In the comments section. Below. Thanks! (For my hands-on experience, I petted a Madagascar Hissing Cockroach. Apparently, these make nice pets. And look ma -- no wings!)
His arms wrapped around my waist was a different kind of intimacy I wasn’t used to. I finally realized what it felt like for him when I was on the back of the quad squeezing with all my strength because I am afraid of falling off. I felt disconcerted and intimidated.
“Ok, now give it gas and let the clutch out. You know how to do it,” Sean said. Yes, I know how gas and a clutch work, but oddly enough I am more comfortable on two wheels than four doing it. Instead of a throttle to pull back, there was a small black button to push. The further you push the button the more gas you give the quad. It was awkward having no foot controls and keeping my feet flat.
I tried to give the quad some gas. The engine revved. It sounded like an annoying continuous whine, like nothing I’m used to. I’m used to the low guttural rumble of a car or motorcycle engine and the high pitched squeal of a racing quad was disconcerting for me at first.
It started to move. Then it shut off.
This happened about four times in a row. I got frustrated. I knew better than to stall a vehicle.
Each time I stalled it, we would move about 3 inches and it would shut off with a jerk, like when you are riding a bicycle and you stop too fast and slide into the handlebars. And it hurts.
Each time I climbed off, let Sean kick start it back to life because I wasn’t strong enough to do it myself, then he would scoot to the back and let me climb in front. His arms back around me. “Ok, try again.”
I finally got it going. My thumb was sore from holding the throttle button in place and the rubber hand grips made my hands sweat and smell like perspiration and rubber. When I took them off there were specks of rubber all over my hand which I found to be gross. I still couldn’t take the awkward feeling of being on something with four wheels, the difference between it and my comfort – a motorcycle – were difficult for me to get over. Instead of leaning with the turns the tires stayed to the ground, the body rocking the opposite direction. I felt like I was on a boat while driving up and down the slag piles, we would go up a hill and slide backward on the quad, we would go down and I would struggle to hold myself in place. The slow pace and light wind made it almost enjoyabe. Once I got comfortable I could feel Sean rest his head on my shoulder, I think he started to trust me as the driver.
My arms were always straining from holding on so tight, my legs keeping close to the inside of the quad. My whole body hurt. But the whole time, Sean was patient and understanding. “You did great for your first time,” he said. “You could probably use a smaller quad and it would be easier for you.”
And we switched places, back to where we felt comfortable.
Sunday, a few friends and I decided that we would busk in the Strip. We have played together for about a year. We use jamming as a time to get away from life for a few hours once a week, but had no aspirations beyond that. Except that we have realized something about ourselves in the process. We were getting good. It was time to take the next step and play some music for the people.
We got to the Strip and found a nice spot out of the way of the window shoppers. People looked at us oddly as they passed. We are a 5 man band with a guitar, banjo, mandolin, fiddle, and a giant upright bass. It was hard for us to be discrete. I had flash backs of being in bad bands in high school playing in the back of biker bars getting bottles thrown at us. We began to play and immediately sucked. We were off time, people were singing out of key, and hitting the wrong notes. I felt my face getting red. I looked up expecting to see glares, but was met with smiles. My fingers loosened up, the knots in my stomach were gone, and we all started to stomp our feet and play together. We played a bunch of songs and watched people walk past. Some people stopped and danced, clapped their hands, and gave us a buck. Most people gave us a smile and nod or walked past doing a goofy jig. Most importantly my friends and I had a great time. We also made 30 bucks, which we put towards a case of pumpkin beer. I met my mom in the strip for some brunch and told her about us busking, and how we were better than I expected. She told me it was because it takes balls to do something like that and people respect a ballsy move. The day was a success. We jammed some tunes and had a good time, got drunk for free, the Steelers won, and my mom told me I had balls. Epic Win!
