Of Pomp and Circumstance and Childhood Illnesses

This past Wednesday evening was our Awana Club Award's Night at church.

This is the night where all the kids that attend club are given awards for completing books and for memorizing dozens of scripture verses.

It's a night eagerly anticipated by many of the children, as they receive ribbons and plaques for all their work.

It's also the night where the young people in middle and high school are given their Incentive Award points prizes. Here are a few of the kids from my class receiving their 'giant checks', for 1st, 2nd and 3rd places.



Here is a picture of Judah, which is representative of the disruption he caused during the long awards ceremony. Here he was laying on the floor and making raspberry sounds. Later he bolted across the front of the church to get to his dad on the other side. Not long after that, he ran back across to get to me. We're so proud (sarcasm intended).



Here is the only picture we got of Jericho and his award ribbon. I must've caught him just as he was chewing gum or the lighting was bad or something, because his face doesn't usually look like this.



After the Awards ceremony, there was a little cake and punch reception in the fellowship hall.

It was around this time that Jericho slipped out for a game of tag on the church lawn with a bunch of his friends. When we were ready to go, we rounded him and his stuff up, and I noticed that his face was flushed and he was all itchy.

Whenever Jericho comes in direct contact with grass during tag-turned-wrestling match, he comes home feeling a little itchy, but after a shower, it goes away.

Early the following morning around 6 am, he called out for me, and when I got to his bedroom door, he told me his face and neck were still itchy and that they kind of hurt.

When I looked him over, he did look itchy and miserable, and his eyes looked puffy, so I opted to keep him home from school. He looked like he had bad hives.

I kept an eye on him during the day, trying my best not to go into one of my all too common maternal hypochondria panic attacks.

To rule out possible contact dermatitis, I called the guy who maintains the lawns at church to see if there were any chemicals applied to the grass recently. Sure enough, there had been on Monday.

Oh, boy. Now the waters were further clouded. Was this hives or contact dermatitis?

I vascillated off and on throughout the day between what I knew to be symptoms of each, but when he ate normally, argued with his brother and spent time playing with his toys as usual, I finally decided it was just a case of hives. I even wondered if maybe he was making more of it than he needed to in order to stay home from school.

I felt pretty proud of myself for making it all the way through dinner without having googled his symptoms. Perhaps I was making progress?

However, after dinner, it appeared that the hives had gotten worse, and Lanacane didn't help relieve the itch like it should have. Neither did the antihistamine.

After a shower, he felt worse. To the point where he got all worried. "My throat hurts now, too, mom."

Worried, I felt his forehead, but it was cool. I was relieved. "You're fine, Jericho. You don't have a fever or anything" I said, tucking him into bed. "There is really nothing to be done for hives but to rest and let them go away on their own."

I got out a fan, thinking it might help cool off his face, and the white noise helped him to finally fall asleep, and I wearily fell into bed.

Around 4 am, he called out weakly from his room, "Mom? Come here..."

He'd thrown up. Not good.

While Jeff cleaned things up and Jericho got another shower, I got out my trusty Complete Book of Baby & Childcare manual, and looked up the symptoms for dermatitis and hives, thinking that maybe the chemicals had brought this on. Maybe it was a more severe reaction than usual to the chemicals or something.

Except that I made the mistake of looking up hives in the Emergency section of the book.

Where it mentioned that allergic reactions associated by both hives and difficulty swallowing and vomiting could be a sign of anaphylaxis.

More specifically, Ananphylaxis may lead to cardiac arrest and death if not treated promptly.

And for the second time in a week, my blood went cold.

I showed Jeff what the book said, and at at my pleading he immediately hustled him off to the E.R.

I stayed home with Judah and prayed, both for Jericho and for my own peace of mind. It was a definite battle between trusting in the Lord or giving in to my fears.

About forty minutes later, I finally couldn't take not knowing another second, and called Jeff on my cell. I happened to get him while the doctor was writing out the prescriptions.

"You're never going to believe this" he told me.

"Was it from the lawn chemicals? Is everything okay with Jericho? What did the doctor say?" I asked, obvious concern in my voice.

"Jericho has Scarlet Fever."

