no incident whatsoever.

But that would be a lie.

When we were entering the space compound, I needed to show proof of residency, to acquire free tickets.  Whenever we go somewhere that requires a good deal of walking, I leave my heavier purse at home and travel light.  With 3 children, TWO food coolers, and a dilapidated stroller used to haul all of our crap.

Therefore, I place my drivers license (and other assorted cards that we might need in case we end up in an emergency room) in a zip lock baggy, and put it into my much smaller purse.

Fiddledaddy was parking the car, and I had all of our bags and children in tow.  When I arrived at the window to show my drivers license, I whipped out my little baggy and held it up, examining the contents against the glare from the sunlight.

After a few moments, I realized that the baggy I had extricated contained a tampon, mini-pad, and 6 ibuprofen.

I looked at the woman behind the window and said, “This isn’t going to help me get in, is it?”

“No, indeed.”

Quickly, I retrieved the correct bag, produced proof of residency, and scurried through the gate.

A little while later, I received a phone call from Fiddledaddy who needed me to come get him through the gate, as he had forgotten his wallet.

AND WHAT LUCK!  He was at the very same window that I had entered through.  With all the nonchalance I could gather, I began rummaging through my purse.

She waved Fiddledaddy through, “Oh, never mind honey, I remember you.”

I always like to think that it’s my winning personality that people will remember when I’ve blown through their lives.  That’s my delusion, and I’m stickin’ to it.

I’m going to take a break from Saturday Stirrings this weekend, as I’ve not had any culinary inspiration to draw from.  You know, with the whole hideous tongue incident and all.

Have a wonderful weekend!

I’ve been very open over the last few years about some of the issues we’ve faced with Jensen.  Especially the little matter that involved him screaming whenever we went anywhere in public.

Which always made for some fun blog fodder during the weekly grocery shopping trip.

I’m so relieved to tell you that the situation has improved dramatically since he turned 4.  We occasionally still deal with impromptu public nudity, but other than that, we generally can venture out into the open without too much incident.

Generally.

He’s still a handful, mind you.  I have to keep him on a short leash (figuratively).  And just so you know, yes, I have considered one of those child harnessy things.  But we all know that he could easily catch me off guard and use it to tie me to a street light.

He also still has the pesky habit of TALKING IN ALL CAPS.  And you never really know what’s going to come out of him.  Which is always an exciting prospect at church and such.

Today we piled into the van for a homeschool field trip to Chick Fil-A.  The plan was to have playtime on the indoor play equipment, tour the facility, and then eat lunch with other homeschooling friends.

This all sounded harmless enough.

What could happen?

The playtime was quite fun.  Jensen even had time to fall head over heals for a little tiny girl.  When she exited the playground, he made his intentions public by yelling after her, “HEY, DON’T LEAVE, I LOVE YOU!”

I need to have that little talk with him about playing hard to get.  Or hard to keep.  Or whatever.

He turned to me after she left and stated, “MOMMY, WHEN I’M A GROWN-UP, I’M GOING TO GO TO THE PET STORE AND THE BABY STORE AND GET ME A DOG AND A BABY.”

Right on, baby boy.

Then it was time for our group to take the tour of the kitchen.  I was particularly excited about this prospect.  Because I’ve heard that Chick Fil-A runs a first rate kitchen, and frankly I could use some pointers.  Like where is the best place to store the fire extinguishers and other useful information.

I gave Jensen the little talk about staying right with me and exhibiting his most polite behavior by not interrupting our tour guide.

About 35 seconds into the tour, Jensen announced to everyone within a 1 mile radius of the building, “I’M BORED!”  And the shooshing I aimed at him only served to make him louder, MOMMY, I’M BOOOORRRRDDD.”

And so I whisked him away.  Back to the playground.  And let my girls continue on the tour.

Lunch with Jensen was hectic, and then keeping track of him afterward with the lunch crowd and all the kids took a herculean effort.  Translated, I just held onto his arm.  With all the strength I could muster.

At one point, I was engaged in conversation with a fellow harried mom.  I was hanging onto Jensen with my left hand.  He managed to wriggle away from me for a moment, yet without losing my train of conversational thought, I saw him in my peripheral vision, and reached out and caught him up in the death grip.  While continuing the discussion with my friend.

I noticed that he was really straining against me, so I turned to give him the stink eye.

I found myself looking into the very confused face of a little boy that was not Jensen.  Horrified, I released him and apologized profusely.  He stood rubbing his wrist, still looking up at me puzzled.

In my defense, he is the same size as Jensen, and was wearing the same color shirt. Fortunately, it was his mother I was talking to and when she realized what had happened she laughed it off saying, “oh, he’s use to it.”

SHOUT OUT TO STACEY!  It’s so comforting to have friends that sail around in the same sinking boat with you.

I turned to see Jensen across the restaurant, frolicking with his boy cousins.

Our next planned field trip is the Kennedy Space Center.

I look forward to it with some trepidation.

The entire future of the space program could be in jeopardy.

I feel that I need to warn you that I may have sunk to an all new blogging low.  So, if you’re offended by my posts which are rife with tasteless content, turn and run now.

Run like the wind.

Today we made the hour plus change journey into the city to spring Fiddledaddy’s computer from the Apple computer hospital in the mall, where it was being fixed.

And the Apple store?  I had to be thrown out.  That is my favorite shop in the mall.  In the whole world, even.  I believe I put my fingerprints on every single computer apparatus in the entire store.  And there was one 20 inch model computer screen that I may have thrown myself across.

And that’s when security was dispatched.

Because he didn’t want the adventure to end on a sour note, Fiddledaddy treated me to lunch at California Pizza Kitchen.

But there was an incident.

We were thoroughly enjoying our Garlic Cheese Pizza when all of a sudden, I bit my tongue.

I’ve spent a good deal of my adult life biting my tongue, but this time I drew blood.  Childbirth was not as painful.

As evidenced by the wailing and writhing in murderous pain that ensued.

There was no relief.  Fiddledaddy was rewarded for listening to me carrying on by getting the last piece of pizza.  For I vowed only to drink my dinner from now on.  Amen.

Later this evening, I was still discussing my tongue, although it was difficult to understand me as the SWELLING had begun.

Concerned, Fiddledaddy told me that I immediately needed to go put rubbing alcohol on it, to ward off infection.

He must think I’m new.  Like he wouldn’t yank my chain, despite my agony.

Then he suggested that we take a picture of the wound.  At first I resisted, because, ewwww.  But then I remembered who I was and I ran to grab the camera.

After he saw the picture, he was all YOU CANNOT PUT THAT ON YOUR BLOG.  And I was all HAVE YOU MET ME?  OF COURSE I’M GOING TO PUT THAT ON MY BLOG!

It is really much worse than it looks.

I’ll be taking my breakfast through a straw.

Has anyone ever died from a tongue infection?