As my dad gradually works his way towards retirement, he finds himself with a lot more time off. He spends most of his time doing little home improvement projects around the house to keep him occupied, but they never go 100% according to plan. In the past he’s had new sidewalks put in, new windows, completely redid our garden that surrounds the house, cleaned out the basement and repaired several holes in various wall. Each involved more than 20 phone calls to various contractors, multiple trips to Home Depot and any first time installations of anything result in something else breaking. Now my dad’s new project is the bathroom, and this past weekend he called on me for some assistance. Now that my name is attached to the job, I wanted to make sure we got everything right the first time. My job for this project was to fix all the mechanics in our toilet, the only problem with that assignment was that I had no clue how fix anything. My dad just handed me a box full of replacement parts and said, “Good luck with all of that,” which made me feel like this job was going to be more than I expected. Here’s where my college education came to good use: I decided to ask a professional. I only planned to go to the hardware store once and do things right. My dad had already chipped some tile trying to replace a soap dish so he needed to buy some more tiles, and I decided to ask an employee about replacing the mysterious toilet flusher. The plumbing section was where I looked for assistance. I asked the first employee I saw for some assistance and got more than that. The employee’s name was Rob and he looked to be around 40 years old. He reminded me a lot of Bob Vila, only Rob had long and stringy white hair and wore glasses that were so thick I though he was holding two magnifying glasses to his face. I told Rod that our toilet would run and wouldn’t flush most of the time. He knew exactly what I was talking about led me down an isle to find replacement parts. Rob said that most of the parts are just plastic and break after a while and I would be better off just buying a new assembly. The assembly only cost us $15, but I had no clue how to install it. I prayed that Rob could explain this installation very simply, and I ended up getting some hands-on experience. Rob led me towards a lineup of toilets and lifted the back lid from the first one in line, which was very similar to my toilet at home. He reached in and unscrewed the assembly from the bottom of the tank. “Make sure you turn your water off first, otherwise you’ll have one hell of a mess to clean up,” Rob said. “There should be a knob somewhere behind the toilet, just turn it all the way to the left and you’re good to go.” On the outside of the tank he showed me a big white hex screw that the flushing assembly screwed into. I had to hold the screw on the outside still with a crescent wrench while I unscrewed the assembly. There was a chain connected to a long rod with a big black ball on the end that had to be disconnected first, Rob explained. The ball just unscrews from the rod and the chain pins onto the handle. Once I do all that, Rob told me to just screw in the new assembly, to make sure I don’t lose any O-rings that make the seal, screw the old ball on and reconnect the chain to the handle and I was done. “Turn the water back on and she’ll be flushing like a champ,” Rob said as he laughed with a big smile.
I met back up with my dad and we went home to finish the job. I followed Rob’s instructions and the job seemed very simple now. After five minutes I was done and the toilet was back to 100%, my dad on the other hand was still chipping tile after I finished. Maybe he should ask for some help next time we go to the hardware store, which was very soon. We went back later that day and I got to thank Rob for showing me what to do. One trip, one job, one fix. Mission accomplished.
Megan Stewart Learning to Be Grateful It started off in sweatpants and prayer. It was an hour long lesson for the girl with the scars down her arm and the older girl with the missing teeth. Brittany Mancini, the women’s home coordinator for Father’s Heart Ministries, sat upright and professional in the large gray chair in the living room. Her blonde hair was in pig tails, underneath a dressy, but boyish, black hat. She was sweet, but tough. She was facing the girls, who slouched in the couch. Today’s lesson topic was optimism. “Nine things can be right and one wrong, but we still tend to focus on the bad,” Brittany says after prayer, “I want you guys to expose those negative thoughts. Or if you’re not having those, tell me what you’re grateful for.” The girl with the scars had her shirt up to her mouth. She was there because she was a drug-addict. Because she couldn’t stop taking pills, she lost her children. Her gray tennis-shoes were resting on the coffee table. Brittany stared at her, waiting in minutes of silence for an answer. The girl spoke, but wouldn’t look up. “I wish I know what grateful was before I threw everything away,” the girl said. Brittany shook her head up in down. Her actions were empathetic, but her words were firm. “You’re choosing to look at emptiness,” Brittany said, “Optimism is a mind-set and a choice.” Brittany reminded her of the fact that she had healthy daughters and the fact that she was only 28. She reminded her of the things she could still be grateful for. She reminded her to stand up on her feet and fight. The girl with the missing teeth began to sit up. She pulled her thin, bronze hands with black fingernails out of her hooded sweatshirt. She took her tan slippers from the table to the floor. She spoke in a raspy, rough voice. “When I was home, my family was like night and day, depending on my own spirits. You’re attitude trickles down to those girls,” she said. The girl with the scars continued to slouch and stare. Brittany stood from the chair and sat on her knees in front of the coffee table, getting close and eye-to-eye with the girl. “You’re 28 years old. The last 28 will be the next 28 if you don’t change you’re mindset,” Brittany said firmly. Brittany’s hands flexed and hit the table as she spoke. The girl looked up, moved her body upward an inch or two. “You think I’m negative now, you should have seen me before,” she said with an ounce of hope.
