Monday, January 19, 2009

Parents Are So Weird

I awoke this morning to a chorus of "It's MY turn!" "No! It's MY turn!" "No. It's MYYYyyyyYYY TURN!" ad nauseum.

Sighing, I flopped the covers onto my sleeping husband, stood up out of bed, and stumbled down the hall. The boys didn't even notice me until they heard a stern voice behind them say, "No one gets it."

Turning away from the computer screen they'd been fighting over, both boys stood up and faced me, protesting emphatically.

"But Mom..."
"But he said..."
"But it's my turn now..."
"But I wasn't finished with my game..."
"But YOU SAID when it's a new day..."

I searched through my brain for Lecture On Sharing #247, pulled it out of its file folder, and launched ahead. I began with our Sharing Verse ("None of you should look out just for your own good. You should also look out for the good of others" Phil 2:4 NIrV).

They scowled at each other.

From there, I proceeded toward a reminder that James and Jon are the Sons of Thunder (Mark 3:17), and the Sons of Thunder are an unstoppable force, united in the fight against evil, powerful only when they stand together, weak if they turn on each other.

Each glanced uneasily in his brother's direction.

I reminded them that the Sons of Thunder do not say "It's MY turn." The Sons of Thunder say, "Would YOU like to have a turn."

They mumbled the phrase back to me, heads down.

And finally, I ended with a restatement of the Rules of Computer Use (1. When you walk away and start playing with something else, your turn is over, and 2. Don't close your brother's browser window; just open your own).

They confessed they'd both been planning to go directly against those rules.

And just as I asked them if they really and truly needed me to WRITE THOSE RULES DOWN for them, something unexpected, but not entirely unfamiliar, happened.

My torso turned to lead. My arms and legs got very dizzy very fast. Sounds began to muffle of their own accord. My head floated away from my shoulders. The blackness started at the edges of my vision and moved steadily inward from all directions.

I looked at the boys and said, "I'm gonna pass out."

They've never heard of that before, so they just stood and watched, confused.

I flattened myself against the hallway wall and groped for something to hang on to. "Jeff," I hollered toward our bedroom door, "I'm gonna pass out."

I heard the boys gasp as my knees buckled, and just before my face hit the floor, I called again, "Jeff! Help!"

Thankfully, I never lost consciousness. I've fainted enough times to know what to do. Take deeps breaths and get on the floor so the oxygen currently being expended in the muscles I'm using to stay upright can be redirected to my brain and keep me awake. And it worked. I didn't pass out.

Jeff, like a belligerent knight, charged blearily out of the bedroom to rescue me. The boys turned and ran, inexplicably, out the front door.

Jeff crouched next to me in the hallway and blurted out several questions in a row. When I didn't answer, his bombardment ceased abruptly and he simply asked, "Becky, can you talk?"

Through the fog in my brain, I ascertained that my silence was alarming him, so I mumbled, "Yes."

He thought I'd had some sort of fibro fall, but I was able to explain sufficiently that I wasn't weak, but faint. "Haven't you ever passed out?" I asked.

"Once, from a severe head wound," was his dry reply. And then, "Would you like some orange juice?"

"Sure," I said.

He got up and headed to the kitchen, leaving me face-down in the middle of the hallway, my cheek pressed into the linoleum. In that position, I took stock. Still not enough oxygen to raise my head or my arm. Some more deep breaths. Okay.

The boys, having re-entered the house, peeked their heads around the corner and looked at me. Thinking they were going to offer comfort or condolences of some kind, I was warmed to see James approach on tiptoe.

But standing near my head, he said instead, "Uh, Mom, you know that whole computer thing? Does that include Dad's computer?"

I felt the giggle start in my abdomen and make its way up my lead torso and into my throat. Of all the things! Mom, I know you're lying in the hallway and all, and you can't get up and stuff, and no one knows why you fell down and such, but first things first, Mom. Have I been banned from ALL the computers, or just the one I was fighting over?

Trying to keep my voice steady, and with my mouth half-smashed into the floor, I was able to reply, "No, it's okay for you to play Zoo Tycoon 2 on Dad's computer."

Having received the answer to his all-important question, he retreated without a word.

Jonathan came over, squatted down, cocked his head so he could see my face, patted my hair, and said, "You'll be okay, Mom."

"Thank you, Jonathan," I smiled crookedly at him.

Then he lowered his voice to a whisper and ventured, "Um, Mom? What are you doing?"

Before I could reply, Jeff came back with some orange juice, which did NOT help, thank goodness (meaning I'm not diabetic). He lifted me off the floor and wouldn't let go until I was settled into the comfy chair in which I seem to have taken up permanent residence, with strict instructions to request aid should I need to use the potty. A prisoner in my own recliner! (And I'm fine by the way. I've consulted Dr. Mom and it's all good. Just a Rest Day for Anemic Fibro Girl.)

Here's the funny part. Concerned that the boys were traumatized by what they'd seen, I asked James, "Did I scare you when I fell down this morning?"

He looked at me blankly, "You mean when you said you were gonna pass out?"

I nodded, "Yes..."

"Me and Jon ran outside to protect our own lives," he informed me in a reassuring way.

"You ran for your lives?" I asked.

He nodded.

"Why, sweetie? Did you think you were in trouble?"

"No," he explained. "We went outside because we thought that when someone says they're gonna pass out, it means they're gonna have gas, and you looked like you were gonna have gas, and you're not supposed to pass gas in the house, you're supposed to take it outside, so since you couldn't take it outside, we went outside instead, because gas could KILL US!"

My belly laugh lasted for quite a while. Can you imagine being seven years old and watching your mom stop mid-lecture and collapse in a heap while hollering for your dad to get out of bed and come help her pass gas?

Parents are so weird.