There’s a particular movie scene that flashed through my head this morning. I think it might have come from The Count of Monte Cristo. In the scene, a bedraggled, scrawny prisoner locked up in a dank dark cell shares a morsel of his pitiful hunk of bread with his only friend, a rat.
When, this morning, I remembered that scene, I grew angry. And I shall tell you why.
When one lives in older homes, the opportunity for cracks to emerge comes when the house groans and settles on its weary haunches and things sag and erode over time. When those cracks emerge, rodents, the wiliest of creatures, can find them, though even the naked eye cannot.
We had a mouse in the house-- made known by the pellets he left in MY SILVERWARE DRAWER. And after my hero helped me scour all the drawers and the silverware holder (okay, well maybe I helped him by holding the flashlight and jumping at every noise), he caught that little unwelcome house guest that very same night and tossed it away before I even awoke from my slumbering beauty sleep. He showed me all of his 8 kinds of traps and part of me hoped the mouse would get caught in the non-deadly type, for God loves all of his creation, right? This particular mouse was caught with the glue trap, complete with a scented glob of enticing goo. According to my husband, he “must have had a heart attack and crapped himself.” And folks, there you have it, straight from the scholar’s lips… a crass description of how the mouse meet his untimely (for him) demise. I was partly sad for the little guy – I mean, who stands a chance against the cunning art of man when that man is determined to trap him at all costs? And of course, I was mostly relieved to be rid of him.
I put the matter out of my mind, satisfied that we had purged our home, our castle, of the one intruding varmint.
And then I opened my silverware drawer again last night in preparation for dinner. I saw suspicious looking black turds plopped carelessly around. I almost cried right there, in agitated fear.
“Jeff, we have another mouse and you have to do something about it tonight!”
Once again, we opened all the kitchen drawers, found more droppings (but only on the side with the sink), tossed out anything that we suspected had been even breathed upon by that nasty little vulgar friend of the deceased, Lysol-wiped it all out, and Jeff left for the store to get more traps. He came home with an arsenal of supplies for, we had decided, if a family of field mice had somehow discovered a secret passageway into our house during the rains, they would certainly meet their demise now and forever more. The Exterminator, armed and dangerous, calculatingly made his blueprints and set his ambushes accordingly. This time it was war and we were going to win.
Only, no mice were caught this morning. I brought Gideon downstairs, and too scared to check the death traps, I called Jeff.
Apparently, he was busy because he didn’t answer. I set about my business, slightly spooked, of preparing Gideon’s breakfast. And then I saw them. That R-A-T was now sporting with us; he'd left his pebbled poop in plain sight upon my kitchen counter, and so something inside me snapped; I had been violated by this cocky nighttime prowler. I was ticked now and all fear was gone, for he had been doing his mousey-muskateer dance in na-nanny-boo-boo fashion across my counter space.
I want that thing or those things D-E-A-D. I don’t care if they are God’s creation. I want a trap that will snap him in two. They are dirty, they carry disease, and they poop every two minutes. That movie scene flashed through my head, and I thought in irritation, “if I was locked up in that prison cell, the last thing I’d do for companionship is to befriend a foul rodent - - I’d be thinking up ways to kill it with a big stone, if I ever got brave enough.”
I don’t want to hear another nursery rhyme which teaches our children to revere dirty creatures…even if they are three blind mice. I don’t want to see another cartoon movie where a frenchified mouse is personified as a great and glorious chef. I don’t want to see another Minnie or Mickey Mouse. I don’t want to hear about humans masquerading as Mouseketeers. Mice don’t have names. They don’t have souls. They are neither cute nor cuddly and they do NOT have human characteristics. They are the foulest of creatures; they don’t belong anywhere near my kitchen, they don’t have accents because they don’t speak, they don’t bring any good thing to our world, and they are imposing on my good will, and I have lost my patience. To me, they epitomize the effects of sin upon creation and I want to stomp them out. So, tell me. Are you with me?
I think I have a Hitler complex about these sniffing whiskered fiends. I actually just want the one(s) in my house dead or gone, I want the turd gifts to cease, and I don’t want anymore ugly surprises. I want to live in peace; this is my home, my sanctuary, and it has become a shared prison. Quite frankly, I’d much rather find juicy green boogers and rivers of spit-up upon my shirt every day. Oh wait. I already do.
Well, thus ends my tirade. Tomorrow I hope to have better news and be in a much better frame of mind; I’ve even been snappish whenever Gideon opens the drawers (his favorite pastime) for though I’m talking a big game, I still don’t want to SEE one of those varmints, dead or alive.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Snip-Snip
There are many moments in a young mother’s life that are precious, awe-inspiring and highly anticipated, as in seeing her newborn’s face for the first time, seeing that first glimmer of a smile, hearing that first laugh, and watching the baby fall asleep content in her arms.