All Good Music Festival/Marvin’s Mountaintop, Masontown, West Virginia Katie Mustovich There were girls with flowers painted on their bare breasts. Their nipples served as the stigma and were bordered by a whorl of petals. The paint flickered in the sunshine. Their breasts looked like flamboyant blossoms at dawn, still with its morning dew. People whispered in our ears as we walked to dragon stag. Doses. Molly. Headies. Nuggets. Shrooms. Some of their murmurs were foreign. Some I have heard before. Most I have never tried. Why they were whispering I did not know. Adam kept walking. He did not pay attention to the undertones. I did the same. We walked toward a large drum circle. A man hacky sacked to the beat. Shoulder to shoulder. Cheek to back. Girls with long skirts and hula hoops swinging around their bodies danced around him. Their body movements became harmonized with the rhythm of the drums. Adam bought shrooms from a skinny light skinned black girl with short dreads. She pulled a small baggie from the black canvas purse that hung on her boney shoulder. She told us they were legit. “The best here,” she said. I never ate shrooms before. Adam gave me a small piece of the stem, less potent than the cap, to “see how you like it,” he said. He told me to chew it with my front teeth. “They might taste nasty.” I cannot recall the taste. It felt like I was grinding a gum band between my teeth, only softer. I did not feel anything but a headache. The daylight had gone. The spectacle transformed. Derek Trucks and Susan Tedeschi would be taking stage. The passing of joints and bowls through the crowd became steadfast. There was an aromatic blend of pungent herb and patchouli. An electric dragon drifted through the mass. It was made of cloth covered in neon graffiti. Multicolored Christmas lights were strung beneath the fabric. Underneath, a parade of people. Several of them held sticks, others went barehanded. Some would stop and kiss a stranger. Some would stop and touch an unknown face. The dragon passed. Widespread Panic took stage. They were mid-way into their set-list. It started with one. One paper lantern in the sky. Not many had noticed. One became five. Then fifty, plus. Paper lanterns exposed a dark sky on Marvin’s Mountaintop in Masontown, West Virginia. Nomadic balls of amber light. The sky was full of them. The band stopped. The crowd grew quiet. We looked. It was beautiful.
“Matt, I need a favor. Can you help me in the nursery?” Those words spoken by my cousin Lori were words of absolute horror, sending goose bumps up and down my arms as I thought of the endless terrifying things I could experience. My cousin is in charge of the nursery at the church I attend, and is always looking for more helpers. I was always good at dodging her when someone did not show up for their duty, often ducking into the bathroom or sinking down slowly into the pew as if my curly red hair would not be the dead give away for where I was sitting. And now this Sunday, of all Sundays, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and she snuck up behind me.
While screaming on the inside, I forced a smile on to my face and agreed to help her. She gave me the time to be there, and walked away. After song service, I left my pew row and made my way to the back of the church, through the foyer, made the left, and walked up to the stairs that would lead me straight to the stairs. My legs felt as if they were shackled, and I slowly made my way up the flight of stairs. I imagined this is how prisoners on death row felt as they took their final steps. I would be trapped with small infants for nearly an hour, which would drag on for an eternity.
