Oh, Baby!

All three of our daughters are soooooo efficient. Definitely a trait from Mr. Wonderful. It took me three weeks to do "Quilt In A Day." Seriously. 

So when D3 was on high alert awaiting a baby sister for Little Cutie, I decided the hour was at hand. THE NEW, IMPROVED, ORGANIZED GRAMMY! Ready to come up and watch Little Cutie at a moment's notice.

Maps to hospital. Check. Garmin. Check. Dog, cat, and rabbit feeding instructions. Security System codes. Little Cutie's medical authorization. Check, check, check.

Duffle bag packed. Lotion, shampoo, conditioner, and medicine refilled. Yup.

Hair washed daily. (Stays with Little Cutie mean iffy hygiene for Grammy. No details. Just trust me.)

And then - D3 was scheduled to be induced! 

I confess. I let down my guard. Sure, the baby could arrive before the scheduled day. But Little Cutie took hours of labor. Hours.

So, one morning, I somehow conclude IT. WILL. NOT. BE. TODAY. 

I do not wash my hair. I put my decent jeans into the washer. And my contacts into the six-hour-cleaning solution.  

Immediately, a text from D3: "I think I am in labor. I am having trouble talking through my contractions. Getting ultrasound shortly, will let you know."

Wait . . . WHAT?? Okay, put duffel bag in car. Wet jeans on hanger in car. Glasses cleaned. Why the *&%@ didn't I wash my hair? 

New D3 text:  "Come on up. Contractions right through ultrasound. Why don't you go straight to daycare? Will leave carseat there."

Carseat? In Mini Cooper? Ruh-roh. Did not figure on that one. Carseat goes in (if at all) one way: through the boot (British for "tiny opening where trunk lid should be"). 

The process? Open boot. Put down one back seat, force the carseat through, slide it over and attach tethers. Gulp.

Divine inspiration. I get everything into the Mini in a truly unique (okay, helter-skelter) way. To insert carseat, just remove duffel bag. And complete the process, above. Genius, right?

And I am rolling. About 150 miles to Miss Debbie's Daycare. 

D3 is calling now. "Mom - what's your EXACT e/t/a for daycare?"

"4:48 p.m." I reply. (Thanks, Garmin.) Good news! Miss Debbie will wait! Still, I am wishing Baltimore was not in the way. Also, that the rain would stop.

But St. Christopher is my co-pilot. About 4:30, I look wistfully in the direction of the hospital and head to Miss Debbie's. 

At 4:48 on the button, I arrive! Assure Miss Debbie it will be "just a minute" while I put the carseat in. 

Through the boot. In the rain. Crawling in and out of the rear seat (not an actual back seat) of my 2-door Mini. Old jeans and bad hair are not such a bad idea.

Carseat in, but I can't fasten the seat belt tethers. I pray. Loudly. I-will-not-swear-I-will-not-swear . . . 

Text from son-in-law: "D3 is officially in labor."

"HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!" Click!

Grab Little Cutie. Stay calm. Don't scare him.  We're in the drive-thru line. Get some nuggets and get him home. Almost our turn . . .

Text from son-in-law: "7 lb. 9 oz. 20 in. Just perfect."

What????? WHAT????? Baby Girl is here? 

Yep. at 4:31 p.m. Just as I passed the hospital. 

Breathe. No details coming. The word "perfect" is a huge comfort though.

But then I start to remember that Miss Debbie said D3 was having trouble driving when she brought the carseat. Mentioned possibly waiting for son-in-law to pick her up from somewhere. 

Did she have the baby in the hospital?  Or, "Proud to announce the birth of our little girl in Target's parking lot." Focus, Grammy! PERFECT!!

At the house, Little Cutie and I pick at our dinner. 

Then, a call from D3 and son-in-law. The baby was born in the hospital! Yay! (Son-in-law did pick D3 up at Target on the way.)

"We want Little Cutie to be the first one to see the baby.  Can you bring him up tonite?" 

Didn't I just drive 150 miles? In the rain? Without bathroom breaks? Wait - first to see the baby?? "ON OUR WAY!!!!"

We make an impressively quick exit. Okay, we only find one shoe for Little Cutie, but whatever. Special childbirth rules.

At the hospital, it is clear that D3 is well-known around the maternity ward. Everyone knows Little Cutie is The Big Brother. He is grinning like a little rock star.

And there they are - mother and baby. Such a precious little one. 

And D3 - WHAT THE HECK?? - her hair and makeup looking fresh as ever. Because (wait-for-it) 45 minutes from admission to birth. See, D3 is efficient!!

We are all in love. Some other day Grammy will become organized. And no one will notice Little Cutie has no shoes in the photo. (Or if they do, they will have the grace not to mention it to Grammy!)

For today, it is more than enough to greet our new little blessing!  

Welcome to the world, Baby Sister!

Your Hundred Year Guide to Skin Care

Enough! Just saw a drugstore ad that "thoughtfully" listed women's beauty products by age - 20's, 30's, 40's and 50's.

Like no one over 60 need bother? Is that the message? Ladies, we are just getting to the good part at 60! Phooey on those teenage copywriters!!

Our three daughters and yours truly nearly drove Mr. Wonderful completely bonkers with the line item "Health & Beauty Aids."  You name it - we tried it. Thus, a vast storehouse of knowledge. And we will share.

