Shadrach, Meshach, and Malaprop

If I knew anything about babies prior to having a child, I knew that during the first five years of their lives their brains are little sponges, which is why these are considered the crucial formative years for our offspring.

As May approaches, we are about to enter the 5th year with our little sponge-head, and, so far, she has given us quite a demonstration on exactly how much information she can soak in. I've come to embrace the sponge analogy that is most frequently used to describe the brains of our little ones. In fact, I can take it a step further: not only are 0-5 year-olds absorbing everything around them, but like a real sponge, the information doesn't always come back out the same way it went it. So with a good hard squeeze of the sponge, the water comes out looking murkier or even mixed in with unknown particles. Sometimes when my Charley Anne gets a firm squeeze, her absorbed contents pour out that unique blend one can only get after swiping a publicly-shared microwave oven. You just never know what all has been spilled in there. 

Since March, Charley has taken an intense interest in reading her Bible. Her nightly readings may be partially responsible for her recent tantrum over not being able to physically see Jesus in her bedroom when she needed help to stop crying. It has been nice, though, to hear her discuss and ask questions about the Bible. I am impressed at how well her Bible keeps the stories perfectly age-appropriate - even for my kid who almost turned a question about Mary's baby-daddy into a complete discussion about where babies come from and/or an episode of Maury...Joseph, you are NOT the father! 

Additionally, our Spring Break trip to Tennessee intensified Charley's already existing love for music. After seeing a few live performances, she has taken a particular interest in the twangy sounds of bluegrass and folk. This has prompted me to play a little more Sara Watkins, Nickel Creek, Old Crow Medicine Show and Punch Brothers on our daily commutes. It's not much, but it's an enormous win for me. I may have to give up Bob and Tom in the AM, but at least I am not listening to Beiber, Nicki Minaj, or those god-awful Kids Bop CDs that pretend like it is totally normal for a 7-year-old to belt out "I Set Fire to the Rain." Ummm, please tell me how 1st graders can relate to tormenting love.

And this is where it gets tricky. 

As we rode home from Tennessee, I played a few tunes for Charley. She really latched on to "Wagon Wheel," or "Rock Me" as she mostly calls it. We still listen to that song. A lot. Do you know how many times you can listen to "Wagon Wheel" in a 45 minute commute from work to home? A lot. Other than the chorus, she has a few lyrics she loves to scream from teh backseat: "I pray to God I see headlights" and "He was headed west from the Cumberland Gap to Johnson City, Tennessee." (Amazingly, it is not "I caught a trucker outta Philly/ Had a nice long toke"). I know that she really likes the latter line because it specifically references Tennessee and she loves to talk about her family trips to Tennessee.

But pray to God I see headlights? I could never really get that one? 

Initially, I assumed that due to her recent conversations about God, she was just relating to OCMS for their recognition of God. (God? I know him!!) But she actually almost went Buddy-the-Elf on me when she heard him say the line. With her surprised face, "Mom! Did you hear that? Did you hear them? Pray to God! Headlights!"

So as the official English teacher of the car I did what I am best at and sucked all the fun out of the song by interpreting. I go into an explanation of how "praying for headlights" is another way of saying "I hope a car passes by soon." To which she cluelessly nods and continues to pick her nose, not caring one bit about what I just said. 

Fast forward to Monday.

I pick Charley up from school and get the usual 'smh'-look from her teacher. "Oh no. What did she do this time?" 

With a laugh she says, "She has been talking about dying and heaven all day. She kept telling people they have Jesus in their hearts."

"Ummm-yeah. She gets pretty passionate about heaven and angels and God." 

"Yeah. She told us all about the story of Shadrach, Meshach & Abendego."

"Oh, yeah. She's all about that fiery furnace." (So that may have got me on the short list of parents who need a visit from Child Protective Services).  

Of our friends and family, Gary and I are the least likely to be voted Most Likely to Raise a Evangelical-Bible-Thumping Daughter. Even so, I want to handle the conversation with her teacher and with her very carefully.  I had absolutely no issues with what she was talking about. I think it's kinda cool. Actually, it's awesome. So on our car ride home, I probed her regarding the day's events just out of curiosity. 

She rambled on about many of her favorite stories and then requested that we listened to "Wagon Wheel" - of course. As I fumbled with the cord for the iPhone, she continued her sermon and concentrated on her favorite fire tale trio. I'm half listening as she declares that Wagon Wheel is about God's people. Say what? And with utter disgust at my offensive ignorance, she throws up her hands and exclaims, "Headlights!" 

I'm lost. But quickly assume that she is not hearing the line correctly. "No Charley. He says 'I pray to God...' not people of God." The singing begins and she could care less about my explanations. Glad I can end my day with as much teaching success as I have throughout my day. 

About two "Wagon Wheels" later it hits me. Bless her heart. 

God's people. 

Headlights. 

Israelites.