I sat with my cousin for a while talking as my pastor would release the children to go into their respected classes. Around 11:10, I heard what sounded like a stampede, with at least fifty kids running up the stairs into their classrooms. And then the nursery door opened with new parents and their children. Five little ones today. A pretty low number for a Sunday, so I was relieved. The parents left, and the dread began. I was now responsible for these little kids. One of my parents’ good acquaintances had just had a kid about five months ago, and for some reason they trusted me with their child. They gave me instructions that he would be hungry soon, and gave me a bottle. I’m a twenty-one year old communication major. “Bottle Feeding 101” was not one of my course requirements, so I am immediately terrified. My cousin chuckles at me as I get on the floor and try to interact with the kids with a Dora the Explorer baby doll. Often times I have made jokes about that show, but never again. For one Sunday in my life, Dora saved the day. And to her, I will forever be grateful.
And then Connor, the little one I was given feeding instructions for, begins crying. It’s bottle time, and I’m in charge. My cousin prepares the bottle. I pick up Connor in my arms, amazed at how light he is. I get a bib and keep it on my shoulder just in case any accidents occur. Lori hands me the bottle, I tilt Connor over, and begin the process. Everything runs incredibly smoothly. If babies ever had chugging contests, this baby would win. He downed that bottle with too much ease. After a little while, I prop him up on my shoulder and burp him. He belts out a good one, and I give him a few more just in case there’s anything left. That’s when I feel what could only be described in texture as applesauce running down my neck. I wonder to myself what it could be.
“Oh my god…. He puked on me.”
Lori begins laughing hysterically, as she comes over to grab up Connor so I can clean up. Meanwhile this warm, chunky substance continues to run down my neck as I sprint to the bathroom. The smell was unlike anything I had ever smelled. It was so… plain smelling. Almost like what vanilla would smell like, except it was repulsing. I walk back into the room, only to see my cousin with a huge grin.
“I guess we can consider that your rookie hazing,” she says.
His arms wrapped around my waist was a different kind of intimacy I wasn’t used to. I finally realized what it felt like for him when I was on the back of the quad squeezing with all my strength because I am afraid of falling off. I felt disconcerted and intimidated.
ReplyDelete“Ok, now give it gas and let the clutch out. You know how to do it,” Sean said. Yes, I know how gas and a clutch work, but oddly enough I am more comfortable on two wheels than four doing it. Instead of a throttle to pull back, there was a small black button to push. The further you push the button the more gas you give the quad. It was awkward having no foot controls and keeping my feet flat.
I tried to give the quad some gas. The engine revved. It sounded like an annoying continuous whine, like nothing I’m used to. I’m used to the low guttural rumble of a car or motorcycle engine and the high pitched squeal of a racing quad was disconcerting for me at first.
It started to move. Then it shut off.
This happened about four times in a row. I got frustrated. I knew better than to stall a vehicle.
Each time I stalled it, we would move about 3 inches and it would shut off with a jerk, like when you are riding a bicycle and you stop too fast and slide into the handlebars. And it hurts.
Each time I climbed off, let Sean kick start it back to life because I wasn’t strong enough to do it myself, then he would scoot to the back and let me climb in front. His arms back around me. “Ok, try again.”
I finally got it going. My thumb was sore from holding the throttle button in place and the rubber hand grips made my hands sweat and smell like perspiration and rubber. When I took them off there were specks of rubber all over my hand which I found to be gross. I still couldn’t take the awkward feeling of being on something with four wheels, the difference between it and my comfort – a motorcycle – were difficult for me to get over. Instead of leaning with the turns the tires stayed to the ground, the body rocking the opposite direction. I felt like I was on a boat while driving up and down the slag piles, we would go up a hill and slide backward on the quad, we would go down and I would struggle to hold myself in place. The slow pace and light wind made it almost enjoyabe. Once I got comfortable I could feel Sean rest his head on my shoulder, I think he started to trust me as the driver.