"Scarlet Fever?" I could feel the blood drain from my face. I was well aware of what happened to Beth in Little Women, and Mary Ingalls in the Little House books.

Jericho, too, remembered reading through the Little House series as a family last winter, and yowled to the doctor, "I'm going to go BLIND?!" (He doesn't get it from a stranger, I'll admit. His early childhood Samurai training has been a complete bust, I'm afraid.)

The doctor reassured him that he'd gotten in to see her in plenty of time, and that those things were no longer a worry in this day and age.

Already sitting at my computer, I immediately googled Scarlet Fever.

"The doctor said it's been going around like crazy and that they've seen a lot of cases of it" Jeff added. "Jericho has all the classic symptoms...the reddish sandpaper rash, the strawberry tongue, the sore throat, the itchy skin. Oh, and he has an ear infection in his right ear."

"What do they need to do for it?" I asked, still worried about anaphylaxis.

I also second guessed the doctor, peppering Jeff with questions to ask her as though she'd overlooked something. I couldn't bear to think of Jericho coming home and having been misdiagnosed.

You hear stories like that all the time. For crying out loud, people go in to get a kidney removed by a surgeon and end up with a masectomy instead. If that can happen, a misdiagnosis at the E.R. was entirely possible.

I think she was annoyed, but graciously answered all my over-the-phone questions via Jeff.

"They'll give him an antibiotic for 10 days and some pills for the itching" Jeff managed to get in.

"Years ago, it could get really bad and last for a week to ten days with all kinds of possible complications from the fever."

"Yeah, like blindness", I thought, thinking of poor Mary Ingalls.

"With the help of antibiotics, however, it will more quickly run it's course, and he can go back to school once he's been medicated for 24 hours. Some cases are worse than others, and may or may not include all the same symptoms. Jericho doesn't have a fever, so his case seems to be pretty mild."

I heard the doctor mumble something in the background, and Jeff added, "It's basically just a strep throat infection that manifests in a rash in young people."

Those were the words I needed to hear to set my mind at ease. Thank you, Lord!

It was just a li'l ol' strep throat infection?

Aw, shoot...I'd had two or three of those before I'd entered my teen years. No big deal. Take some antibiotics, and it'd clear right up.

I suppose that Jericho was long overdue for something like this having never had to take antibiotics for anything to date.

I never thought I'd be so happy to hear my kid had Scarlet Fever, but when you're worrying yourself into a dither about scary things like anaphylaxis and six-week long chronic hives and a battery of allergy tests, Scarlet Fever sounds pretty good in comparison!

Now, I'm off to catch up on my sleep.

The Stunts Kids Pull

It's come to this.

It's now a daily occurance that our toddler son will pull a fast one on us daily.

A real doozy.

The big shebang.

I guess you could call it living in 3-D, because before a day is over, he's either going to do something dangerous, devious or destructive.

I feel very much like my MIL did when she commented once that with her older son (my hubby's brother Butch) was a tot, she might as well have just spanked him first thing in the morning, because within minutes of waking up he was going to need it.

For instance, today's dangerous:

Leaping off our dining room table and landing on his feet.

It didn't appear to bother him, but it sure makes mama's heart skip a few beats. Especially given that the table top comes to about his nose when he's standing beside it. I don't know how kids can do this. If I jumped off something proportionately high, I'd probably end up in the hospital, having broken something important to my daily functioning. You know, like my back or a femur or something.

Not him. He springs up like Tigger, and just keeps on bouncing around the house.

Then there was yesterday's devious:

I left him in the kitchen to finish his breakast of cereal while I folded laundry in the next room. I could still see the top of his head from where I was standing, and was chatting with him as I worked.

Suddenly, I heard the telltale slosh of milk on the kitchen floor, and walked in to find him silently but rapidly spooning bite after bite of soggy Cheerios into the garbage so he wouldn't have to eat them.

A recent destructive:

After dinner a couple of nights ago, I went to clean off the table, and was horrified to find that markers had been used to draw all over one of the oak chairs.

Not surprising was that it was Judah's chair at the table. With Judah's telltale marker abstract work done all over the seat.

"What is this?" I asked sternly, squatting down to get a better look at the chair.

"My maf home-erk" he tried to tell me, as though I were going to buy that that one.

