Queen Esther & the Second Graders of Doom

A what? Why would you hand spiky silverware to your newborn? Who actually had one of those? “Uh, no.”

Celia laughed at Essie’s apparent shock. “I know it sounds barbaric,” she said, bringing back the coffee, “but the metal stays cool, and as long as the serrated edges aren’t really sharp, it helps the tooth break through the gum. It’s all that straining against the gum that makes babies crazy. Once the full surface of the tooth breaks through, they settle right down.”

“Really?”

“I’ve got four sets of healthy gums marching their way to the orthodontist to prove it.”

Lean, lovely Celia Covington was way too toned to have birthed four children. Not if Essie’s own lumpy belly was any indication. Still, she had returned from the sideboard with java and cookies, not the spiffy-label bottled water that seemed to be the beverage of choice over in the corner. Those women looked like they’d not touched a cheese-burger since high school. “I’ll take your word for it. But I don’t own one. I don’t even know where you’d get one.”

“Well, you could go to TableSets and pay a ridiculous amount of money for some, or you could stop by Darkson’s restaurant supply just down the block and pick up a half-dozen for peanuts. If Josh is crying as you walk in the door, they might even give you one for free out of sheer sympathy.” She winked as she dipped a cookie into her coffee.

Essie decided that she might want to start liking Celia Covington.

“Now that we solved a few pediatric issues, here,” interjected Mark, looking at his watch, “we need to get started so I can give you ladies as much of my time as I can before my eleven o’clock appointment. Dahlia, do you have an agenda for today?”

Dahlia, who looked like she’d just walked off the cover of a magazine, flipped open an expensive-looking notepad. “Just two items, Pastor, but they’re hefty ones. One—” she held up her substantial silver pen and flicked it like an orchestra conductor “—I want to run down how things are going with Sunday school. It’s been two weeks, and we ought to be able to see the problem areas bubbling up by now.”

Essie gulped. Somehow she just knew this woman had a second-grade boy.

“Second—” the pen bobbed again “—it’s time to start the ball rolling on the Celebration.” That seemed to surprise some of the women around the table. “Now, gals, every January we’re caught scrambling. I know we’re all just getting our feet underneath us with Sunday school for the year, but I can’t help thinking now’s the time to start planning.”

Celebration? Could that be that “little drama thing later in the year” Mark-o mentioned? That thing he distinctly described as “nothing you’ll have to worry about”? She’d taught school long enough to know that any event requiring several months’ worth of preparation could never be classified as “nothing much.” Most especially when parents were in charge. Essie shot a look to her brother out of the corner of her eye. He knew this was just a trial stint. He knew she and Doug weren’t sure they could make it on one income, and that Essie going back to work in the new year was a distinct possibility. Now there was this Celebration thing in the mix? If she did go back to work, Essie was pretty sure she couldn’t handle this on top of it.

“Wise indeed, Dahlia,” Mark said in a pastoral tone. “It does feel like we scramble just after the holidays, doesn’t it? But I do think we ought to tackle the Sunday school stuff first, as I doubt my skills are really required for Celebration discussions.”

Oh, yes, Mark-o, get out while you can. Remind me to thank you later when I’m hand-sewing second graders into sheep costumes….

“Sorry I’m late. Max forgot his trumpet again and I had to swing by school. I think I’m going to make him take up the piccolo and tie it around his neck.” A woman in jeans and a red sweater dumped her large canvas bag on the floor next to one of the empty chairs and turned toward the coffeepots. “One of these days I’ll make it on time to a meeting.”

“We wouldn’t recognize you if you did, Meg. Come on, you haven’t missed much at all.” Celia waved her arm and pulled out the chair Meg had chosen.

“Which reminds me,” Mark said. “I’ve clean forgotten the introductions. Ladies, this is my sister, Esther Walker. She just moved here with her husband and baby to help us with Mom and Pop. Some of you already know her as the second-grade boys Sunday school teacher. Essie, these are my school soldiers. The fine ladies who keep Bayside’s Christian education programs up and running.”

“Pastor Taylor’s sister, hmm?” said Meg, plunking herself down in the chair. “I was wondering how he’d wrangled a newcomer into that spot. You’re either a brave woman, or you owe your brother a very big favor.”

“Now Meg, be nice….”

“I taught the Doom Room one year. I speak from firsthand knowledge.”

The Doom Room? The Doom Room? Essie swallowed hard. Just exactly what is it I’ve promised to do?

“Meg,” said Celia, “no fair scaring our new friend here. Just because you’ve now upgraded to the compliant third-grade girls’ class is no reason to think…”

“Ladies,” interjected Mark for the second time that morning, “Essie can handle our little men. I’d say one state champion athlete against eight small boys is more than a fair fight.”

“State champion athlete, is it?” said Celia, flexing perfectly manicured fingers. “Good. You’ll need it. What event?”

“Shot put.” Essie waited the obligatory ten seconds it took everyone on Planet Earth to realize all female shot-put champions did not necessarily look like pro wrestlers or have names like “Uta.” It happened every time.