My arms were always straining from holding on so tight, my legs keeping close to the inside of the quad. My whole body hurt. But the whole time, Sean was patient and understanding. “You did great for your first time,” he said. “You could probably use a smaller quad and it would be easier for you.”
And we switched places, back to where we felt comfortable.
The thing I done did this weekend
ReplyDeleteArt Lindsay
Sunday, a few friends and I decided that we would busk in the Strip. We have played together for about a year. We use jamming as a time to get away from life for a few hours once a week, but had no aspirations beyond that. Except that we have realized something about ourselves in the process. We were getting good. It was time to take the next step and play some music for the people.
We got to the Strip and found a nice spot out of the way of the window shoppers. People looked at us oddly as they passed. We are a 5 man band with a guitar, banjo, mandolin, fiddle, and a giant upright bass. It was hard for us to be discrete. I had flash backs of being in bad bands in high school playing in the back of biker bars getting bottles thrown at us.
We began to play and immediately sucked. We were off time, people were singing out of key, and hitting the wrong notes. I felt my face getting red. I looked up expecting to see glares, but was met with smiles. My fingers loosened up, the knots in my stomach were gone, and we all started to stomp our feet and play together.
We played a bunch of songs and watched people walk past. Some people stopped and danced, clapped their hands, and gave us a buck. Most people gave us a smile and nod or walked past doing a goofy jig. Most importantly my friends and I had a great time. We also made 30 bucks, which we put towards a case of pumpkin beer.
I met my mom in the strip for some brunch and told her about us busking, and how we were better than I expected. She told me it was because it takes balls to do something like that and people respect a ballsy move. The day was a success. We jammed some tunes and had a good time, got drunk for free, the Steelers won, and my mom told me I had balls. Epic Win!
As my dad gradually works his way towards retirement, he finds himself with a lot more time off. He spends most of his time doing little home improvement projects around the house to keep him occupied, but they never go 100% according to plan. In the past he’s had new sidewalks put in, new windows, completely redid our garden that surrounds the house, cleaned out the basement and repaired several holes in various wall. Each involved more than 20 phone calls to various contractors, multiple trips to Home Depot and any first time installations of anything result in something else breaking. Now my dad’s new project is the bathroom, and this past weekend he called on me for some assistance. Now that my name is attached to the job, I wanted to make sure we got everything right the first time.
ReplyDeleteMy job for this project was to fix all the mechanics in our toilet, the only problem with that assignment was that I had no clue how fix anything. My dad just handed me a box full of replacement parts and said, “Good luck with all of that,” which made me feel like this job was going to be more than I expected. Here’s where my college education came to good use: I decided to ask a professional.
I only planned to go to the hardware store once and do things right. My dad had already chipped some tile trying to replace a soap dish so he needed to buy some more tiles, and I decided to ask an employee about replacing the mysterious toilet flusher.
The plumbing section was where I looked for assistance. I asked the first employee I saw for some assistance and got more than that. The employee’s name was Rob and he looked to be around 40 years old. He reminded me a lot of Bob Vila, only Rob had long and stringy white hair and wore glasses that were so thick I though he was holding two magnifying glasses to his face. I told Rod that our toilet would run and wouldn’t flush most of the time. He knew exactly what I was talking about led me down an isle to find replacement parts. Rob said that most of the parts are just plastic and break after a while and I would be better off just buying a new assembly. The assembly only cost us $15, but I had no clue how to install it. I prayed that Rob could explain this installation very simply, and I ended up getting some hands-on experience.
Rob led me towards a lineup of toilets and lifted the back lid from the first one in line, which was very similar to my toilet at home. He reached in and unscrewed the assembly from the bottom of the tank. “Make sure you turn your water off first, otherwise you’ll have one hell of a mess to clean up,” Rob said. “There should be a knob somewhere behind the toilet, just turn it all the way to the left and you’re good to go.” On the outside of the tank he showed me a big white hex screw that the flushing assembly screwed into. I had to hold the screw on the outside still with a crescent wrench while I unscrewed the assembly. There was a chain connected to a long rod with a big black ball on the end that had to be disconnected first, Rob explained. The ball just unscrews from the rod and the chain pins onto the handle. Once I do all that, Rob told me to just screw in the new assembly, to make sure I don’t lose any O-rings that make the seal, screw the old ball on and reconnect the chain to the handle and I was done. “Turn the water back on and she’ll be flushing like a champ,” Rob said as he laughed with a big smile.