He does like to sit at the table each evening when big brother is working on his homework, but Judah's 'homework' usually involves jabbing the tip of a marker over the surface of the paper a couple hundred times.

"I don't think so." I replied. "What did you do to the chair?"

"My cee-we-uhl?" he asked hopefully.

"Uh uh. That's not cereal, Judah. What is on the chair?"

"Um, my juith?"

I was beginning to see that trying to get him to own up to drawing on the furniture might be an exercise in futility.

"What did you do on the chair?" I asked, pointing specifically to the marker lines drawn all over the seat.

A flash of brilliance lit his countenance. ""I dwahed da hthhnake-th" (that's nasal toddler-speak for "snakes").

And yep, I guess that IS what he was drawing.

Lots and lots of colorful snakes.

Oh, well...now the chair just matches our table better.

From the incident a couple of months ago when big brother was drawing a Florida Marlin's picture using my spanking new package of assorted Sharpie colors.

Except that in his case, it was permanent markers which sunk through his masterpiece and stained the top of the old oak table in my kitchen.

The same table that graced my mom's kitchen, and her mother's before her.

Yes, the antique heirloom oak table.

*sigh*

Guess I'm going to have a refinishing project to add to my list of to do's this summer.

"Poison Control?" "This Is Judah's Mom Again..."

So I was loading the dishwasher when I see our toddler son Judah walking past in his onesie pajamas (to which he'd added his sneakers minus socks), marching with determination towards our front door, a book in hand.

"What are you doing, Judah?" I asked mildly as he passed by.

"I kee-o da thpie-dough." (Which, for those of you who may be rusty with your interpretation of toddler-speak, means, "I kill the spider.")

Instantly, I was in full alert mode.

"What spider?" I asked, slightly freaking out that some big bad spider had managed to get past my keen spider radar into my domain.

Judah runs to the front door and squats down to the corner behind where our front door opens, and points.

Sure enough, hanging from what looked to be the beginnings of a little web near the floor behind one of daddy's shoes is a dark colored spider about the diameter of a penny all told.

But at first glance, it looked dark enough to be a smaller black widow, and seemed to have the same familiar outline.

Not caring for a moment about his early childhood Samurai training, my motherly instincts flared, and I snatched the book from him and promptly squished the spider into a little grease spot on the wall. *shudders*

"Mama killed the spider," I stated. Then, as a precaution, I added, "Never, EVER touch the spiders, Judah. Okay?" Bugs are one thing, but I figure he needs to know a fear of touching the spiders with his fingers like he needs to know a fear of touching a hot flame.

"O-kay, mama."

Fifteen minutes later, after a couple other menial household chores, I sat down to log onto my computer.

Judah walked up and said, "I hoe-d you?"

I picked him up and set him on my lap, and he's inspecting the palms of his hands.

"Do we need to wash your hands?" I asked, noting they were kind of dirty from his recent stint with markers.

At that moment, he uttered words that I never knew were capable of such a complete physical, emotional and even psychological reaction in me.

"Da thpie-dough bite me, mama."

Almost instantly, my blood ran cold. I suddenly felt clammy, sweaty and more than a little panicked all at the same time.

"Where? Show mama where the spider bit you!"

He seemed to be favoring one hand, and held it up for my inspection.

"Show mama."

He held up the palms of both hands, not understanding that I needed to know the specific location of the bite.

So I pointed to my own hand with my index finger (demonstrating) and asked, "Where did the spider bite you on your hand?"

And then he pointed to a spot on the pudgy part of his hand just below his index finger.

And there was what looked to be a tiny pin-prick of a scab...or, yes, what looked suspiciously like a spider bite!

I freaked out. "Is that where the spider bit you?" I asked, trying to ascertain the truth from toddler exaggerations.

He nodded, then jumped down off my lap to go play, oblivious to my concern.

My blood, having already run cold, was now surging through my veins, adrenaline pulsing through my spine. What should I do?

So I promptly called my husband, who with our son Jericho had gone to take Uncle Butch out for his birthday.

"I think Judah's been bit by a black widow!" I said, fearfully, and launched into the story.