20's:  Only one rule: STAY OUT OF THE SUN.  I know - nearly impossible since you still look good in a swimsuit, so use plenty of sunblock, then repeat. (Blondes should start to apply moisturizer in mid-20's so they will know how by the time they are 30.)

30's: You need to moisturize now. A light product is plenty. More importantly, clean your face every single night. This gets harder when kids come along, but that strained carrot mask will not do your complexion any favors - trust me.

40's:  Get serious, girlfriend. Try a couple of brands. That includes freebie samples that come your way. The creepy we-know-all-about-you marketers (think of them as "personal shoppers") will supply you with appropriate products. Got my first Regenerist in the Sunday paper! Score! Try them all. Use what works.

50's. Okay, someone will tell you soon, "You look great FOR YOUR AGE." Breathe. The options are (1) pretend the remark was directed at someone else, (2) volunteer an eye doctor recommendation, and/or (3) channel those raging hormones for once and flatten the idiot. Whew - did I just type that? In any case, continue to try new products. An eye cream? Probably. And SPF 2000 in your moisturizers. Okay, my dermatologist, age twelve, says SPF 30 will do. But if they start to make SPF 2000 by the time you are 50, try it, sweetie!

60's: Good news, girlfriend - you might still be alive. Even attractive. Now bring out the big guns. Are you at risk of having a VW get lost in your pores? A little Preparation H. All the beauty queens use it. Also, a really great night cream. Get creative. Consider Vaseline. And remember high school Biology? Don't you wish we could get our hands on some formaldehyde? It is, however, a carcinogen, and Amazon doesn't carry it. Bummer.

70's - 90's:  Okay, this is hypothetical territory. Never fear - my research has begun.

With the money to be made on Boomers, we can safely assume that skincare will continue to advance. Ditto the surgical options. So here is the plan: Try every new cream, lotion, potion and compound. If it works for you (and you can remember to use it - heh-heh), go for it.

BUT no surgery (raise your right hand, girls!). Have you ever repainted a bathroom, only to realize the vanity and floor look dated? Same risk with a little nip and tuck! Let the celebrities who have gone this route serve as a lesson to you.

Frankly, my time in Southern California probably scarred me (no pun intended). Costco lines replete with ladies with perky "girls" or eyes that no longer shut. Depends or Efferdent in their carts! Need I say more?

Exception: if you are completely certain that you can limit surgery to a single procedure (as in, "it's elective surgery and it will take a reverse mortgage for anything more"), then I sincerely hope you are thrilled with your new look. But you might put title to your primary residence out of your reach, just in case.

As for me, in lieu of foundation (or under it), my money is on spackle! No more wrinkles! I have heard that Home Depot will match your skin tone if you find a clerk with a name like Doris or Cleta.

100 and beyond. Just think - if you can fog a mirror, everyone will tell you how great you look!! And you will! Enjoy every minute!

A final word:  If we are blessed enough to live to a ripe old age, our skin will age. Nobody is singled out for it. Our friends who left this world too soon would be delighted to age with us.

So let's enjoy the face we have today and every tomorrow. (If God gives us ten more years, we will wish for today's face anyway.)

And I pray for an absolute bonfire of birthday candles - for all of us.

Food for Thought

When I was working, like most moms, I always tried to do one-too-many errands during lunch. Typically, the last thing on my list was food, so I could eat quickly if needed. 

Most days I inhaled lunch as an afterthought. That often left me in a drive-thru. 

Southern California has at least its share of homeless men, women and kids.  Over time, I noticed the same man sitting outside the golden arches.  Sometimes he held a sign asking for food, sometimes not.  

I started ordering a meal for him.  The two cheeseburger meal seemed pretty filling – it included fries and a soft drink.  Pretty soon he knew to expect lunch when I came through.

One day, he flagged me down as I inched through the drive-thru line.   He didn’t say anything – just handed me a note. It was printed, on paper torn from a notebook, by a hand unaccustomed to writing. And in the years since, I have kept it. This is verbatim, except for his name:

“I am really gratefull for your kindness. I'm slow at confersation or Ide of done told you, I don't drink suger or carbs, as a general rule. I feel gilty for not expressing that sooner, and chicken nuggetts or chicken saled, or fish sandwich is more healthy, if you need a yard or handyman, the knames Charles, or Charles Tyler, this is humiliating for me to give out my name in such circumstances, but I owe you that. thank you, and be not obligated to do good, but let your heart regause in well doing."

A thousand thoughts ran through my mind. Ashamed to say, they included: "wait, it's a free lunch!" and "millions of homeless in the world, and I had to find the one who is cutting carbs?"" and "drat! I think the salad will cost more!" 

I read the note again. And I welled up. 

What it must have cost Charles! How painful it must have been to write such a note. And how would he get medical care if I clogged his arteries with cheeseburgers and fries day after day? 

I bought him a salad and powerade. 

As I drove back to the office, the profound lesson was suddenly mingled with the recognition of God's sense of humor, and I could not stop laughing.  

Charles was EXACTLY the blessing I needed in my life. God surely picked him out just for me! How much I needed his presence! How much I had to learn!

I thought I had tried to see Jesus in Charles, but my failure was EPIC. I had seen only his homelessness - but not his humanity. Why didn't I talk with him - ask what he wanted? Why didn't I get out of my car and eat with him? And find out what else he needed? Instead, I sat in my comfort zone and gave on my own terms!

Humbled, I parked the car and went back to the trenches.  

“. . . whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me.” Matthew 25:40.