I met back up with my dad and we went home to finish the job. I followed Rob’s instructions and the job seemed very simple now. After five minutes I was done and the toilet was back to 100%, my dad on the other hand was still chipping tile after I finished. Maybe he should ask for some help next time we go to the hardware store, which was very soon. We went back later that day and I got to thank Rob for showing me what to do. One trip, one job, one fix. Mission accomplished.
Megan Stewart
ReplyDeleteLearning to Be Grateful
It started off in sweatpants and prayer. It was an hour long lesson for the girl with the scars down her arm and the older girl with the missing teeth. Brittany Mancini, the women’s home coordinator for Father’s Heart Ministries, sat upright and professional in the large gray chair in the living room. Her blonde hair was in pig tails, underneath a dressy, but boyish, black hat. She was sweet, but tough. She was facing the girls, who slouched in the couch. Today’s lesson topic was optimism.
“Nine things can be right and one wrong, but we still tend to focus on the bad,” Brittany says after prayer, “I want you guys to expose those negative thoughts. Or if you’re not having those, tell me what you’re grateful for.”
The girl with the scars had her shirt up to her mouth. She was there because she was a drug-addict. Because she couldn’t stop taking pills, she lost her children. Her gray tennis-shoes were resting on the coffee table. Brittany stared at her, waiting in minutes of silence for an answer. The girl spoke, but wouldn’t look up.
“I wish I know what grateful was before I threw everything away,” the girl said.
Brittany shook her head up in down. Her actions were empathetic, but her words were firm.
“You’re choosing to look at emptiness,” Brittany said, “Optimism is a mind-set and a choice.”
Brittany reminded her of the fact that she had healthy daughters and the fact that she was only 28. She reminded her of the things she could still be grateful for. She reminded her to stand up on her feet and fight.
The girl with the missing teeth began to sit up. She pulled her thin, bronze hands with black fingernails out of her hooded sweatshirt. She took her tan slippers from the table to the floor. She spoke in a raspy, rough voice.
“When I was home, my family was like night and day, depending on my own spirits. You’re attitude trickles down to those girls,” she said.
The girl with the scars continued to slouch and stare. Brittany stood from the chair and sat on her knees in front of the coffee table, getting close and eye-to-eye with the girl.
“You’re 28 years old. The last 28 will be the next 28 if you don’t change you’re mindset,” Brittany said firmly.
Brittany’s hands flexed and hit the table as she spoke. The girl looked up, moved her body upward an inch or two.
“You think I’m negative now, you should have seen me before,” she said with an ounce of hope.
All Good Music Festival/Marvin’s Mountaintop, Masontown, West Virginia
ReplyDeleteKatie Mustovich
There were girls with flowers painted on their bare breasts. Their nipples served as the stigma and were bordered by a whorl of petals. The paint flickered in the sunshine. Their breasts looked like flamboyant blossoms at dawn, still with its morning dew.
People whispered in our ears as we walked to dragon stag. Doses. Molly. Headies. Nuggets. Shrooms. Some of their murmurs were foreign. Some I have heard before. Most I have never tried. Why they were whispering I did not know. Adam kept walking. He did not pay attention to the undertones. I did the same. We walked toward a large drum circle. A man hacky sacked to the beat. Shoulder to shoulder. Cheek to back. Girls with long skirts and hula hoops swinging around their bodies danced around him. Their body movements became harmonized with the rhythm of the drums.
Adam bought shrooms from a skinny light skinned black girl with short dreads. She pulled a small baggie from the black canvas purse that hung on her boney shoulder. She told us they were legit. “The best here,” she said. I never ate shrooms before. Adam gave me a small piece of the stem, less potent than the cap, to “see how you like it,” he said. He told me to chew it with my front teeth. “They might taste nasty.” I cannot recall the taste. It felt like I was grinding a gum band between my teeth, only softer. I did not feel anything but a headache.
