Fiddledeedee

Yesterday, Emme came into my room and stood before me, “Here Mom, look what I’ve got.†And with that, she handed me a small square of toilet tissue, neatly folded.

I should have been fearful. This is the child most likely to present me with a dead cockroach.

But she was far too somber. I unwrapped the tiny tissue square, and there in the middle, lay a small white tooth.

What? Where were the hysterics? The loud languishing moans of pain for the certain death that a tooth extraction would bring? The blood spattered reams of Puffs laying about the bathroom?

Quite out of character, there before me stood an nearly 9 year old, calmly holding out a recently pulled and rinsed baby tooth in a square of Charmin.

I supposed she was becoming an old pro at this tooth losing business, when she went into the kitchen, pulled out a baggy, deposited the incisor inside, then labeled and dated her own baby tooth.

Then last night, long after I tucked her into bed with her beloved Puppy Dawg and accompanying yellow thread bare blanket, I went to reach under her pillow to retrieve the baggied tooth.

It wasn’t there.

I performed a quick search of the house to see where she might have stashed the tooth. I found it on top of my “in box.â€

My “in box†is a painted wooden bowl in the kitchen where all incoming receipts and bills to be paid are placed.

I guess she is just cutting out the middle man.

I considered leaving her a check on the counter.

But instead, fished out a crisp one dollar bill, and slipped it under the pillow which held her sleeping curly head.

The toothfairy will not go quietly.

Like many other Americans in this sluggish economy, I’m hanging onto my job by my badly chipped fingernails.

I wanted to break into my customary weekend ban on posting. Weekends are a time reserved for my family, and all the freaking out I need to do in order to prepare for the week ahead.

But, I wanted to alert you to something. Tonight, on the Weather Channel, there begins a second season of a series called, “When Weather Changed History.” When I actually had cable, I was a news junkie. And the weather channel was a favorite of mine. Especially since moving to hurricane prone Florida.

It doesn’t hurt that I’m also a disaster movie fanatic. Especially when the disaster is weather related.

The word you’re looking for is “freak.”

So, I’m a freak of nature.

Anyhoo, the nice folks at the Weather Channel, sent me a couple of episodes to view. Oh my word. I’ve chewed off anything remotely resembling a cuticle on the ends of my fingers. I think they’ve done a fantastic job putting together these riveting stories, depicting events throughout our history that were weather related, and did indeed change the course of our history.

Go here to take a look at complementary content and sneak peeks of the season ahead. The premiere is tonight (Sunday), October 5th, at 9:00 PM on the west coast, and 12 A.M. ET. With encore presentations throughout the week. So, if you’re a freak of nature, like me, tune in.

And just for fun, leave me a comment recommending your favorite disaster movie!

Have a great and stress free week!

I’ve got to admit, this Mommy gig has been kicking my sagging rear side up one side of the street and down the other the last few days or so.

And by so, I mean 9 years.

But it just feels like in the last few days, I’m flailing more than usual.

Some of you have been asking me how Jensen is doing. And, really, compared to a year ago, he’s making huge strides. However, he is still having trouble sleeping. And the trickle down affect is that so is everyone else in the house.

But, Fiddledaddy is putting him through operation “Baby Boot Camp.†And you know what that means. No rocking of the 50 pound baby back to sleep.

Therefore, he has gone from hollering for his beloved daddy to come and comfort him. Now it’s mommy that he wants.

Because mommy is easy. And when woken up out of a much needed and deserved sound sleep, she can be talked into nearly anything.

So, the daddy is the one to deal with him. Which really works in my favor. But, I lay awake most nights wondering what’s going on back there in his little boy room.

It’s a mommy sickness.

And yet, Jensen’s love of his daddy is so profound that if I should dare to take Jensen away from his daddy to, say, go pick up the sisters from an activity, he will sit in his car seat and SCREAM the entire trip. I WANT DADDY, I WANT DADDY, I WANT DADDY. Times one trillion. With a few, “I DON’T WIKE YOU MOMMYâ€s sprinkled in for good measure.

That was the scene yesterday in the mommy van. And friends, it’s all I can do not to escalate the situation by offering a little yelling and screaming myself. With a few threats of military school sprinkled in. For good measure.

But I didn’t. Calmly, through tears, I prayed. “Oh dear Lord, help me.†Times one trillion. Then, “It’s only a season, it’s only a season.†Times one trillion. Followed by, “Oh look, a STARBUCKS! WITH A DRIVE-THRU.â€

Which besides extreme praying, always makes me feel a little better. Sort of like a little “Mommy Bail-Out.”

Then I made the mistake of once again taking him into the library. We go over the rules.

•Speak quietly.
•Stay with mommy.
•No climbing on the bookshelves.
•No licking of the floor.
•No cursing.

How hard can those rules be to follow?

As you might guess, he yelled. He ran out the automatic doors toward the parking lot filled with elderly drivers, causing me to abandon my books to be checked out, and wallet, and he kept hollering “POOPOO PEEPEE.†Times one trillion. I really do need to find a new library. In another county.

Yes, yes, there are consequences. But, since he’s 3, the trouble he gets into is way more fun than any punishment that can be implemented in a parking lot. With security cameras.

By days end, I was low, friends, I was low.

