My word, people. This child of mine is making me age prematurely.

Or else he has a secret plan to collect all the ER’s stuffed animals in the shortest amount of time possible.

Yesterday I had, quite possibly, the most adrenaline-pumping car ride of my life. I exceeded the speed limit. I laid on the horn and zipped through a just-turned-red stoplight. I passed in the right lane. I picked up my husband (who was standing curbside) so fast that, if I had been driving a windowless black van, it could’ve been a scene straight out of a Jackie Chan movie.

Don’t look at me like that. I wasn’t trying to careless. In fact, there’s a good chance I was a better-than-normal driver, level-headed, focused, and attentive. (The tears and snot streaming down my face, the raspy breathing and repeated pummeling of the steering wheel—because cars were going so dang slow—were just for dramatic affect.)

Besides, I bet you’d go through the same little song and dance if your five-year-old’s eyeball turned all squishy yellow and swelled up so huge that it looked like it would fall out of its socket at any minute.

Seriously. I’ve NEVER seen anything like it.

We still don’t know what caused it. I was working outside, planting annuals and perennials, picking asparagus and rhubarb, potting plants, and trying to cajole the kids into helping me. Nickel was hanging out, playing in the yard and on the porch, doing his best to not help me. He got a little fussy. Said his eye hurt, that something was in it. He didn’t cry, didn’t yell. Just sat there fussing. So of course I ignored him.

About ten minutes later I went in the house to get lunch ready. I washed my hands and then said to Mr. Fussy, “Okay. Let me see your eye.”

I took one look—the whole outside edge of the white part of his left eye was bulging—and grabbed the kid under his armpits, raced him to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, realized water wasn’t good enough, and ran in circles around the kitchen, arms a-flapping, searching for the phone.

“Meet me at the ER,” I barked at my husband.

I called my sister-in-law. “We’re going to the ER,” I informed her. “I’m dropping the kids off.”

By the time I hung up the phone, all of the white part of his eye was spongy, yellow, and bulging in a way that no eye should ever bulge.

“GET TO THE CAR!” I screamed at the kids, wetting a hanky with cold water and slapping it on the eye as I raced out the door. The kids were already huddled out by the car. (Sweetsie was so traumatized by the grossness factor that she refused to sit in her regular seat beside her brother.)

After a drive-by drop-off at my sis-in-law’s house (and getting flagged down by my sis-in-law who was on the phone with my husband who was asking if I could pick him up on such-and-such a road), I passed a woman out walking her dog and pulled over, “Do you have medical training?” She shook her head no and I sped off.

By this point, Nickel’s whole eye was bubbling and bulging with wild abandon. The skin under his eye was pushed out so far it seemed like it no longer possessed any eyeball restraining power whatsoever. (To steady my racing brain I focused on the fact that there’s an awful lot of networking behind the eye that keeps it in place.)

“My eye feels like it’s cracking,” Nickel whimpered.

Suddenly the 20-mile drive to the hospital seemed impossibly long. Our friend, a nursing professor and a long-time overseas missionary in Central America , lived several miles down the road. Surely she would have a clue as to what in the world was going on. When I zipped around the curve in front of her house, she was sitting outside on her porch—I jerked the car over and backed into her drive. I called to her and right away she knew this was no regular neighborly visit I was paying. She jumped up from her rocker, ran to the car, took one look at Nickel’s eye, made like she was going to jump into the car with us, changed her mind and flew into the house for ice and a cloth, and off we sped. (Our friend was so worried about his eye—she had never seen anything like it, either—that she eventually drove the whole way to the hospital to find out how we were, but we had already been discharged.)

I already told you about the rest of the drive, minus the part when Nickel said, “My throat hurts,” and John said, “Just drive.” (I figured if a cop pulled me over, all the better. I’d just show him the eye and get myself a personal escort service.)

By the time we got to the hospital, the swelling was going down and we were beginning to realize that this was an allergic reaction. They put us straight through to a room, but then it took the doctor awhile to come in so we had a chance to regain our composure. Clearly, his eyeball wasn’t going to fall out. He would be fine. We relaxed.

The doctor confirmed our suspicions. Nickel had had an allergic reaction. To what, we don’t know. We now have drops to put in his eye if it happens again. If his lips swell up, he needs more than the drops (but it was the pharmacist who told me that—the doctor didn’t seem concerned about that).

I still have tons of questions. Like, do we even need the drops if a cold compress did so much to bring the swelling down? Like, was the slightly swollen eye that I noticed last week (the left eye, too) a precursor to this? It is likely this will happen again and will it be worse next time? Is this a condition he’ll have during a particular season for the rest of this life?

The internet was reluctant to cough up very much information on this condition. I looked for images and this one (the second picture) most closely resembles my baby’s eye (though his was more yellow than red and the skin under the eye was bulging out much further). I wish now I had taken pictures—it was so incredibly incredible-looking—but I don’t think of photos when I’m in the middle of being traumatized. Sorry.

In any case, Nickel now has a new stuffed animal and I know that I have the potential to be an ambulance driver if I ever get the urge.

P.S. Whaddaya know, he had another reaction as I was posting this.

So here you can see what his eye looked like in the very beginning stages, lucky you.

Oh yeah, and in all the drama of the last ten minutes, I burnt the bread, too.

1. It’s raining. But it’s April so everything is as it should be.

2. My mom and dad stopped by this morning. They are buying ten acres two miles from our house and came down (up, whatever) to get the survey done. In the rain.

3. A friend and her three wee ones paid us a visit.

The four-week-old baby was the hit of the show. My oldest son laid on the sofa, the babe asleep on his chest, and would’ve stayed there the whole time if I’d-a let him. But I was hungering for my baby fix so I up and booted him from the room.