The daylight had gone. The spectacle transformed. Derek Trucks and Susan Tedeschi would be taking stage. The passing of joints and bowls through the crowd became steadfast. There was an aromatic blend of pungent herb and patchouli. An electric dragon drifted through the mass. It was made of cloth covered in neon graffiti. Multicolored Christmas lights were strung beneath the fabric. Underneath, a parade of people. Several of them held sticks, others went barehanded. Some would stop and kiss a stranger. Some would stop and touch an unknown face.
The dragon passed. Widespread Panic took stage. They were mid-way into their set-list. It started with one. One paper lantern in the sky. Not many had noticed. One became five. Then fifty, plus. Paper lanterns exposed a dark sky on Marvin’s Mountaintop in Masontown, West Virginia. Nomadic balls of amber light. The sky was full of them. The band stopped. The crowd grew quiet. We looked. It was beautiful.
Matthew Wukovich
ReplyDeleteMatty Day Care
“Matt, I need a favor. Can you help me in the nursery?” Those words spoken by my cousin Lori were words of absolute horror, sending goose bumps up and down my arms as I thought of the endless terrifying things I could experience. My cousin is in charge of the nursery at the church I attend, and is always looking for more helpers. I was always good at dodging her when someone did not show up for their duty, often ducking into the bathroom or sinking down slowly into the pew as if my curly red hair would not be the dead give away for where I was sitting. And now this Sunday, of all Sundays, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and she snuck up behind me.
While screaming on the inside, I forced a smile on to my face and agreed to help her. She gave me the time to be there, and walked away. After song service, I left my pew row and made my way to the back of the church, through the foyer, made the left, and walked up to the stairs that would lead me straight to the stairs. My legs felt as if they were shackled, and I slowly made my way up the flight of stairs. I imagined this is how prisoners on death row felt as they took their final steps. I would be trapped with small infants for nearly an hour, which would drag on for an eternity.
I sat with my cousin for a while talking as my pastor would release the children to go into their respected classes. Around 11:10, I heard what sounded like a stampede, with at least fifty kids running up the stairs into their classrooms. And then the nursery door opened with new parents and their children. Five little ones today. A pretty low number for a Sunday, so I was relieved. The parents left, and the dread began. I was now responsible for these little kids. One of my parents’ good acquaintances had just had a kid about five months ago, and for some reason they trusted me with their child. They gave me instructions that he would be hungry soon, and gave me a bottle. I’m a twenty-one year old communication major. “Bottle Feeding 101” was not one of my course requirements, so I am immediately terrified. My cousin chuckles at me as I get on the floor and try to interact with the kids with a Dora the Explorer baby doll. Often times I have made jokes about that show, but never again. For one Sunday in my life, Dora saved the day. And to her, I will forever be grateful.
And then Connor, the little one I was given feeding instructions for, begins crying. It’s bottle time, and I’m in charge. My cousin prepares the bottle. I pick up Connor in my arms, amazed at how light he is. I get a bib and keep it on my shoulder just in case any accidents occur. Lori hands me the bottle, I tilt Connor over, and begin the process. Everything runs incredibly smoothly. If babies ever had chugging contests, this baby would win. He downed that bottle with too much ease. After a little while, I prop him up on my shoulder and burp him. He belts out a good one, and I give him a few more just in case there’s anything left. That’s when I feel what could only be described in texture as applesauce running down my neck. I wonder to myself what it could be.
“Oh my god…. He puked on me.”
Lori begins laughing hysterically, as she comes over to grab up Connor so I can clean up. Meanwhile this warm, chunky substance continues to run down my neck as I sprint to the bathroom. The smell was unlike anything I had ever smelled. It was so… plain smelling. Almost like what vanilla would smell like, except it was repulsing. I walk back into the room, only to see my cousin with a huge grin.
“I guess we can consider that your rookie hazing,” she says.