And said a quick prayer, "Thank you, Father, for blessing my life with Charles. 'My heart rejoices in well doing!' 

And sorry, Lord,, for not asking what your will was. And did not mean to load You up with carbs. Amen."

Miracle on Marsh Drive

It was a loooonnnng weekend. Grammy watched Little Cutie for four days. By myself. At his house. The house he shares with two dogs, a house cat, three barn kitties (in the basement?), and one very large rabbit.

Little Cutie was feeling his oats. I know - pick your battles. Okay to put his shoes on the wrong feet and insist on the pj's that used to fit. But when my "do not climb the rock" was followed by him scrambling up a boulder and grinning, I sternly lifted him down. Also scared him by stepping in an unseen hole so we both did face plants.

That little guy who cheerfully went to the potty in February? Gone. "Noooooo potttyyyyyy!!!!" And this has to be the first time I have ever washed blueberries off the FEET of a little guy after blueberry pancakes.

Like this look? He turned his cap backward the minute we entered Walmart. Um, does it say, "I'm almost 3 - don't mess with me!"?

So after keeping all the ark's occupants alive for 3 1/2 days (thanks to a spreadsheet of who-eats-what-when-and-how-much), I realized that Sunday Mass would mean Little Cutie in tow.

Holy Mother of God. And I mean it in the most reverent way possible.  Fact is, I had been praying for weeks about this formidable prospect. Asking God and my holy friends for guidance.

We would try 11 a.m. Mass. Maybe Little Cutie would have less energy then. Navy blue polo - check. Khakis - check. Purse loaded with all items per holy-friends-whose-kids-are-always-good-in-church - check.

As we approached the Marsh Drive church, the massive chimes began to peal. Little Cutie's eyes were like saucers. At the door, ushers greeted him with high fives. "Pray for us," I whispered.

I picked the perfect seat. On an aisle. We could see the altar. And make a quick exit.

Little Cutie promptly grabbed a massive hymnal. He did not, however, drop it on the floor. He sat back in the pew and placidly turned the pages. WHAT? Yep. God is good. Read on and believe.

Fear: Holy Water splashing anyone in range.

Actual: Little Cutie dipped fingers into Holy Water and let Grammy guide him making the Sign of the Cross.

Fear: The opening hymn (SIX verses?) interrupted by loud shouts of "I wanna go hooooommmmmmmme!!!"

Actual: Little Cutie stood on the kneeler, held the hymnal, and flirted briefly with the grandfatherly fellow behind us.

Fear: Readings would include tap-dance-down-the-pew, drop-the-kneeler, and you-can't-get-me in the aisle.

Actual: Sat quietly during the readings, and when they ended, said, "Amen."

Fear:  At the collection, Little Cutie would (a) drop the coins on the floor, (b) stick them in someone's ear, or (c) refuse to let them go, "Nooooo, it's myyyyyyy money!"

Actual: Little Cutie placed his donation in the basket and smiled at the usher who ruffled his hair.

Fear: The walk to Communion might include (a) wiggling, shouting, and/or running, (b) grabbing the consecrated host from the Eucharistic Minister, and/or (c) loud objections to being blessed by same.

Actual: Little Cutie happily let me carry him, watched with big eyes as I received, and smiled angelically as the Eucharistic Minister signed the cross on his little forehead.

You may think I have totally lost it. I do not have photos (much as I wanted to pull out my cell phone and capture the moment, it was CHURCH, after all).

But somewhere in Pennsylvania is a witness. A woman who approached us after Mass, saying "I have never seen a little guy be so very good in church!" (To my shame, I replied, "Thank you. You have just witnessed a miracle.")

This is what a boy who was perfect in church looks like when he is headed home:

Mommy and Daddy had already arrived. When D3 realized we were just getting home from church, she said (in a voice that hinted at not really wanting to know), "How was he?"

"Perfect." I replied. "No child has ever behaved better in church than Little Cutie this morning."

"You're kidding, right? Just a little sarcasm, right?"

Nope.

Maybe, as my oldest suggested, the law of averages finally fluked in my favor. After a lifetime of wigglers, screamers, moon shots, it was simply my turn for a perfect child.

But I choose to believe it was an answer to prayers. A once-in-a-lifetime joy.

In short, it was a miracle.

No photos needed. It is written on this Grammy's heart forever.

God bless you, Little Cutie! He has already blessed Grammy.

Oh - and I know - it was just this once!

An Offer We Can't Refuse

"You can't get me!"

A chase ensues. In the lead is an adorable two-and-a-half-year-old running at full tilt. In not-so-hot pursuit, this out-of-shape Grammy. Why is my mind on Marlon Brando in "The Godfather?"

You know, the scene where is Don Corleone, played by Brando, is chasing a grandson through the garden. It is adorable and heartbreaking and ironic. The bond between grandparent and grandchild is warm and dear. Just when you think there might be one truly happy moment in the film, BAM!, Don Corleone drops dead! Right there in the tomato plants.

Okay, a bit dramatic, but remembering a few parenting skills is not the same as being twenty-something again. And Little Cutie was here for a week. Did I mention he is two-and-a-half? Read on.

Little Cutie is FAST. Put a Fit-Bit on him fast! Chase the dog fast. Face-plant fast!

Little Cutie is mechanically inclined. Two-seconds-to-learn-flashlight-functions-I-didn't-know-existed. Every button, switch, lever, doorknob, faucet, cord, and remote calls to him. So do we - "Nooooooooooo!!!!!"