And then there are the moments that every new mother dreads which send crashing waves of fear and sorrow: dropping her child for the first time or watching the shocked horror on her baby’s face as he discovers immunization shots hurt… and then there’s the first haircut for boys. It’s a different kind of sorrow for a mother, marking the abrupt ending of babyhood and the entrance into the toddler/little boy stage. It is the end of an era, a mighty short era, but it is the end all the same, and it especially hard if the first child is a boy. I was partly loathing this day and partly wondering what it would be like. Jeff has been anxiously awaiting this day since Gideon got his first curl. I loved his curls, and they are no more.
We went to a special kid’s haircutting place, where, you will see in Jeff’s video footage, is a child’s paradise. They eat animal cookies (or kee-kee’s as Gideon calls them), can watch their own big television screen from their chair and within 10 minutes, the precious locks that have adorned his small head for his entire life, are tragically snip-snipped off and tossed into a small plastic bag for mama’s keepsake. Heroically, the child gets a certificate for bravely facing his first haircut, but what does mama get as she struggles to maintain composure in the crisp, professional atmosphere? The boy is craning his neck, turning his head this way and that to try and see what his first “barber” is doing. Daddy is gleefully watching the fallen locks meet their final resting place, and mama is blinking back crocodile tears and cursing the lump that wouldn’t swallow all while trying to calm the other screaming infant. The end is hard and unwelcome for the baby years are gone forever.
Now, he’s such a little man.
And then there are the moments that every new mother dreads which send crashing waves of fear and sorrow: dropping her child for the first time or watching the shocked horror on her baby’s face as he discovers immunization shots hurt… and then there’s the first haircut for boys. It’s a different kind of sorrow for a mother, marking the abrupt ending of babyhood and the entrance into the toddler/little boy stage. It is the end of an era, a mighty short era, but it is the end all the same, and it especially hard if the first child is a boy. I was partly loathing this day and partly wondering what it would be like. Jeff has been anxiously awaiting this day since Gideon got his first curl. I loved his curls, and they are no more.
We went to a special kid’s haircutting place, where, you will see in Jeff’s video footage, is a child’s paradise. They eat animal cookies (or kee-kee’s as Gideon calls them), can watch their own big television screen from their chair and within 10 minutes, the precious locks that have adorned his small head for his entire life, are tragically snip-snipped off and tossed into a small plastic bag for mama’s keepsake. Heroically, the child gets a certificate for bravely facing his first haircut, but what does mama get as she struggles to maintain composure in the crisp, professional atmosphere? The boy is craning his neck, turning his head this way and that to try and see what his first “barber” is doing. Daddy is gleefully watching the fallen locks meet their final resting place, and mama is blinking back crocodile tears and cursing the lump that wouldn’t swallow all while trying to calm the other screaming infant. The end is hard and unwelcome for the baby years are gone forever.
Now, he’s such a little man.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Floss, Floss, Floss
And that's an order.
Usually, I love going to the dentist, until I was made self-conscious about my less-than-perfect meat chompers. Once upon a time in a moment of unparalleled candor, my eldest loving brother told me I would never find a husband unless I got braces. (He must have said that after I wrote a nasty poem about him – which he keeps and reads often because like my father, he’d rather be criticized than ignored!) Now, I’ll admit, I’m slightly ill at ease about smiling too big in front of those canine-perfectionists because it feels like they're scrutinizing me chiclet hopefuls.
None-the-less, it was time to go, so Jeff and I had dental appointments yesterday. Granted, it’s been over 3 years since I’ve seen a dentist, but I brush AT LEAST twice a day, sometimes more. I have not flossed in over three years, and I can’t remember why I stopped….but I’ve always emerged from the dentist with a clean bill of dental health. I’ve only ever had one cavity and filling and that was in a baby tooth.
Imagine my chagrin, my shame, my disgrace, THE INDIGNITY when the lovely dentist told me I had not one, not two, but 6 cavities!!!! How in the world?? Was it all that chocolate I ate while pregnant? Is it due to the fact that I put a packet of hot chocolate in my coffee every day? No. It’s simply due to the fact that I quit flossing. And two of the cavities were in between the teeth, therefore affecting four total. So, really, I only have 3 cavities, but still, I’m embarrassed. Not only am I going to have crooked teeth for the rest of my life, they’re all going to fall out before I’m 40, and won’t that be a sight?
To make matters worse, Jeff, who has reluctantly deigned to brush his teeth twice a day since marriage (because I told him while we were engaged that he wasn’t going to crawl into MY bed without his teeth brushed), only has two small cavities, and that little sneak told the dental hygienist, who confided in me, to tell me that his teeth were cleaner! And of course, she didn’t have to go along with his joke because IT’S TRUE….and now I’m going to have to have close to $1000 worth of work/fillings done, and that’s just plain depressing.