"Oh, man..." he said. "How big was it? You're sure it was a black widow? Is he in pain? He'd probably be in pain if it bit him. When my dad got bit that time he was in immediate pain, and his hand swelled up and he had to cut off his wedding ring..."

Scenarios were suddenly running through my panic-filled head.

Adults, I knew, could survive black widow bites...but could a two-and-a-half year old child? And what if it wasn't a black widow, but the dreaded brown recluse?!"

My mind strayed to a horrific e-mail circular with some guys gnarly looking gangrenous hand, which was nearly lost due to a virulent infection caused by the brown recluse bite. And then this recent post by one of my favorite Missionary bloggers Jackie.

I felt a cold sweat on my neck. "What should I do?!" I asked, my fear running away with me.

"Call Dr. Mike first" he said, calmly. It might be nothing to worry about at all. If you're still worried, then go to the E.R.."

In his mind, E.R.'s are really more for mom's that need to be convinced not to worry than they are for the actual patient with a health concern. He, meanwhile, was calm as could be, not a bit worried.

"Humph" I mumbled. Easy for him to say, he wasn't the one sitting here looking into our son's big brown eyes, worrying that a spider bite might kill him at any moment, and that time was of the essence.

And horror of horrors, I wasn't even dressed for the day yet, which could mean further delays! I got off the phone, dashed in to get dressed just in case I would need to rush Judah to the E.R., praying fervently as I pulled on my clothes.

Should I call my mother-in-law to borrow her stun-gun (which she takes on evening walks) to shock the site of the bite? (And before you laugh, I've heard of this from a couple of independent sources now, and know that there are missionaries in the Amazon and Africa that for years have used these or similar devices to prevent ill-effects from venomous bites.)

In spite of my fears, that seemed a bit extreme for a toddler.

Then I remembered in a nutritional and remedies book that those who have been bitten by a black widow should be given a large dose of vitamin C right away and then every couple of hours afterwards (to keep the vitamin in their bloodstream to help combat the venom). The only problem was, I wasn't sure if the 2,000 mgs of Vitamin C was for an adult dose, or would be okay for a child, too.

I suddenly thought to call my sister Jami, who I was sure would remember the exact amounts.

Sadly, I'd forgotten that they were out of town. But my brother was there house-sitting, and so I told him the story.

"I'd go online..."

"I don't have time!" I said, panic rising. "I've got to get him to the E.R."

"Maybe just call poison control first" he said, his usual calm, reasonable way. "They'll know whether or not it's cause for concern."

Oh, yes. I hadn't thought of that.

"Okay. Bye."

Before I forgot, however, I went ahead and got out the vitamin C crystals I often add to fruit smoothies, poured 2,000 mgs worth in a spoon along with a little water, and spooned it into Judah's mouth. A necessary precautionary measure.

He looked up at me with a sour face, wondering what he'd done to deserve having to take such icky medicine. I gave him some juice to wash it down.

I flipped through my phone book, then the yellow pages, trying to find the number. Where were the emergency numbers listed, anyway?

And why in the world hadn't I programmed that one into my cell phone after his last stint with poison control?

I called information, and was promptly connected.

I explained the whole story and gave his age, explaining about how after the spider was already dead, he'd examined his hands and said the spider had bitten him.

When she could get finally get a word in edgewise, she asked all kinds of ominous questions like, "Was the spider shiny and black? How big was it? Did you get a good look at the spider?"

Cold fingers of dread gripped my spine. "I didn't look at it that carefully before I killed it, but it was dark, and my initial thought before I squished it to oblivion was that it did seem to have the same outline as a black widow, though it was about the size of a penny, not big like the full grown black widow that was in or garage a couple of weeks ago."

Calmly she explained that if he had been bitten by a black widow, he would have felt pain right away. It might increase, and if that were to happen within the next two hours, I should take him to the E.R. to get a treatment for the pain and swelling. But if he didn't seem to be in any pain or discomfort, I likely didn't have anything to worry about.

It seems the poor little Black Widow has gotten a bad rap, and that their bite doesn't usually kill anyone. Not even young children. It just makes them feel a whole lotta pain, and maybe some swelling."

The woman's calm, professional demeanor set my mind at ease.