Little Cutie is a climber. To the top of the playground. Out of the highchair. Able to leap from the carseat to the front seat to the backseat to the trunk in a single bound!


Little Cutie is Busy. Every. Single. Second. Parachute play busy. Hide and seek busy.  Pick up sticks in the yard busy. Flop on the dog busy.

Little Cutie is Potty Training. Going well (ha-ha), except when he aims at his socks or his jeans. We raised three girls. 😟 Grammy's new trick is called "redirect-the-stream."

Little Cutie Loves Noise.  Towers of wooden blocks collapse.  Pump up the volume and dance to "Hot Dog! Hot Dog! Hot Diggity Dog!" Cries of "Oh, Toodles" (and that was Mr. Wonderful!)


Little Cutie Notices Everything. That his grilled cheese has Mickey on it.  A Super Mickey cape. That we try in vain to read Hello, Ninja  just like Mommy does. That he can outrun us.


Epilogue: The Brando moment will have to wait. No casualties.

D3 (a/k/a Mommy) was welcomed back with joyous tears and a happy dance! ( Little Cutie was glad to see her too.) Our little buddy was headed home.

Later, as Mr. Wonderful and I lay our weary heads upon our pillows, he asks, "So do you feel younger having had the little guy here for the week?"

"The truth?" I ask, cautiously.

"Sure!"

"I was just lying here thinking that every single part of my whole body hurts. Even my hair."

"Me too."

And we can't wait for next time.

It's an offer we can't refuse.

It (Really!) Is What It Is

In this New Year, I should be making resolutions. As if, at the stroke of midnight, the world will be blessed with a brand new me. (Maybe a resolution about the frequency of this blog?)

Instead, in 2017 I resolve not to bite off more than I can chew. In fact, I might resolve to have my jaw wired shut. To keep my foot from landing in my mouth, of course. And for a weight loss resolution - which, sadly, is needed after a five year burst of self-control.

But enough of self-improvement. Instead, a Christmas gift from my brother, Eagle Scout, has inspired me to write this post:

(Resolve to brush up on my Latin?) Yep. It Is What It Is. In wearable form. Suitably serious color. And startlingly effective at hiding the Christmas cookies I consumed! Love. It.

Wearing this sweatshirt got me thinking about this phrase. In my lawyer days, people said they knew I would say it in a crunch.

Seriously. When the latest legal quagmire invited despair, Ole Bethsquire would, with an absolutely cool head, say "It is what it is."

As in (by way of example only - see Disclaimers below), "A repo guy picked up our car with a baby asleep in the carseat? It is what it is."

This would, of course, be followed by a brilliant strategy derived from my hard-won "think-like-a-lawyer" skills and (thankfully!) the light of the Holy Spirit and a bit of common sense.

"First, GET THE BABY SAFELY HOME TO MOMMA! Next, pursue all lawful means to make this customer our new best friend. And, find local legal counsel. Oh, and never, EVER use that repo guy again."

Those who know me well are scratching their heads and thinking, "Wow -  I never suspected she had a well-adjusted bone in her body!!"

It surprises even me. Got it from my dad.

St. Raymond was a "cut-to-the-chase" guy. As in (with raised eyebrows - very important) "I don't care who started it!"

Completely pointless to try, "But, but, but, but, daddy!" Due process in the court of St. Raymond was swift and certain. He assessed the crime, and whatever one of us kids had coming was quickly dispensed to all three. No exceptions. (This was long before self esteem was a thing.)

Only once or twice did St. Raymond offer an explanation for his expedited, global justice. It went like this:

"I know you might not be at fault this time. But I refuse to hear a bunch of excuses and finger pointing. Sometimes you may get more or less punishment than you deserve. However, over the course of your childhood, it will even out. You will each receive about the right amount of discipline, and we won't have to talk about it."

It Is What It Is.  Right?  Done!

Afterward, we would dry our tears and move on. St. Raymond had a quick flash point, but was just as quick to forgive and forget.

And he applied the same approach to life. As in the time we came out of the Civic Center after the circus to find our car, um, different, somehow. Hubcaps missing? Oh, no. All four wheels were gone! Yep, our car was sitting on the axles.

Photo by born1945

Wailing and gnashing of teeth? Not from my dad. St. Raymond looked at the car, and said, "Well, we'll have to call the police and the insurance adjuster and find a ride home." Period.

So why mention it?

Because most things that happen in life are nuisances.  We whine (personal experience!) and complain (gifted at this!) and throw up our hands, but It Is What It Is.

My dad knew that. I am guessing that WWII gave him perspective. He knew what serious difficulty and true tragedy were, and did not confuse them with daily nonsense.

Whatever 2017 brings our way, may we all have the grace of perspective.

"O God, grant me the serenity 

to accept the things I cannot change, 

the courage to change the things I can, 

and the wisdom to know the difference."

Wishing you a year of nuisances that invite you to say, "It Is What It Is" and move on.

Because that will be one Happy New Year!

Thanksgiving - Across the Spectrum

Yep, this Thanksgiving I am beyond thankful. FYI, the "spectrum" reference in the caption is not the Autism Spectrum, which affects two of our grandsons. Nope. They are every bit as adorable and amazing as the rest of the bunch. Cousins together? Epic!

But the political spectrum - that's another story! Collectively, we voted for every candidate out there.  In a normal election year, we would be over it long before Thanksgiving. Not this year. Blame global warming.