Her Bible's exact words are "Israelites are God's people." All this time Charley thought ol' Ketch was praying to God he saw Israelites on his trek to North Caroline. Maybe he would have after that nice, long toke.

We have one more year to prime our kid's brain and build the foundation her future depends upon.  I resolve to be a little more careful with the scope and sequence at which I let her encounter new material. The last thing I need is for her to confuse Tom Petty's Mary Jane for the Virgin Mary doing a final waltz "once last time to kill the pain" of childbirth. 

Let us Give Spanx (Repost)

The following post is another little gem I found while sorting through my old Myspace blogs. It was originally posted August 2007 - back when I was just  flirting with Spanx, before I got into a long-term relationship with that thick, skin-toned, fat-hugging, elastic chubby chaser. 

I am pretty sure that aside from people showing complete & utter selfless love to their fellow mankind, nothing warms God's heart and makes him chuckle more than watching me attempt to shove my extra-extra large body into a pair of Spanx after a shower. The NASA-quality Lycra fights like a burmese python when it comes in contact with human flesh forcing me to yank, jump, bend, and squat my way into my undergarment.

They should change that Biblical proverb about a rich man getting into heaven and the camel going through the eye of a needle. Well, the wealthy man's path to heaven may be slightly easier than me ever getting into a pair of those mothers in under 30 minutes. I am pretty sure if that if I have to take a break and rest while I pull on an article of clothing, I need to call Jenny.

Two cars, one tow truck.

My husband says you 'can't script' the situations in which we often find ourselves. But, just in case, I'm going to write down some of this nonsense in the event someone actually does want to script it and can pay us for it. That'd be especially convenient since 87% of the crap we deal with is generally related to our lack of funds.

It is the lack of funds has consumed us lately, but I will forgo my sob story. The truth is -most of us are struggling with money - it's just the manner by which Gary and I get slammed into financial conundrums that is more interesting than most.  

Getting a lil' extra cash is among the reasons my husband traveled to Bowling Green Saturday night. He went to judge a Hardrock MMA show. He could go, carpool with some folks and gain a small profit- basically enough to pay our gas to work and back a couple times this week. I stayed home, even though Gary originally planned to drive us both to Bowling Green. I had mentioned the need for a MMA fix since I hadn't seen people bash each others' bodies in a while, but fiscally it was totally irresponsible, so I was going to have to get my violent, aggression-voyeur fix elsewhere. Hey, I'll go visit my parents! Kidding. Totally joking. 


So I hung out my parents and played with Charley until she finally crashed at 11 PM. Sometime around 1 AM I woke up, took her to bed and called Gary. I can never sleep when he is on the road after fights.  Mostly because I am certain something bad will happen.... call me Miss Cleo. 


Unable to sleep and without TV, I played on my phone and did laundry while I waited for Gary to get home. I called him at 2:30 to see where he was- he'd made it Mt. Sterling and he was stopping for a drink. He promised to call me when he got to Bath County and again when he got to Rowan County. I requested something in the chocolate candy department and went back to my chores. Looking back, I realize my body stress eats, even when it senses stress in the near future. (Do you like how I say 'my body eats' as though I have no control over it?! Ha!)




At 3 AM, as I am organizing my kid's closet, Gary calls and says: "Bad news." Please judge accordingly, but I swear before he uttered his next sentence I thought for sure he was going to say: I forgot and/or ate the chocolate you requested. If only it were that simple.




Gary was stranded on the side of the road in Bath County. Complete and utter destruction to his tire, wheel and fender. We had been planning to take his car in for maintenance after our next paycheck - too late.




Charley was asleep, so I made the decision to not take her with me on the road. I called my mom and planned to drop her off there so she could sleep and I did not risk her waking up mid-trip and asking 4500 hundred questions that all begin with 'why' - and her safety, of course. Of course, I was also considering her safety. In addition to being on the interstate in the dead of the night, watching her mother and father lose their sanity could lead to years of therapy we clearly can't afford.




I get to my parents and shamefully walk into their room to dump my kid on the bed. My dad is sitting straight up with his AAA card in hand. I grabbed the card and I felt like I'm 10-years-old all over again, as he had been hounding us to get Gary's tires fix for awhile now. He mumbles something about a free tow and off I go to rescue Gary from the side of the road. Rescue is a strong word. Honestly, it was not as if  his situation was incredibly urgent. Only my husband could be on the shoulder of the interstate at a very safe distance, with cell service, a wi-fi-connected computer, his dip, and plenty of snacks. So, he is basically in his recliner at home.


I almost grabbed my mom's keys as I walked out because my car was about out of gas (and I love her Sirius radio), but feeling like the biggest burden in the world already, I jumped in my car and searched for a 24-hour gas station. 



I hit 64 and said a prayer- Lord get us home safely, without further incident.

Now, 
Gary says I mumble. He can never hear me. I contend he is a poor listener. Tonight I confirmed God is male- he only heard half of what I said.


