Monday, May 3, 2010

Sunday bloody Sunday




Walker was out of town this weekend at his annual Lake Travis Malebondathon. My mom stayed over Saturday night and she said, "Hey, are y'all gonna go to church tomorrow? Because Luby's has this new all you can eat breakfast buffet that I thought I might could take y'all to."

And instead of saying, Get thee behind me Satan disguised as GG!, I pondered the process of getting four children up and dressed cute and walking them to three different Sunday school classes whilst trying to juggle coffee and a donut hole and my bible without their daddy to help me versus sleeping in, arising lazily, putting on play clothes and maybe a touch of mascara, lipstick if I felt extra fancy, and moseying down to get breakfast on a Sunday morning, the way the pagans are wont to do.

I chose the way of the heathern.

And suffered the consequences.

I have to say, first off, that the world is split into two camps: those who love Luby's, and those who can't for the life of them get what the big deal is. 99.9% of humankind - including everyone I am related to - falls into the former camp.

I fall into the latter.

I have given Luby's more chances than it deserves and it never fails to unimpress me. The Heathern Buffet was no exception.

I did not know until I just now clicked onto their website that the dining sensation that is Luby's is only a Texas/Oklahoma/Louisiana thing. I thought all Americans were united via either their love of the Luann Platter or their eye-rolling, deep-sighing, fine huffing resignation of once again being hauled to Luby's because everystinkinbody just looooooves Luby's.

Except me.

So if you don't know, Luby's is a cafeteria where you get your big green tray and slide it down the rails while you direct the people behind the glass to dish you up a plate of something fried and/or smothered in butter and/or gravy. After you pass the various shades of Jello and pie, you have to carry the trays across the dining area to a table. Four small children with large trays and endless culinary and beverage options needing explanation and choosing plus a long walk to a table means that I am exhausted by the time we finally sit down. Then, as I dig in, I think to myself, "Perhaps today will be the day I fall in love with Luby's. Perhaps today is the first day of my Luby loving life."

It never happens.

I sat with my momma and my four children amidst all the other pagans and focused on one thing Luby's does do well: coffee. The kids poked at their food and decided they were done, but I was looking for the coffee. Then our waitress brought out balloons. The children squealed with delight as I sought out cream for my coffee. The waitress brought out crayons and paper crowns to the delighted children, and I finally sat down, and delightedly, began to enjoy my coffee.

Meanwhile unseen by me, Eva Rose attempted to open the plastic surrounding her restaurant crayons with a knife. A simple, dull, Luby's dinner knife.

And then I heard the scream.

Now mommies are endowed with certain mystical powers when it comes to screams. I can instantly distinguish which screams are to be ignored, and which are a call to action. There's the melodramatic-I-see-a-bug scream. Response: deal with bug. There's the melodramatic-I'm-trying-to-get-a-sibling-in-trouble scream. Response: ignore. There's the I-fell-and-it-doesn't-really-hurt-but-I-want-attention scream. Response: sometimes ignore, sometimes provide wanted attention.

Then there's the other scream, the scream that makes a mother immediately jump up and race to her child because something is seriously wrong. That was the scream that pierced the forest green and maroon accented dining area of Luby's.

Eva Rose was the screamer, and the source of the scream was the middle finger on her left hand, which was gushing an unbelievable amount of blood all over the forest green formica table.

I looked at her finger, and said, "Okay, up, let's go, everybody in the car now, let's go." Then I wrapped a forest green napkin around her hand to catch the unbelievable gush of blood as it spurt all over the maroon carpet.

I returned to my maroon seat to grab my purse, and looked down, and saw it: my hot, half drunk, perfectly creamed coffee. A voice inside of me said, over the screams of my mutilated child, I wonder if I could get a go-cup? as another voice admonished the first voice, Are you kidding! She's bleeding like a stuck pig! Bad mommy! Bad mommy! Good mommy gave the coffee a lingering glance and sadly, left it on the green formica table.

If you rushing to the emergency room with a shrieking, bleeding child in the back of your minvan, there is one thing you can be assured of: you will hit every single red light on the way. And the red lights will last uncharacteristically long. And you might even be out of gas and have to stop and fill up a gallon just to make it to the ER.

You might also have a six year old boy in the backseat saying, "Sissy you're DYING! We're all going to diiiiiiiie!! Sissy is bleeding to death!! Mom did you steal that napkin? You better take that napkin back Mom, you shouldn't steal a napkin. Are the police going to come get you cause you stole that napkin? Ew, Sissy, bleed on your own seat. Drive faster Mom!! We're all going to diiiiiiieeee!"

It was evident that the cut was not causing a lot of pain, for which I was incredibly thankful. She was more frightened than hurt. Poor baby squealed, "This is the worst day of my whole life!"

I chuckled to my mom, "Just wait till she sees how much attention she's gonna get. She's gonna love this."

For my daughter loves to be the center of attention.
I've no idea where she gets that from.

Finally we arrived at one of the many popup emergency clinics for which I am eternally grateful. Because the sights and sounds of a real emergency room might have turned me into a homeschooler I never care to be.


Fortunately the bleeding had stopped at one of the 42 red lights. Eva Rose was immediately bandaged and we were sent to a nice, clean room with a nice flatscreen TV to watch iCarly and wait.


And wait. And wait two hours more.

Meanwhile, my mom sat in the very nice, clean waiting room with another flat screen TV, an xBox, a fishtank, and three very happy, entertained children.


Finally a doctor saw us, cleaned up the crazy amount of blood, tourniqueted her finger until it looked dead and puffy (ugh), gave her four shots of anesthetic in her finger (we both cried a little), and stuck his little fishhook in her finger (look at Tinkerbell baby, don't look down) and stitched her up.

More waiting for discharge instructions, and we were finally able to leave.

As we walked outside into the sunshine, she sighed, "I'm gonna miss this place, Mommy."

Yes you will little girl. Because from now on we will be at church on Sunday mornings, with all the good Christians, where no dinner knives are allowed and Mommy can finish her whole cup of coffee.

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