With that in mind, in recent weeks I have stormed heaven with this prayer:

"Dear-God-Keep-Your-Hand-Over-My-Mouth-on-Thanksgiving-Amen."

Still, I have been filled with trepidation. Foreboding, even.

So, this morning, when I am already missing the dozen faces we rarely see together in one room, I recognize the fruits of answered prayers.  Here, in random order, are a few of the blessings that fill me with profound gratitude:

• That despite all the craziness in their lives, everyone got there!!
• That D3 (who hosted) is an amazing cook. Ditto D1 and D2!
• For the Caramel Apple Sangria.
• For the son-in-law who took kids outdoors to ride the tractor, see the rabbit, hit the baseball, climb the woodpile, watch an Amish buggy clip-clop past.
• That I brought the gravy separator.
• That the two teens still sit at the kids' table as if they aren't taller than most of the adults, still pretend to laugh at our jokes, still hug grandparents.
• That the two most ardent politicos (yes, opposite ends of that spectrum) were completely civil when they briefly talked politics. 
• That no one else mentioned the election (at least within earshot).
• That no one laughed too hard when I kept stirring the same dry spot in the gravy pan as I sipped sangria.
• That, even though he was cooking up a sinus thing, Mr. Wonderful powered through.
• That our three daughters are still hilarious together.
• That D3 did not have to wonder if the appetizers were tasty - just where they went.
• For astounding, abundant facts about grasshoppers (insect, not beverage).
• That we got a great picture (as well as several silly outtakes) of D1, D2 and D3 with Mr. Wonderful.
• For a quiet moment with heads bowed in prayer.
• For loved ones gone before us who were surely there in spirit.
• For Disney movies.
• For sons-in-law whose low-key presence is exactly what the younger kids needed.
• For a precious conversation between a six-year-old on that other spectrum and his two-year-old cousin.
• For a son-in-law and grandson who cleaned the entire kitchen without being asked!
• For D3's brilliant strategy (dessert bribery) to get a group photo when it seemed all hope was lost.
• For 6 a.m. Black Friday sales with all the girls, and for the guys who held down the fort while we shopped.

But most of all, I thank God for His amazing goodness. For these memories. Each daughter, son-in-law and grandchild is a precious, one-of-a-kind gift. No one could ever deserve such blessings! And yet, they surrounded our Thanksgiving table. 

And that's not the sangria talking.

Election? What Election?

I know. We want to hide until it's over. And I don't trust anyone who says they actually like one of the choices. This stinks.

But you knew you could count on my two cents, right? Because I am eminently awesome at making decisions . . . . okay, not so much. But I will give you my thoughts, because I don't know what else to do with them!

First, there is no point whatsoever in asking how the bleep we got here. And there is no chance a third party candidate will actually win, so no fair voting for one. Please, no eeny, meeny in the voting booth and no staying home. Read the title of this blog over and over if you need to:

IT IS WHAT IT IS

Okay. So, as between the two actual contenders, which one has strong character? Trick question. Neither of the above. Both are deeply, publicly flawed.

Here is my approach: Forget who they are.  Yes - I actually said that!

What kind of America do you want for your kids and your grandkids? 

And, what candidate has made commitments that line up with that vision on the issues you care most about?

If you need to, rank some issues that matter to you. A few thoughts in random order -

Jobs

Healthcare

Terrorism

Military and veterans

Immigration

First Amendment

Second Amendment

Court appointments

You will have others. Okay - more than enough to think about.

Finally, a cheery fact to remember as you head to the polls (heh-heh):

NO ONE WILL KNOW WHO WE VOTED FOR!!! 

(Please don't tell me Julian Assange will know - I can't stand it!!)

Anonymity! Empowering all of us! Forget the pollsters, the pundits, the late-night talk shows, your friends, your mother-in-law, the media, the signs in your neighbors' yards, Facebook, and the so-called experts.

Remember who you are, and what matters to you.

Be fearless in that voting booth!

And never forget that God can use ANYONE for good.  Even Hillary. Even Donald.

This Tuesday, He will use you and me..

Another Day Closer to Dressing Like . . .?

Okay - time for a flashback. Who remembers "sister dresses?"

Yep - those were a thing. And definitely a better deal for the older sister, who endured the dress only 'til outgrown. (My baby sister, "Blondie," is cringing - black velveteen bodices and striped skirts, right?)

Admittedly, my view of dressing alike is a bit off-center,. The result of personal trauma. Read on.

My childhood friends included kids from huge Catholic families (think Kennedys - without money). Our parish had several, each one filling a whole pew. (On time! Maybe that's how you get a whole pew.)

Anyway, one year Mrs. de Vout, mother of eight (or nine?), must have scored a deal on a whole bolt of fabric. Spring-y colors - hot pink, and sunshine yellow - not exactly understated - but it was spring. The de Vout sewing machine must have run nonstop.

And one Sunday morning, in they came. Pink-and-yellow, genuflect. Pink-and-yellow, genuflect. Pink-and-yellow, genuflect. A sea of pink-and-yellow. A-line dresses. Poufy dresses, Matching kerchiefs. Mr. de Vout and the boys? Pink-and-yellow ties.

Okay, I should have been praying but it was straight out of the "The Sound of Music" - only brighter and in church. Still, it was on trend at the time.

Fast forward to my law firm days. Also known as the "Princess-Diana-loves-polka-dots" era. Yep. One day every female in the firm - lawyers, paralegals, administrative assistants, and yours truly - unintentionally showed up in polka dots. Black with white, Every. Single. One. (Luckily, this was before "who-wore-it-better.")