4. Another friend and her granddaughter are coming to visit this afternoon. I need to rid the house of 273 flies before they get here.

5. The kids and I are doing a little skit at church this evening. The Baby Nickel has a dual role: first a servant boy and then a rooster. I’m keeping my fingers crossed.

6. Rhubarb’s up.

This is my standard rhubarb dessert. It’s a perfect way to star the tart stalks. Half of the crumbs make up a crunchy bottom crust and the other half makes a crunchy topping, thus the name Rhubarb Crunch. It could not be more appropriately named.

This last time I used half sour cherries and half rhubarb—it made for a right pretty (and delicious) crunch.

Rhubarb Crunch

3/4 cup flour
1 cup oats, either rolled or quick
1 cup brown sugar
½ cup butter
1 teaspoon cinnamon
½ cup sugar
2 tablespoons cornstarch
½ cup water (or fruit juice)
½ teaspoon vanilla
4 cups diced rhubarb

Combine the flour, oats, brown sugar, and cinnamon in a bowl. Rub in the butter with your fingers to make crumbs. Press half of the crumbs in the bottom of a greased 9 x 9 glass pan. Reserve the remaining crumbs for the topping.

In a small kettle, stir together the sugar and cornstarch. Add the water (or fruit juice) and vanilla. Bring it to a boil, stirring steadily, till thick and smooth. Remove the kettle from the heat and add the rhubarb, stirring to coat. Pour the saucy fruit on the crust and top the fruit with the remaining crumbs. Bake the crunch at 350 degrees for 35 to 40 minutes, or until the juices are bubbly and the crumbs—both top and bottom—are golden brown.

Serve warm, with milk or vanilla ice cream.

This same time, years previous: bacon-wrapped jalapenos, honey-baked chicken

This week I’ve been stomp-my-feet-and-cry frustrated about the state of my house.

I get that houses are to be lived in. I understand that the influx of five, six, or, like yesterday, nine people is going to require a fairly high level of upkeep. I know that the dirty floors, the tossed jackets, the spilled books are all signs that things are happening and that I’m surrounded by the people I love.

If I were the Pollyanna type, I would sing songs of thanksgiving whenever I’d spy a dirty dish: thanksgiving for the dish that held the food, thanksgiving for the food that fed the body, and thanksgiving for the body that ate it. Rapturously clutching the dirty dish to my bosom, I’d twirl around the room, luxuriating in the realization that, because of this dirty dish, I might possibly be the richest person in the world! But then I’d twirl-step on a tea towel that some love-of-my-heart child tossed on the floor, my foot would screech to a halt while my body would keep going, and I’d crash to the floor with a thud. Then I’d lay there, thanking my lucky stars (that are suddenly—whoa! look at that!—visible) that I even had a floor upon which I could break my fall.

That’s what I’d do if I was Pollyanna.

But I’m not Pollyanna. In fact, my mood is such that if Pollyanna walked across my path, I’d probably sock her a good one.

Or else hand her a toilet bowl brush and tell her to get to.

All day long I maintain. I assess the status of my home, create a list of chores, and then oversee the kids doing the chores.

That sounds a lot easier than it really is. Here’s how it actually breaks down.

I see a dirty bathroom sink. I tell a child to clean it. I check the “cleaned” bathroom sink and determine that my child needs to learn how to wield a rag. I call the child back in and teach a lesson in Basic Sink Cleaning 101.

Or, I have a child wash the dishes. Later, I empty the drainer. I find dried egg on a fork, grease on the bottom of a bowl, starchy gunk on the outside of the oatmeal pot. I set aside the soiled dishes, call the child into the house, and have the child wash them again.

By themselves, those two examples don’t sound all that bad. In fact, you’re probably thinking way to go, Mama, being consistent and patient and all that jazz, right? (Note: nobody said anything about being patient.) But! Multiply those scenarios times four (‘cause I have four kids, get it?) and set it on auto-repeat for hours on end and you can see why I’m a little worn down.

The other day I walked into the bathroom and saw that my freshly washed window (I’ve been trying to wash a few windows every day—it’s my gradual approach to spring cleaning) was completely smeared.

As I studied those smears, my chest constricted. My head ached—nay, my very bones ached. I exhaled and all the hope and perseverance whooshed right out of my body. Eyes smarting, I pondered my options. I could:

1. Wash the window myself.
2. Assign a child to wash the window.
3. Cry.
4. Scream.
5. Shut the blind.
6. Complain to my husband.
7. Do nothing.

I chose Option Number Six.

My husband was in the kitchen. I wasted no time in sharing what was on my heart. “I can hardly stand it!” I wailed. “There are messes everywhere! I hate all the stuff in my house! I want more bookshelves! The girls’ room is a mess! Nobody puts their clothes away! We don’t even have a broom so we can sweep the porch! There are no steps to the attic! The flies are driving me nuts! You worked late on Monday! The potatoes didn’t come up! There’s a mouse in the stove again! I want a new camera lens! I only have one pair of blue socks! The sofa has a hole in it!”

“What do you want me to do about it?” he asked, his voice level, his eyes laughing.

“I want you to get up at 5:30 tomorrow morning and clean the house!” I sniffed. “Clean everything.”

When I came downstairs the next morning, the house looked right sharp. Granted, it looked that way for only a few hours, but with that little boost I was able to make it through till the end of the day when I start yelling about how I can’t STAND the mess and how I can’t DO this anymore.

Hopefully I’ll feel better next week. ‘Cause the messes sure ain’t going anywhere.