And so, though it was long past his naptime, I kept Judah up until I was sure he was not in any pain, and didn't have any swelling.

And darned if that spider bite didn't look a whole lot more like a freckle when I got a really good look at it.

And when I went and looked at the remains (legs) of the spider (still stuck to the wall) with a flashlight, I realized they were more brown striped, not black.

And I sighed in relief.

And suddenly I felt like a total dork, having gotten all worked up into a dither over nothing. No wonder I'm getting so many grays so fast!

**Note to self: Don't ever, ever watch Arachnophobia again!**

A Whirlwind Visit, The Usual Craziness

My dad recently retired and called a couple of weeks ago to say that he'd like to come visit us in mid-May.

"Sure, dad, that'd be great." That would give me plenty of time to get ready.

However, with all that retired-guy freetime on his hands he sprang into action, called around, and arranged to stop and visit several people on his trip here and back. In doing so, he had to nail down some specific dates for his plans.

A week or so ago he announced to me that he'd be coming in earlier than anticipated. As in two weeks earlier than planned, leaving me with just a few days to get ready. Eeek!

"Oh. Um, okay. Sure. We can do that." I think.

Needless to say, already in the throes of my spring cleaning, I stepped things up cleaning like mad and trying to get everything just as I wanted it.

Naturally, our washing machine chose that particular time to go on strike.

While all of our bath towels were inside sopping wet and still soapy, the machine refusing to budge to the rinse and spin cycles, and a burning rubber smell emanating from the machine.

I knew I dare not push things, and try and force the machine to continue it's job. My sister Johanna once had a washing machine catch on fire. I had enough to worry about for the moment.

I think it was a case of the washer conspiring against me with the sewing machine again. (Admittedly, I've not upheld the bargain which was struck by getting the sewing machine in for a much needed overhaul after Christmas.)

Which entailed making last-minute arrangements to cart a load of sopping wet towels across town to my MIL's house to wash them if any of us were to have towels for showers the next morning.

True to my dad's Modus Operandi, due to his stops along the way I didn't have an exact time to go by as to when we could expect him.

Lunch passed, and he still wasn't here.

A little later in the afternoon and still no sign of grandpa, I took a short nap with Judah then went to pick up Jericho from school.

My dad got to the house just after the boys and I arrived home.

Thankfully, my crock-pot did not enter into the labor dispute, and I had a hot dinner of spaghetti, salad and garlic bread waiting on our weary traveler.

The boys were ecstatic, as Grandpa had told them he was bringing his fishing poles and his motorcycle along with him in the back of his truck. Jericho was interested in the fishing, and Judah in the motorcycle. And helmets.



This, of course, entailed much trying on of "Kwumpuh's heowmut" and getting up on his "moto-psycho" after dinner.

Later that evening, we took a long drive into the 'country', to look at a steal-of-a-deal home we'd heard about.

Turns out we couldn't even find it, and the desert road we were driving on to get there was so long and bumpy that our driver's side window fell into the door again.

It was at that point that we determined we wanted nothing to do with any house which was that far off the beaten path. Well, that and the fact that the homes in that area had backyards leading to the traintracks.

And because I wasn't tired enough (from all my getting ready for company and driving all over the countryside, and being laundry transport and taxi service for the day) my dad and I ended up staying up late to catch up. Finally, around 1 AM, we called it a night, and headed off to catch some Z's.

Wednesday morning, after dropping Jericho off at school for testing that he couldn't miss, I once again drove my dad all over the desert sight-seeing.

That was when the Automobile Union got involved in labor negotiations in my household again.

That whole window-falling-into-the-door thing from the night before?

It had apparently been a warning of things to come. Sort of like a couple of mafia thugs coming to rough you up a bit before calling in a hit.

This time, the car meant business.

While we were waiting in the long, snaking line going onto campus to pick Jericho up from school, I began to smell the strong scent of antifreeze.

Inside the car.

I remarked about it, but figured perhaps it was the junker car in front of us that was to blame for the smell.

That is, until dad suddenly yanked his foot out of the way and said, "Yeow!" Upon further investigation, he reported, "I believe your heater core just went out. Something hot is dripping out of the dash onto my shoe!"