Lives in shambles! Like the young male intern who worked a summer in the Legal Dept.with me. One Casual Friday he wore a black shirt and khakis. Good choice, right? Unless you are dressed like every FEMALE in the Department. Awkward!

But lately, a too-close-to-home, scarier trend has surfaced. First, only Sundays. Mr. Wonderful and I do a mad dash for church. Feed dogs, showers, breakfast, dogs out, dogs gated, go! We don't see each other until we get to the car. Dressed alike. Week after week. Coincidence,,  right? You be the judge:

Perhaps not. (Cue the "Twilight Zone" theme.) There's this. We pay no attention to spousal packing (clothes, not the spouse) when we travel. Never have. And yet - recently - at our destination, we are dressed alike. Every single day. Khakis and navy. Jeans and burgundy. IU shirt day.

So it might be time to apologize to my brother for a certain birthday card. On the front, "Another year older?" Inside, "Another year closer to dressing like dad!"

It was funny at the time..

Oh, and Blondie - about making you sing at school in those horrid sister dresses . . .

Chronic Hosting Disorder

If there is ever an Olympic event for tripping over your own feet, I will medal. Regrettably, I have also been known to inflict crazy on others. Company coming? Look out!

My social fails started small. I planned a surprise birthday party for Mr. Wonderful. The guests gathered quietly in the front room of our little Indiana house. I just needed to figure out how to get Mr. W. in the front door, which we never used.

"The dog threw up here! Go to the front door!!"

In hindsight, a bit weak, but it was the best I could do at the time. So, after he mushed his bootless feet through the deep snow to the front door, his grand entrance sounded something like "$@#%&& *!@$# bleep #*+$@ SURPRISE!!!!!" 

Not exactly what I was going for. Still, he was surprised!

Through the years, I have served guests chicken so overdone that it looked like roast sparrow, set a peach cobbler ablaze, and made clam chowder every Christmas Eve for years until we noticed D2 was always covered in hives as she hung her stocking.

But things got out of control when we invited friends to dinner at our California house. Although we would eat indoors, Mr. Wonderful hosed off the patio, just in case. All went well until termites - driven from their tiny homes by the hose - swarmed the dining room table. And our food. And my friend starting picking up little critters off her plate. And talking to them, No one died, of course. But recovering from this goes way beyond twelve steps.

Thus, if company comes, I obsess . So when dear California friends (nope - not the termite people) said they would like to eat some Maryland crabs and visit us during their D.C. vacation, I immediately began to plan the assault, er, the visit.

First, the concerns. My friend, "Law & Oscar," is an attorney and serious movie buff. She and her spouse effortlessly host Academy Awards viewing parties for over 100 guests every year. Okay, I will just block that out!

Law & Oscar is recovering from an exploded femur. No stairs. We need accessibility. One son's special needs include an entree from his short list. Also, wifi. Oh, and D3 would be driving from Pennsylvania to surprise them. With her two-year-old. Need high chair and kiddie menu.

Also, the Bay Bridge. Extending four miles over the Chesapeake Bay, it is a marvel. Until some knucklehead has a fender bender on the span on a weekend. Then it becomes a parking lot with a lovely water view.

So we would need crab options on BOTH sides of the Bridge, just in case. There was consensus on a crab house on the Eastern Shore. So I mapped it. And looked up the menus. Confirmed accessibility. And wifi. Kiddie menu. High chair. But no reservations on Saturdays. And it would be packed.

Annapolis was more challenging. Oddly, no one seems to cross the Bridge from our side to eat crabs. No alternative except to consult experts: the Internet, the Washington Post, and some total strangers at a quilting class. I mapped the options. And looked up the menus. Confirmed accessibility. And wifi. Kiddie menus. High chairs. No reservations on Saturdays. And both would be packed.

Meanwhile, our fantastic neighbors wrapped their table in brown paper, pulled up their crab pots, got out the Old Bay and provided Crab 101 to us over lunch, complete with hammers and miles of paper towels! That's right - despite living here five years, Mr. W. and I had never picked crabs!

Finally the big day came. The weather was hot and sunny. The Bay Bridge traffic was moving. All three cars arrived at the Crab House simultaneously. Right after a huge bus.

After hugs and greetings, we went up the ramp (score!) to claim a waterfront table in air-conditioned comfort. Um, no. Someone (from the bus?) was having a private event in our dining room. And enjoying our A/C. And our view.

That left two options, We could climb many stairs to the second floor. No ramp, no elevator. The view? The sky. Just the sky..

Or, we could head back down the ramp and look for a spot on the waterfront deck . Luck was with us. We actually found one. With umbrellas. And we located a high chair.

Did not know we would not have the full menu  - just a short deck menu. But with three lawyers among us, we were able to shake down - er, convince - the server that we would be needing a few things off the main menu. (heh-heh)

The service was more relaxed (okay, slow) on the deck. Especially the food from the main menu took a bit longer. Much longer, actually. And it was our special needs buddy and our two-year-old grandson who were waiting. Still, the wifi was working and there was a duck walking under the tables (amusing, if you are two). There was a lovely breeze from time to time.  Otherwise, it was very warm.

So are you waiting for details of the latest disaster???  I got nothin'!

