Methodist Chili

The Methodists are trying to kill me.

It all started out well enough. The fair is in town, so we took out a second mortgage, loaded up the kids, and spent a good part of the day with 8 million of the great unwashed.

There is no venue in the world that holds a larger collection of mullets and moose knuckles, and as a special treat this year - an 80 year old woman in a cardigan. With no shirt underneath. And no bra.

The girls are content with just a few rides each, and then we were able to enjoy my favorite part of the fair - the exhibits. This years' theme was "Everyone's a Hero", and boy - do they mean everyone.

The animals are always a hit with the kids. There was a camel with the saddest humps you've ever seen and the Husband, Mr. Funny Guy, says "I see she's breastfed three kids, too."

Ha. Ha. Ha.

But. About the Methodists.

Fair food is delicious, but it's also a terrific rip-off. But there is an area where local churches, policemen, firefighters, and civic organizations sell basic food for a decent price. We got the kids their $100 corn dogs and then, in an effort to be frugal, I opted to hit the firefighter's booth. Plus, you know, cute firefighters.

I'm standing in line for the firefighter's hot dogs and they are taking for.freaking.ever. and I look over and notice the Methodist church booth. There is no one in line, their hot dog deal is a buck cheaper, and the old couple behind the counter appears to be looking at me and smiling.

Now, I like the Methodists. They are not pushy and aren't always walking around asking me if I'm saved, or giving me shit for being a cannibal because Catholics eat Jesus. Methodists are reasonable.

So I give up on the firefighters and walk over to the Methodists' booth (where they also offer a kids' meal! With PB&J! For like $4!) and place my order. They have it to me less than five minutes later - hot dogs loaded up with chili and onions and mustard and slaw, and a kids' meal, all for less than $10. At this point, I am considering converting. I am so pleased that I ignore the marginally suspect chili on the dogs and scarf them down.

The Methodist Chili. 

We finish the afternoon at the fair and go home, happy and full up on fair-ness. While I'm pretty tired, I decide to run out to the grocery store to do our shopping for the week. Alone, which is a treat.

I'm about halfway through the shopping, still high on the fair and even the Methodist Chili. So much so that I've put a pack of hot dogs in the cart to have later in the week. So much so that when the first rumblings begin, I'm not the least bit concerned.

Gas. It's to be expected. 

But somewhere around the bread aisle, the rumbling makes it clear that this is no ordinary gas, that this is not simply gas, that this is - indeed - a problem. Now, if you know me well enough to be familiar with my bowel habits, you know that I am not a public pooper. My system completely shuts down when I am away from home, to the extent that it often takes up to five days on vacation for my sphincter to loosen up enough to let anything happen.


If you consider the last paragraph to be too much information, you may want to stop reading right here.

I am not jazzed at the prospect of using the toilet at the grocery store, but my gut has made it clear that I have two options - run like hell out of the store and maybe, maybe, make it home; or go to the back of the store and use their restroom and pray that no one comes in. I choose the latter.

I text the Husband from the bathroom.
OMG so sick grocery store METHODIST CHILI

He doesn't text back.

I manage to pull myself together enough to feel like I can finish my shopping. For about ten minutes, and then I'm right back in the bathroom. This time, I don't even bother to text him, but I do have the phone ready - just in case. I am feeling hot and flushed and a little light headed and I am absolutely terrified I am going to pass out. So I type the text, but don't hit send.

COME GET ME IN BATHROOM PASSED OUT DON'T LET ANYONE IN, ESPECIALLY METHODISTS.

I figure I can hit the send button as I fall to the floor.

But I don't pass out, and I am able once again, through sheer will and strength of character, to regain my composure and finish the shopping. I can hear my voice quivering as I answer "Paper or plastic?", and my hands shake when I hand over my coupons. I load the car and get in, and I am little concerned that something will happen on the quarter mile drive home. To be on the safe side, I scribble a note ("Look at the Methodists!") and put it in my pocket. That way, when they find me dead, they will know where to start the investigation.

By some miracle (perpetrated by a Catholic God, no doubt) I make it home. I walk in the back door, my eyes filled with tears, my heart beating fast, and look at the Husband sitting blithely on the couch.

"Didn't you get my text?"

He looked at me dumbly, then picked up his phone and read the text. Surely he would jump up and run to me, maybe even pick me up and lay me on the bed, where he would administer immodium and cool cloths. But no. Instead, he turns to me and says -

"What do you have against Methodists?"

Independence

When my husband was four, his parents put him in a car with his 20-something uncle, and they drove from Wisconsin to Los Angeles. The car broke down somewhere in New Mexico, but they finally arrived, safe and sound. It was, undoubtedly, a fabulous adventure.

Can you even imagine? No cell phones? No Google Maps? No GPS? Not knowing where your precious snowflake was at any moment?

You may remember the piece from Lenore Skenazy several years ago, about letting her 9 year old ride the subway home alone. The reactions ranged from high fives to horrified, with most people in my circles leaning toward the latter. I know I did. And while I support the idea of free range kids in theory, I hold on to the notion that the world was a safer place 30 years ago when I was 10. Today, well - there are scary people everywhere! Stranger danger is so drilled into our heads (and our kids'), that we assume multitudes of pedophiles are lurking in every bathroom stall.

Katie is a connoisseur of public restrooms. We almost never go anywhere where she doesn't have to pee, and I am not about to drag two other children, strollers, carts, and various other bullshittery into a teeny bathroom so I can make sure she's not molested by the Tidy Bowl man. She is old enough to get in there, do her business, and get out - and old enough to know that if she walks in on something hinky, she needs to get out toot sweet*.

I temper her independence with my idea of safeguards. Against sound advice, we got her a cell phone. It gives me peace of mind when she's roaming the neighborhood, and it's come in very handy during her extracurricular activities. We only had some minor glitches ("Get a text every day from Justin Bieber!"), and overall it's been a good thing. She's as responsible and mature as any ten year old can be, and I feel reasonably sure that she will conduct herself as such out there in the big, bad world.

The topic 'how old is old enough?' is one that comes up frequently with my friends. How old to stay alone? How old to go to the mall with friends? How old to babysit? How old, how old, how old? It's such an arbitrary question, with so many qualifiers that it's hard to give a pat answer. I can't answer for your kid, only mine. Even then, I'm not always positive of my answer.

Yesterday, we put her on a plane by herself to fly to Arizona to visit the grandparents, aunt, uncle and cousins. And every confidence I had completely shattered and I became headless chicken panic stricken hover mother. I tracked her flight (in real time, which is a very cool time suck I learned during my brief stint as a Cha Cha answer girl) and was yelling across the house "SIX MINUTES! SHE LANDED SIX MINUTES AGO! HAS SHE CALLED? WHY HASN'T SHE CALLED?"

She'll be gone for 12 days. It's the longest I've ever been away from her. Even though she is a smart kid, and is in very capable hands, I can't help but worry she won't brush her teeth, or wear sunscreen, or eat vegetables. The more she grows up, the more painfully aware I am that she will always be my baby. I wonder if letting your kids grow up has less to do with letting them go and more to do with keeping quiet about the choices they make.

She's still a kid. Old enough to go to the bathroom alone and fly across the country. Young enough to still need her mom, hopefully as much as I need her.


*Or, tout de suite, if you're some fancy pants French person.