Turns out it was our junker that was to blame. *blushes*

In spite of 91 degree temperatures outside, the windshield was steamy with anti-freeze vapors. A clear indication of heating core problems.

Yes, we've been down this road before in our journey with junker cars.

Which also explained why I had suddenly begun to feel breathless and a bit panicky while trying to do a little old thing often referred to as breathing.

For a few moments, I wondered if perhaps I was having a heart attack or something, and wished I were home so I could google the symptoms and get myself sufficiently freak myself out.

As it turns out, it was 'just' an asthma attack. I knew this because the very same thing had happened before when the heating core in our truck went out. Or broke. Or whatever it is that they do. Anti-freeze vapors cause wretched asthma attacks.

I don't get these attacks very often. In fact, they're usually separated by enough time that I forget what it's like, and then find myself well into the middle of one before I realize what is happening and that I need to find my inhaler, stat.

This one was a doozy.

Oy.

After picking up Jericho we had some time to burn. With the windows down for ventilation and to clear the steam from the windshield, and being ever-so-efficient, I thought we'd wend our way home slowly via back roads so we wouldn't break down on the freeway to look at more potential properties in order to save on gas.

Right now, you may have gathered, we're in the market for a home on some acreage. The prices are finally in the semi-affordable range, so every spare minute it seems we are out looking at the homes our realtor has found for us, in an attempt to find the one that is just right. It's hard work!

I thought this would bore my dad to tears, but as it turns out, he loved it.

Even coming from beautiful green Washington State, he kept commenting that our arid, brown and dusty desert was 'beautiful' country.

Jeff and I have continued to hold out hope and to pray that the Lord would see fit to allow us leave this place this coming summer, and move to a quaint little hobby farm somewhere in rural America where it was green, and had four seasons, and was far from the exhaust-ridden air of the Southwest. Somewhere that we could grow something besides sage, yucca and a couple different types of cacti.

But alas, after only 10 years into our wilderness experience, it appears we still have another 30 to go. Perhaps from all the grumbling during our early years here, I'm not sure.

We've learned our lesson, however, and are trying to be content in our circumstances, and not go around grumbling and getting angry and striking at rocks (or in our case, cars) or anything.

Later that evening, after church, we were all exhausted and went to bed early.

Thursday, we kept Jericho home from school for the promised fishing trip with Grandpa.



Which was quite an experience with little brother thrown into the mix.

If he wasn't running around yelling, "I want to hoe-d da ducks" and getting perilously close to falling in the water, he was trying to dig around in "Kwumpuh's tacko box" to see all the shiny, feathery, sparkly things inside. Or to play with the fishing knife in there.

Don't let his innocent countenance fool you.



Shortly after this picture was taken, Grandpa was switching out a bass lure for one that he thought might work to attract the catfish our 'neighbors' were pulling up left and right.

Grandpa was half-kneeling, a realistic and rubbery looking minnow-shaped lure waiting atop his tackle box to be switched out for the bass lure.

Judah squatted down beside his "Kwumpuh" to inspect the little "Fithy" lure, and before any of us could tell what was going to happen, Judah's little arm shot out quick-as-lightening, grabbing the sharp tri-hooked lure and flung it into the depths of the lake.

My dad looked up at me his mouth dropping open in utter astonishment. It had all happened so fast!

I laughed uporariously (after offering to pay to replace it, of course).

Minutes later, big brother managed to get his lure tangled in a tree that was bending over the lake out where he'd cast it (catfish are known to lurk in the shade of said tree, but it's difficult to judge casting distances when you're a novice 11 year old fisherman).



While grandpa expertly disengaged the lure from it's bondage in said tree and brought it back to shore unscathed, I again laughed uproariously. "Between the two of you, grandpa is never going to want to take us fishing again!"

Moments earlier, I'd suddenly had a flashback of a similar fishing trip with my dad in the Puget Sound as a young girl. A time when I misjudged the execution of my own casting, and lodged my fish hook in the back of my dad's arm. (Ooopsie! )

Thankfully, my dad was longsuffering and still took me along dozens of times after that. Even when we girls complained and whined about having to bait our own hooks.

Those long ago fishing trips usually involved all kinds of junk food not usually allowed in our diet. Wonder bread and pack-of-Buddig lunch meat sandwiches, Cheetos, and Hostess cherry pies. And soda. And pudding cups.