No one went into anaphalactic shock. Or put an eye out with crab shells. Or fell into the water. No one had a meltdown from the sound of hammering or the wait. No one succumbed to heat exhaustion. No critters swarmed our table. No one tripped Law & Oscar. The wifi held.

And as I think about the day, the crazy kind of fades. Leaving the friends, their teens (who are ridiculously tall), the water view and the food. And singing the birthday song to Law & Oscar. And messing with D3 to start the song while we pretended not to join in. And having ice cream and cupcakes from scratch at our house.

It was a great time. Maybe the curse is broken!!

And my last thought before I lapsed into a coma on the couch?

"Um - were the cupcakes a bit dry?"

Lifetime Warranty, Anyone?

Do you ever wonder who-in-the-world keeps all their warranties and actually makes claims?

That would be us.

A warranty got us a new printer. A hose reel. My umbrella repaired. When or where did I get that old umbrella? Have no idea, but I like it! Up or down with one button!

Which brings me to this question:

At what point in life is a "lifetime warranty" too much?

Haha, you say.  Nope - I am dead (whoops!) serious.

The issue first came up when we were buying an exquisite, cast iron Christmas tree stand. Pricey, but lifetime warranty. Even in our forties, the thought occurred that the tree stand could outlast us. Fast forward MANY years. To our fake tree. (Sniff.) On my bucket list? A real tree. In that tree stand. Still, it seems a waste.

And some things shouldn't last forever. D3 had a backpack with a lifetime warranty. The company replaced the zipper. Then a pen exploded in it. I shot it full of hairspray and tossed it in the washer, in spite of label warnings. Like new!

So is D3 still carrying it? Forest green - need I say more?  Anyhow, these days she carries a briefcase or a diaper bag.

Still, wanting a good warranty is a hard habit to break.

The issue really came into focus over the summer when we realized that our AC is not really cooling the house anymore and repairing it might not make sense.

Several HVAC professionals estimated replacement costs and options.

Including warranties. Some came with a lifetime warranty. Quality, right? Can't stay in business otherwise.

So, we did our cost/benefit conversation. Mr. Wonderful thought it made sense to get a system with a lifetime warranty for our "forever home."

I was less certain. "What if one of us dies before the heat and air do?"

An innocent (but reasonable) question, or so I thought.

Silence. And not in a good way. Still, I pressed on . . .

"Will you stay in this house if I die first?"

"Of course!!"

"Do you think I will stay if you go first?"

"Where else would you go?"

"I am thinking of a nice condo."

"A CONDO???  WHERE????"

"Anywhere I want. You'll be dead!"

We got the lifetime warranty. Still not sure about it. Probably should have checked to see if it is transferable, but that is hindsight.

And Mr. Wonderful is looking at me with new eyes. It is pretty hard to surprise him after all these years, but maybe - just this once - I did!

Not Your Sisters' Childhood

It is a miracle that our youngest daughter is the lovely, kind,, hardworking young wife, mother and HR professional she is today. No, she wasn't kidnapped by aliens.  But D3 did NOT have the same childhood as her older sisters. Not by a long shot.

In theory, D3 should have had the best childhood. D3's sisters were 12 and 14 when she was born. God knows her parents were experienced.  But also OLD.  Were OLD the day she was born.

Our wake up call came the first time we had dinner guests. Mr. Wonderful tiptoed into the adjacent room to check the sleeping cherub in the low basket, quietly lowering himself for a closer look. Then his knees went, "Pop! Pop!" and D3 woke up screaming. Um, that was new.

And we have been distracted all of D3's life. When you have two teen-aged daughters, you had better be paying attention to them. The toddler should be easy-peasy by comparison, right?

Fact is, if you turn your head, your toddler might fall and break a tooth. I did and she did.

Yet, it seemed inconsequential compared to D1's early arrival at home that same day, due to a locker bomb exploding at the high school.

And with the age gap, the older girls had to be doting, worshipful, siblings, right?

"The Sisters," as she called them, did, in fact, love D3 madly. They read to her, entertained her, and applauded her every success as if she was the first baby in history to pull up or make a sentence.

And shouldn't she learn a lot from The Sisters? She did! Oh, boy, did she!

They were responsible for the little voice in the carseat saying "Burn rubber, Dude!" For dressing her in "Asian Cabbage Patch" duds. (Signs of sisterly affection, right?) For fostering a love of books and Scooby Doo.

So I am not certain when I first noticed that, D3's view of the world was evolving into "teenage wannabe."

Maybe it was when the pediatric dentist (whom we saw for her broken tooth) asked if her stuffed rabbit, Foober, would like to join her in the chair. D3 gave the man an eye roll and replied "it's a stuffed animal."

Maybe it was when she began to fret about being unemployed. Non-stop. At age three.

But I didn't become alarmed until things got crazy at preschool.

Suddenly, D3 began diving under a table to hide as soon as we arrived.

Back home, she explained. "Bobby Vaccaro asks me to marry him every day!" After a little mother-daughter chat, I thought we were good.

Until the next time I picked her up at preschool.

Why were the teachers stifling giggles? I had to ask..

Yep. Bobby Vaccaro had again asked D3 to marry him. It was D3's answer that had everyone in stitches.

Did she say "No, no, go away!"?

Nope.

Maybe, "Boys are yucky!!"?

Not even close.

In response to that day's marriage proposal, D3 said, (quoting, now):

"I'm sorry. I'm not ready for a commitment."

Yep. The. Sisters. Gave. Marital. Advice.

To. D3.

At. Age. Three.

Not kidnapped by aliens.