The pastel corner didn’t seem to know what to do with that information. Nola nodded her head in a show of respect, Jan merely raised a dark eyebrow. Meg, however, looked downright tickled. “Shot put? Well, that ought to do nicely. Wow. How much does one of those things weigh, anyway?”

“About the weight of your average second grader.” Essie amazed even herself with the zippy comeback.

“I’d share that with the class next week,” Celia added.

“I just might.” Even the pastel contingency managed a giggle at that. Adding his own voice of approval, Josh produced a loud, squeaky grunt and shifted in his carrier. “Excuse me, but it seems I have a little business to take care of.”

“Want me to get Sam to handle it?”

“No, thanks, I think I’ll spare her the joy of diaper changing.” Truth be told, Essie wasn’t even sure he needed a diaper change—she was just glad for a reason to leave the room before the dissection of Sunday school began. Those women in the corner looked like they were in possession of firm opinions on all kinds of subjects. If they had suggestions—those kind of parents always called them “suggestions” rather than the more truthful label of “complaints”—Essie was sure she’d rather hear them through Mark-o’s compassionate filter than straight from the source.

Essie picked up Josh’s carrier as a pointed “Well now!” from Dahlia signaled the evaluation starting gun.

Go easy on me, ladies. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in twelve weeks.

“They gave it at least a seven-point-oh,” whispered Mark as she returned. He accompanied that last remark with a discreet thumbs-up under the conference table.

“Bible Heroes’ it is, then?” Dahlia was saying. “Arthur has a friend whose son is majoring in children’s theater at BSU—a fine young Christian man, someone we can trust with a project like this. I feel certain we can draft him into scriptwriting.” Essie was both impressed and baffled. This was a church play they were talking about, wasn’t it? One of those little forty-minute drama things? Where she came from, church plays were bought from the script rack at the local Christian bookstore or whipped up by someone’s good-natured mother. Drama penned by an advanced degree theater major; well, that was pretty hot stuff.

From the way Dahlia put it, however, it sounded as if the committee was going to request a statement of faith and four references from the poor young man. She could see it now: Dahlia’s silver pen slashing its way through the poor young scriptwriter’s first drafts, editing, cutting, changing. Asking for the theological reasons for dressing the wandering Israelites in blue, rather than beige.

Three years of teaching had taught her to spot this type of parent. Essie was glad it wasn’t Dahlia’s son who’d sketched the belching apostle. Dahlia looked like the kind of mom who would write a long letter over something like that. A really long letter. Anyone with a pen that formidable would know how to use it.

Twenty minutes of discussion followed. After they gave her class the story of Zacchaeus, Essie didn’t catch much of the rest. Her brain was busy concocting the image of second-grade boys launching themselves off of piled-up classroom chairs while others shouted, “Zacchaeus, come down,” in their best deep Son-of-God voices. Evidently, each classroom was being assigned their own hero. Mr. Scriptwriter would be given his detailed marching orders, and the “Celebration of Bible Heroes” was born.

Dahlia snapped the cap on her pen, signaling the end of the meeting.

“Come on,” said Celia as she stuffed her notes into a canvas bag. “I’ve got a bit of time before I have to drop Sam off. We can go get you those grapefruit spoons.”

“Just give me a second.” Essie ducked back into the church’s administrative offices, leaving Celia to grin at Josh as he made faces at her from his carrier. Waving at the harried-looking secretary, Essie snagged a Post-it note and pen off the woman’s desk. She wrote, “Mark-o, call me” in her large handwriting and stuck it to Mark-o’s closed door.

September in San Francisco was feeling complicated, but evidently it was going to make February look like a walk in the park…if she even lasted that long.

Chapter 3

Stinky Whale Guts

“You’re not going to let Joshua chew on that thing, are you?” Dorothy Taylor eyed the evil implement Essie was about to hand the First-Ever Grandson.

“Actually, yes. It really works.” Essie assumed the position she’d held every waking moment for the past two days. Josh in one arm, grapefruit spoon in other hand. Chew, drool, repeat. Sleep for thirty minutes, wail, then begin again. Essie had decided she was developing a healthy hatred for teeth. Teeth=no sleep. No sleep=bad days and worse nights. She had begun scouring the baby books this morning to see how much longer it would be before Josh could hold his own spoon, thereby buying her perhaps forty-five minutes of uninterrupted sleep. Evidently that precious mercy wouldn’t be forthcoming for at least another month. She yawned involuntarily at the thought of so little sleep for so long. “He’s having such trouble cutting this first tooth. I hope they’re not all like this.”

Dorothy Taylor eyed the handle of the grapefruit spoon, now wobbling with every gummy chomp as it stuck out of Joshua’s tiny mouth. She frowned again. “I just don’t know, Essie. I never gave you or Mark any such thing. I remember I just woke up one day…”

“And noticed we had teeth. Yes, Mom, you’ve told me.” And trust me, it’s not helping to hear how you never went through any such thing. I’m already feeling so confident in my parenting skills. Really, it does wonders for you to hand me another reason to question things. Please, if you think of any more, don’t hesitate to bring them up. “How’s Dad liking the new doctor?”

“Oh, he argues with this one just like he did in New Jersey. Yesterday he told Dr. Einhart that he walks thirty minutes each day.”

“He what?”