It was a big deal, and the food alone made it totally worth the long day spent sitting around holding poles at the shore's edge.

We got a late start on our little fishing excursion, however, having to go back for the diaper bag.

Then I had to stop off for gas in the truck. Jeff had selflessly taken the car so I wouldn't get another asthma attack.

And then, of course, we had to stop off for lunch.

Then I had to make a trip to the store for bottled waters, and didn't even think to get extra goodies to make the boys fishing experience complete.

Nope. This time, we arrived at the lake with naught but our water bottles.

But I needn't have worried.

Judah was thrilled to be "fithing" with a pole that had the hook attached to one of the loops at the end of the pole, without a line in the water (because sharp hooks and fishing line do not mix well with 2 1/2 year old boys).

Jericho would have stood on shore for several more hours reeling and casting, content with the knowledge that there were indeed fish in the water, and statistically speaking, there was a chance (however remote) that he might catch one.

We later learned from our neighbors that their secret was to use live worms to pull up the catfish, not lures.

Not that I'd have wanted the boys pulling up those scum-sucking bottom dwellers anyway. Especially from that murky green water. *shudders* I don't 'do' cleaning fish. Especially fish with long, creepy whiskers.

I was content to take pictures and try to keep little brother from meeting an early demise at the water's edge.

Who knew that bees, and deep water, and sharp tri-hooked fishing lures and knives and ducks swimming past our fishing hole could cause such diversions for an inquisitive two year old?

Later that evening, after a short siesta for us all, thanks to Judah not having had his much-needed nap, we dropped the boys off with daddy's mom for a couple of hours, and were off to an Awana leader's appreciation dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant.

Good food, great fellowship...it was lots of fun.

I came home ready to got straight to sleep.

However, instead of going to bed like a rational human being, I decided to stay up late once again yakking with my dad.

I'm quite sure he thought I was insane, expending thousands of words on all manner of mundane topics until the wee hours of the morning.

This SAHM business, and interacting with only a toddler for hours a day on most days, has done strange things to my social skills.

I find I'm a little too desperate eager some days for adult conversation.

So much so that I'm downright chatty with telemarketers and wrong number calls. To the point where they cut me off. And then I cry, feeling dejected.

Okay, so maybe it's not that bad, but you get the picture.

Yes, my bloggy peeps, in real life, I have become one of those obnoxious mothers of a preschooler who yaps incessantly not letting others get a word in edgewise. (I have seen the light, however, and am actively working to curb this behavior.)

However, my dad did a pretty fair job of getting his two cents in. Gave me a real run for my money, truth be told. Finally, about 2:30 AM we had exhausted every possible topic, and headed for bed.

Early Friday morning, my dad left to meet up with a buddy a couple of hours away. My dad had brought one of his motorcycles along in the back of his truck because they planned on going for a scenic ride through Yosemite on my dad's way home.

Thankfully it's nowhere near Sturgis or places usually haunted by Hell's Angels, because I'm afraid dad and his buddy look like a couple of movie stars.



Minus the fancy riding jackets and bandanas.

Maybe more like the GoldWing version of Wild Hogs.

With flannel jackets.

And riding helmets with 2 way radios in them.

"Yep-a-doodle!"

Wordless Wednesday: What IS it?!

Waxing Poetic About Brownies, Makeup Mischief

We had brownies the other night.

When it comes to dieting, I'm my own worst enemy. I'm simply too good a baker for our own good.

Especially if it involves chocolate.

I'm not bragging when I say this because it's a fact. I've been told I make a killer brownie.

Often with the help of Ghiradelli, but nonetheless, by adding my own secret ingredients I make them truly my own concoction.

My family gets positively giddy about brownies.

Especially moist and chewy, fresh-from-the-oven brownies.

Especially when I made a 9x13 batch in a 9 x9 pan (so our ginormous modest brownie consumption didn't make us feel quiet so bad about totally blowing our diet.

As it happened, we were watching Pride & Prejudice (the A&E version) while eating said brownies.

It was sheer bliss.

But after eating all that chocolaty goodness, one simply has to ask...

Got milk?