And then, a small 3 year old boy came and wrapped his little arms around my knees and said, “I do wuv you, mommy.†As he looked up at me with big blue eyes.

And I dropped to my knees and hugged him, “I do wuv you too, sugar bear.†And while I was there, I thanked God for that precious moment. Which He knew I so desperately needed.

Trish and I braved the muscle building class again. It has been two weeks since we last subjected ourselves to that type of torture. Frankly, because it has taken two weeks for our biceps, triceps, and all the rest of their friends to heal.

And just like one is likely to forget the pain of childbirth, and foolishly give it another go, we traipsed back to the scene of the crime. No pain. No gain. Blah, blah, blahhhhh.

One reason we endure this type of torture, is that we can leave our children in the care of really wonderful childcare providers. Right there at the gym. And the large play area is monitored so that we can check on them, without them seeing us.

Because children should be seen and not heard.

Oh, I could not keep from snickering as I typed that last sentence. If I had a nickel for every time I heard that growing up. Well. Okay, my parents never said it. But, probably should have. I’m quite sure that Ma Ingalls said it liberally.

That saying is the main reason I would like to invent a Plexiglas soundproof partition for my van. Between the drivers row and the cheap seats in the rear of the van.

Police cars have them. Mommy vans should as well.

Where was I?

Oh yes. Hell The gym.

After class, we drug our sweaty disheveled selves back to collect the children. Who were all having a marvelous time, frolicking with their cousins.

When we walked in, my young 4 year old nephew proudly announced to me, in a rather loud 4 year old voice, “AUNT DEEDEE, MY BWOTHER SHOWED JENSEN HOW TO DO A ARM FART!â€

Because we all know that the best lessons are learned from our peers.

It was a proud parenting moment for Aunt Trish.

It made my day. Usually it’s my children saying something highly inappropriate. In public. Like Monday, when Jensen announced to Aunt Trish and everyone within earshot that his daddy taught him how to pee in a McDonalds cup.

Anyhoo, tonight I will sleep with the ice packs. And tomorrow, I’ll whine about how sore I am. As I type with my nose. Then, as the soreness subsides, I’ll go back. For more torture.

Because I never learn.

I’m in charge of all the cooking in the House of Fiddle. It’s a big responsibility. The keeping of everyone alive, and all.

I have a grill that I use with frequency. Because I’m from the south, where grilling is a way of life. And since the grill keeps me from heating up the kitchen to a balmy 116 degrees, I’m a fan of the grill.

I have a certain way that I grill. My own little technique. And for the last 8 years, since I took over all the cooking duties, it has worked well for me.

Until last week.

I was on the phone chatting with my dad. The same dad that still grills a mean Brisket. I’ve never been able to match his grilling prowess. So, with the cordless phone cradled between my shoulder and ear, I walked onto the back porch to heat the grill, in preparation for the nights chicken fest.

I whipped off the grill cover.

As an aside, the act of whipping off the grill cover use to fall on Fiddledaddy, after the unhappy discovery of a family of rats living beneath. Then, when a snake moved into the grill, I relocated the grill to the inside of the screened porch.

So, the screaming is minimized.

While the lid was still closed, I turned on the propane, and turned the knobs to HIGH, while flipping the auto switch to light the grill.

The auto switch has long since worn out, but I keep forgetting that factoid, and neglected to bring out the flame thrower with me.

The flame thrower is that handy long skinny Bic you find in the checkout aisle of Wal Mart.

So, I went inside to retrieve it.

Keeping in mind, the grill is on, and the lid is closed.

This is where you might begin to shake your head and wonder in amazement how I made it this far in my life, and wonder also why God saw fit to entrust me with children.

And you wouldn’t be alone.

While still making small talk with my dad, I went back out to the porch, and attempted to light the flame thrower. It took a minute or two, but I managed a flicker. Which I then stuck into the little hole where one might manually light a gas grill.

From the front room of the house, Fiddledaddy heard a loud explosion, and saw a bright flash of light.

From the front of the house.

I was on the backporch.

He came running, to find me sitting on by backside, still talking to my dad.

Only I was calmly saying, “Um dad, I need to go. I just blew the grill up and I’m kind of shocked I’m not on fire.â€

A bit dazed, I hung up. Evidently, the force of the blast had knocked me backwards.

I was then able to listen quietly to a rather freaked out Fiddledaddy walk over to the grill and READ THE DIRECTIONS OUT LOUD TO ME AND ANY NEIGHBOR WITHIN 100 YARDS. SEVERAL TIMES IN CASE I WAS HEARING IMPAIRED.

Directions? There are directions on that thing? Evidently, the grill cover is to remain open during the lighting of said grill. Who knew.

I dusted the soot from my shoulders, and continued with the grilling. Get back on the horse, and all that rot.

And all the while, I was offering up a prayer of thanks to God for saving me from my own stupidity. It wasn’t the first time, and hopefully won’t be the last.

A bit later, over a delicious chicken dinner, Fiddledaddy looked at me and said, “What’s with your hair?â€

I really could benefit from a mirror now and again.

I reached up and felt the left side of my bangs. It seems that I flash fried my hair. It had melted from the heat of the grill explosion.

Well. So I perfect the comb-over. It coulda’ been worse.

My new grilling cookbook will be out early next year. And it includes a fire extinguisher to the first 50 people to pre-order. Oh. And a hat.