My only consolation is that she told me I was a very good brusher because she hardly had to remove any plaque from my “chopper choppers” (as Austin used to call them). Take that, Mr. Jeffrey Paul….she didn’t tell him that!:)
So, please, save yourself some embarrassment, even if you don't regularly see a dentist. FLOSS YOUR TEETH!
Usually, I love going to the dentist, until I was made self-conscious about my less-than-perfect meat chompers. Once upon a time in a moment of unparalleled candor, my eldest loving brother told me I would never find a husband unless I got braces. (He must have said that after I wrote a nasty poem about him – which he keeps and reads often because like my father, he’d rather be criticized than ignored!) Now, I’ll admit, I’m slightly ill at ease about smiling too big in front of those canine-perfectionists because it feels like they're scrutinizing me chiclet hopefuls.
None-the-less, it was time to go, so Jeff and I had dental appointments yesterday. Granted, it’s been over 3 years since I’ve seen a dentist, but I brush AT LEAST twice a day, sometimes more. I have not flossed in over three years, and I can’t remember why I stopped….but I’ve always emerged from the dentist with a clean bill of dental health. I’ve only ever had one cavity and filling and that was in a baby tooth.
Imagine my chagrin, my shame, my disgrace, THE INDIGNITY when the lovely dentist told me I had not one, not two, but 6 cavities!!!! How in the world?? Was it all that chocolate I ate while pregnant? Is it due to the fact that I put a packet of hot chocolate in my coffee every day? No. It’s simply due to the fact that I quit flossing. And two of the cavities were in between the teeth, therefore affecting four total. So, really, I only have 3 cavities, but still, I’m embarrassed. Not only am I going to have crooked teeth for the rest of my life, they’re all going to fall out before I’m 40, and won’t that be a sight?
To make matters worse, Jeff, who has reluctantly deigned to brush his teeth twice a day since marriage (because I told him while we were engaged that he wasn’t going to crawl into MY bed without his teeth brushed), only has two small cavities, and that little sneak told the dental hygienist, who confided in me, to tell me that his teeth were cleaner! And of course, she didn’t have to go along with his joke because IT’S TRUE….and now I’m going to have to have close to $1000 worth of work/fillings done, and that’s just plain depressing.
My only consolation is that she told me I was a very good brusher because she hardly had to remove any plaque from my “chopper choppers” (as Austin used to call them). Take that, Mr. Jeffrey Paul….she didn’t tell him that!:)
So, please, save yourself some embarrassment, even if you don't regularly see a dentist. FLOSS YOUR TEETH!
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Happy Easter
Here's some footage of the latest Medina moments. No time to write, but here's a quick visual update. Check out our little precious's and their Easter attire...and Scarlett's baby blues...they're adorable!
Monday, March 17, 2008
When You're Feeling Down
My friend, Lori, asked me to read/respond/pray for some anonymous posts on her blog. I had just finished my test, so I could. One of the posts touched me particularly, for it talked about knowing God's love intellectually, but not always feeling it or believing it. I wrote a response, and then I thought it needed to be put "out there" for how many of us struggle with this from time to time? Read it, and then I want you to watch this video. The song already inspires me, gets me off my feet in praise and honor of Holy God, but the video is pretty special, too.
Dear Friend:
Knowing something intellectually and being able to grasp it in your heart on a daily basis...IS hard. Sometimes when we haven’t received honest love from the most important people in our lives, we struggle with grasping God’s love. But, you do know (intellectually, these days) God loves you. He designed you perfectly, he created you uniquely with all your gifts and talents, and he convicts you of wrong to chasten and strengthen you. He never fails you. When loved ones do, he doesn’t.
When you’re feeling all alone, cry out to him, for he hears. When you despair of life ever getting better, nibble on a morsel of hope called Jesus Christ - - remember why he was dragged through the streets bloody, beaten, and bruised carrying his own source of death upon his weary shoulders. He did it because his holy father in heaven asked him to do it and he did it gladly because he loves you. He did it for you.
The Day of Lord is a day of judgment and wrath to be poured out onto all of creation. It will be a great day for those who have come into the kingdom of God - - into his saving eternity, and it will be the scariest of days for those who don’t. Grasp that. Hold onto your head knowledge of your future in eternity. And remember that our struggles, especially the struggles of the mind, are spiritual in nature. When Satan attacks your mind causing you to question your worth, your value, you speak aloud that lie. For it is a lie, a lie from the Great Deceiver, the wily, cunning devil; he wants you to question your worth, your merit, your value. He doesn’t want you to live victoriously in Christ; he wants you to live defeated, for if he can deceive us into thinking we’re defeated, he weakens us, and that’s his ruse. His attack plan. He doesn’t want us to disbelieve in God’s existence, he wants to water down our beliefs and faith so much…that there’s no difference between us and the world.
Take Heart, dear one. One of my favorite verses in times of trouble and dismay is Isaiah 41:10: "Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand."
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