(Or as Mr. Darcy might have put it, "Have you any milk?")

Brownies, by nature, simply must be accompanied by milk. They are like the tides are to the ocean. The scent to the flower. They simply wouldn't be the same without it.

And so, when my husband posed this question to me, I went in search of some.

And found that our older son had beat us to it.

The last of it.

Which was akin to torture, I might add.

I know we're a tad late, but we can't seem to get that boy off the bottle, lol.

He's addicted to milk, I tell you!

Which also explains the copious amounts of milk we seem to go through in this household.

And him not even having gone through his summer growth spurt yet! (We are SO in for it!)

We're seriously thinking about moving to the country and looking into buying a cow.

:: :: :: ::

Judah's been into my makeup again.

While he was home with daddy one evening last week, daddy was working on something in the living room, and it got quiet.

The kind of quiet that smacks of trouble when one has a toddler in the house.

Jeff headed for the master bathroom, but Judah met him en route.

Judah smiled up at daddy looking very pleased with himself.

He even posed to show daddy his handiwork.

Daddy was displeased.

Makeup is not the sort of thing the father of a future football hopeful likes to see his son get into.

Into as one gets "in" to a scene, like 'Greasers', 'Preppies', 'Rockers' or the like.

Except that in this instance, 'Goth' and 'Industrial' come to mind.

After taking note of daddy's displeasure, Judah had the good grace to look a little chagrined.

Daddy knew it was time to put the kabosh on the thrill of playing around with mommy's makeup once and for all.

He launched into a lecture about how makeup was for big girls and mommies, and that boys should never, ever touch it, much less put it on (even if it was fun to fingerpaint in the foundation all over the counter, and smear concealer and powder and eyeshadow all over his face, and paint himself with mommy's eyeliner brush).

Even so, something about what Judah had done bothered daddy at a deeper level.

He just couldn't put his finger on what or why he felt that way.

Until Judah did this:

And then he knew.

Suddenly it all became very clear.

And somehow more than a little disturbing.

To think that this guy was some mother's darling, cherubic little toddler way back when.

And that such career aspirations had to begin somewhere.

Kinda makes a person wonder if he got into his mommy's makeup once upon a time, doesn't it?

It's enough to warrant this mommy putting her makeup under lock and key.

One Of My Favorite Things...

A few weekends ago, Jeff and I met some friends at a restaurant called The Yardhouse, which is renowned for it's Mac & Cheese² (with cheese, applewood smoked bacon, mushrooms and truffle oil in it) and their Creme Brulee among other delicious menu offerings.

When we left that evening, it wasn't these things that we were raving about as usual (though we enjoyed what we'd eaten very much), but rather their iced tea.

Yes, though their food is really good, it was their iced tea that stole the show for us that evening. My husband and I both agreed it was among the best flavor of iced tea we'd ever had.

I've actually dreamed about that iced tea since then.

Because I love iced tea.

Especially when the weather warms up, or I find myself thirsty for something besides water.

And green tea is good for you.

I've longed for that delicate green tea flavor ever since...iced tea with none of the bitterness usually associated with green tea, and just a hint of floral essence.

The best thing of all about this tea? No sweetener is necessary. It's got a naturally light and sweet taste to it, and compliments any type of food well.

So while I was grocery shopping the other day, I stopped by the tea section of the store, and voila! There it was!

I'm not sure if it's the exact same tea they used at The Yardhouse restaurant or not, but I tossed it in my grocery cart, and the moment I got home, set about brewing up a gallon of iced tea.

It tasted just as I remembered.

Fabulous.

My absolute favorite new beverage of choice.

I kid you not, it's that good.

The perfect compliment to any meal. Truly. This week we've had it with hamburgers, Italian, Mexican, Asian, salads, and even at breakfast, and the flavor was just right with each meal.

And David and Eunice Bigelow, if you or the marketing department at R.C. Bigelow, Inc. would like to express your thanks to me for pimping advertising your product on my blog of my own volition...out of the goodness of my heart, I'd be ever-so-happy to accept a lifetime supply of this FAB tea for myself, as well as some restaurant supply-sized gift boxes to give away to my bloggy peeps.

Thank you kindly.

FrumpMama