At mile-marker 130 I started losing speed and I heard a loud whirring behind me that interrupted The Doors (stoners take over the radio at 3 AM). 

The repeated thud from my driver's side back tire confirmed God's incredible sense of humor. 


I pull over as far as possible, but I was seconds away from the Bath County line, which crosses a bridge over the LIcking River. I get completely off the road with only a foot to spare. (Did I really just say spare?)




Completely manic and hysterical - I called Gary sobbing and cussing. Other than telling me I have to calm down and shutting down my irrational suggestion we just walk 'til we meet each and watch the sun come up...he convinced me to call my mom.




Lord. It's that phone call to your parents where you're telling your mom what happened and your dad starts asking questions and commenting from the background, so then my mom is talking to two people trying to relay messages and give instructions all at once. She spends majority of the phone call trying to clarify to whom she is speaking. Never mind, me folks, Ill just sit here on the interstate while we work out this convo. Their only advice 15 minutes later: "Call AAA, you have the card for free roadside assistance. See what they say and call back."




A girl takes one customer service professional development and she becomes an expert- AAA is the worst service I've yet to deal with. 


My favorite question was her first one- 'Are you in a safe location?'


'Why yes, ma'am. I am on the side of the interstate at 3:30 AM near a wooded area watching semi's whiz pass me at 80 mph. I've never felt safer. Matter of fact -I should open a preschool for visually impaired children in this exact location." Seriously?




Even after being as detailed as I could, Rhonda Roadside could not figure out where I was located. Apparently, I needed the longitudinal coordinates of my location because if she was not precise this whole deal was off-- i.e: 'ol girl couldn't move on 'til her computer allowed her.

I calmly endured the 15 minutes of her fumbling around with my location. I didn't snap when she thought I was in Connecticut. I said nothing rude when she asked me to list all the major roads I was near or just passed. When the woman told me the services could not be offered unless I could get 'my friend, Charles' to confirm my use of his card, I apparently became (as Kathy Griffin would say) a strong, black woman.




No way was I going to play phone tag and take more time for the already estimated hour until I receive assistance. I explained to her it was unsafe as it was, I was his daughter, and he is watching my 4-year-old as I was in this predicament because my husband was stranded on the side of the road (albeit comfortably) 6 miles ahead of me.




When she suggested I calm down and call the police if I felt 'that unsafe.' I lost it. 




'Ma'am at this point my safety is not my biggest concern, so unless the police drive up here passing out new cars and/or wads of money to fix this mess - I don't need the po-lice, I need to get to my husband and back home." And with the enunciation of po-leese, I was suddenly pretending to be a member of Honey Boo Boo's family on an episode of Cops. God help us all. I plea insanity.




Alas, I was approved for roadside assistance (she must've known I was hardcore). But by assistance - she meant a guy from Steve's Towing would be there in 45 minutes to get me and charge me $3 per mile after the first 5 miles, all due at the time of my tow.



Umm, no. Not happening.




I called my dad asked about the free tow? (Keep in mind, we have ruled out the spare. A. Not sure that I had one. B. I didn't want to be responsible for someone changing my tire while in the right lane of 64 at 4AM. C. The tow was supposed to be free). 


Irate and crazy, my dad sent my mom out the door to get me, wrote down AAA's number and promised to inform Rhonda Roadside where she can go and what she could do to herself. New discovery: I turn ghetto, while my father goes Clint Eastwood via RNC upon dealing with incompetent service peoples. Oy.




Remember Gary? Yeah, his car was completely dead at this point, but he was still perfectly entertained. Grasping at straws for a ride home, he decided to call his folks to get him, since my ETA was very uncertain - he made this decision prior to my dad losing his mind on AAA. Also, my mother is a nervous driver so with the fog and dark night she could've been a while. I decided to settle in sans snacks or computer hook up.




In the meantime, a very nice off-duty, MSU police officer stops and checks on me. Officer James. He offered to either drive me to Gary or get Gary and bring him to me, but since both of us had rides coming to us we declined.  Before he left, though, he flashed some light on my tire to expose to me what was left of my tire. Ugh. He was nice, but offered me no money or a new car. 




My mom finally made it to me. We passed Gary on the interstate. His dad was just ten minutes behind us and since he did not own a cell phone, we couldn't call him off his rescue mission.




Gary and I made it home, safely. Without incident? Hardly. 




Mom just called an Charley sounds horrible- coughing and complaining of a sore throat.  But, God love her, she is worried about how we are getting to church today. I am worried about how we are all getting to work tomorrow. We have a few hours to figure out how to get our cars off the interstate and fixed.




We are safe and (despite bouts of obesity) physically healthy. I think our emotional and spiritual health is compromised some- but by now we know the drill. We have been here before -often, too.damn.often. Nevertheless, we always seem to get exactly what we need to make it. 

Well, except that chocolate. I never got my chocolate.