Thank you God my food

[Editor's note: This, like all posts that date prior to January 9, 2007, was originally posted at my former Woebegotten Wonderland blog that was destroyed for many very good reasons and a few pretty pathetic ones. They will all be labeled as "re-runs" here. I apologize for the blatant recycling hack-job, but the truth is I don't write that much and some of this stuff is probably better than I am likely to write any time soon. It seemed such a shame to let it go to waste.]

Shannon and I have been sick for the last couple of days. Not the kind of sick where you're a little sniffly and have a slight cough. We have been knock-you-on-your-ass-and-stay-in-bed-for-the-rest-of-the-week sick.

This occurred at a most inopportune time. It was my Spring Break from school, and it was also Shannon's brother, Pete's Spring Break as well, so he was in Lexington visiting us. Shannon and I have a kind of epic struggle over household chores. Shannon is convinced that they are my responsibility. I remain convinced that they are her's. We have remained locked in this mortal combat over household chores for the duration of our marriage (six-and-a-half years), and our house has therefore managed to maintain itself in something of a state that could be charitably described as "disarray".

When we have visitors, however (this applies only to those from out-of-town, as you friends in Lexington no doubt know) we manage to put aside our differences of opinion and get the house into tip-top shape. The house looked excellent (to us, for normal people read: "livable") for Pete's visit, and remained that way most of the time he was here. We also, since we were trying our hand at living like "normal" people, cooked meals at home that were both healthy and delicious, and all sat at the table and ate like a "real" family.

One of the things my children love to do is pray, especially when we are all together for a meal. I'm not bragging, I think that this trait has very little to do with me. I think my only contribution to their prayoral pre-disposition is whatever little genetic defect that makes them fight with each other over who's turn it is to pray. The only childhood mealtime (or other time) prayer I consistently prayed was a silent one asking God that it please not be my turn to pray in front of everybody. I guess I have always felt inadequate that way. But I'm supposed to be talking about my children, not my emotional insecurities...

Back on track. So my children love to pray. Generally before each meal we select one to lead us in prayer. That child will pray, either in the form of a song called "God Our Father" that they learned in preschool, or just by saying something like "thank you God for our good food, and for Mommy and Daddy, and all the baseballs in the world, and for guitars...", etc. They can be very thankful for a lot of the things that we take for granted. They can even be thankful for things I'm not even sure exist, but that's for another story. Shannon and I are sick, remember?

So we'd done a very good job for the first part of the week keeping the house neat and clean. Dinners are served at the kitchen table (we have no dining room) around 6:30 or so instead of in the living room around 8:00. Meals consist of a small portion of lean meat (pork chop, chicken, roast beef, etc.) and at least one serving each of fruits and vegetables. Milk, water, and juice are our beverages, not pop or Kool Aid. Dishes are put not on the counter or in the sink, but in the dish washer after every meal. Homework is checked. The children are bathed and in bed by their appointed bedtime. Life is going pretty well and I'm feeling pretty good about our system. It's really working! Why haven't we been able to do this constantly before?

Then Friday morning hits. I have an alarm clock that is set to 7:00am. I don't need it. I get up every morning before 6:30 and promptly turn it off. I'm not sure that I had heard that alarm in years... Until Friday morning. The alarm is going off and I can't get out of bed. I can't move. I can't open my eyes. I can't do anything. I remember Shannon talking on the phone in the living room and I think I remember a Sixpence None the Richer CD playing at some point. That's about it. I never really got out of bed on Friday.

[Editor's note- This condition did not keep me from watching UK beat UAB on Friday night. I have a TV in my bedroom. It actually helped that the game started so late (9:50) because I'd been sleeping all day. I had no trouble staying awake, I was well rested (albeit still immobile).]

Come Saturday Shannon is feeling pretty bad, too. I took Friday off from cleaning or maintaining the house in any way, and Shannon had her hands full with the children, so the house is starting to lose its luster. Sunday comes and Shannon is feeling worse than she was on Saturday, and I'm not much better. Dishes are piling up. Laundry needs to be done. The trash needs to be taken out in the worst way. I just can't bring myself to care. Now the children are telling me that they need to eat.

And what do we have?

Nothing.

So I pack the kids up in the car and we go to the grocery. My head is pounding. I managed to keep it together for church and band practice, but I think my head will actually split open here in the grocery store. I'm trying to look at fresh produce. I'm trying to get good food. The kids want cookies. The kids want candy. The kids want donuts. The kids want Lunchables.

Hell, Lunchables aren't so bad. I can live with Lunchables, and it shuts them up. But they're on a roll and so somehow before we leave the grocery our cart manages to acquire the making of Root Beer floats. I'm not sure exactly how that happened. But we take our loot and go home for dinner.

Shannon's in bed and not interested in eating. My head hurts too bad to consider it. So I sit the children down at the table, open their Lunchables for them, and dinner is served.

I mentioned before that my children love to pray. That's actually not entirely true. The oldest two do, in fact, love to pray and will fight the other to the death for the opportunity to do so. I have thus far been unable to impress them with the irony in this. Caleb, the youngest, is only two and has thus far shown no interest in, or concept of, prayer.

Apparently the excitement of having Lunchables and Root Beer floats for dinner made Josh and Maggie forget, for a moment, their need to be the one to pray before dinner. Caleb took this opportunity and moved right in. He bowed his head, closed his eyes, folded his hands in front of him like a Precious Moments statuette, and said, "Thank you God my food." He then clapped enthusiasticly, with a devilish grin as though he had settled, once and for all, the issue of who would be praying at our dinner table.