Programmed by The Sisters.

Fireworks - A Cautionary Tale

Long ago, there was one Fourth of July that Mr. Wonderful missed due to business travel. Before heading out, he reassured D1 and D2 that they would still have fireworks - he was leaving some for mom to light.

Thank you, dear.  Predictably, the girls awoke at dawn with cries of, "When can we light the fireworks???" It would be a long day!

Now I am the first one to break out the red, white and blue for patriotic holidays. Up goes the flag. Crepe papered bicycles and patriotic outfits - no problem.  Dressed someone up as the Statue of Liberty one year. Flag cakes and red and blue jello molds. I have always loved these colors.

But fireworks? Gulp. In the olden days, the neighborhood kids had firecrackers, cherry bombs, bottle rockets, M-80's and M-100's - mainly weapons of the Scofflaw family. (see Disclaimers - not their real name!) Legend had it that their mom locked them all out of the house daily for her own protection. They were short - growth stunted as they started smoking in second grade before dropping out of school - but scary.

Anyway, my personal experience was limited to holding a few sparklers that someone else lit.  The supply that Mr. Wonderful left us had names that were mostly foreign to me. Of course, there were some snakes (the point - what is the point?), some smoke bombs (ditto), some sparklers, some really loud thingies, and - the piece de resistance - a whistling chaser.

It wasn't even dusk when I relented and lit the punk. D1 and D2 were having a grand time with the snakes and sparklers and smoke bombs. We could hear a couple of neighbor families picnicking nearby.

Then I lit the whistling chaser. And it did. Chase-her! CHASE ME!!

It pursued me up our driveway, around, around, around and down. up the street, up another driveway, AROUND, AROUND, AROUND, back down the driveway and into the street. What the heck! Did it have radar?

I screamed like a girl! (Hey, I AM a girl!) I invented new moves! I ran for my life!

D1 thought it was hilarious. D2 knew FOR SURE that mom was going to DIE!

True to form, D2 sounded the alarm. She flew to the neighbors' yards and summoned them with shrieks of, "Help! My mom lit the whistling chaser and now she's ON FIRE!!!!

Thus, an audience arrived - the only thing we had been missing.

Decades later, this day is legend. You can bet I had a few snarky remarks for Mr. Wonderful on his return.  Of course he was laughing too hard to hear them.

So today I have hung the flag, put patriotic placemats on the table, and am wearing red, white and blue. And later, when I bring over a plate of cookies with patriotic sprinkles, consider yourself lucky.

I could be lighting fireworks in your driveway.

No News is Good News

News flash: I will be avoiding the TV news until after the election. And if we still had little ones at home, I would NEVER let them watch. Even without the election, there is much not to like.

Violence! Adult content! Celebrity "news!" AND SLANTED! You can tell the networks' politics by whose photos are flattering and whose are creepy.

Very different from the olden days (my childhood!).

Frank Reynolds delivered Chicagoland's news.  He never editorialized. Just the facts (kind of like Dragnet!). P.J. Hoff cartooned the local weather.

The biggest scandal of my childhood? The boys at school saying "hell" and "damn" at recess! The teachers solemnly escorted all the girls into a conference room. After reciting the naughty words to us, the teachers asked us to I.D. the culprits letting BAD WORDS fly on the playground. Yep - this was my first exposure to "cuss words." From the teachers. 

Anyway, given my head-in-the-sand childhood, it seems inevitable that I found out TV news is not for kids the hard way - by letting our kids watch.

D2 was a sensitive little soul. We never realized she was even paying attention to the TV news until she started remembering the Iranian-held hostages in her bedtime prayers. At age 4. She worried about them for 444 days.

And when, at last, the Americans were released and we watched them descend the steps of the plane onto U.S. soil, D2 was overcome. (Okay, D2 was pretty much always emotional, but this was a personal best, even for her!) 

We dried her tears, but the deluge was unstoppable. Between hiccups and gulps of air, she kept repeating something over and over. It sounded like "Where are they? Where are the hostages?"

Finally we figured out what she was saying.

"Where are the OSTRICHES???"

All that time, D2 had been praying for the safe return of our BIRDS!

Like I said - letting the kids watch TV news? BIG mistake! HUGE!

And that's the way it is.

Back Home Again . . .

I am a proud Hoosier. I sing "Back Home Again in Indiana" every time I return. But I had never been to the Indianapolis 500.

This was the year to be there - the 100th running!  Still, we did not get the tickets bought or the hotel booked or the dogs boarded. Then this happened.

Mr. Wonderful’s younger brother, a crazed Oregon State alum (the Beav) is making a sports-themed odyssey in a forty-foot Beaver (what else?) motor home. Daytona? Check. The Kentucky Derby? Check. And of course, the 100th running of the Indy 500.

The Beav bought better and better seats for Indy online, selling extras as he bought new seats. The week before the race, the Beav still had two unsold tickets. And the kennel had room for our canines.

                                                      

Maybe my midwest roots are showing, but I have a feeble sense of adventure. Sent home early from not one, but TWO, childhood camps. A pristeen hotel? A charming bed and breakfast? Now we’re talking! 

Every hotel in Indy was booked. But wait! The Beav's first choice to park the Beaver had a low-hanging branch preventing clearance. His second choice, an oversized yard with a concrete pad behind the house, had a spare room.

The Beav checked it out, worked a deal for the room, and advised us to bring sheets, towels, pillows, etc. We would stay at Andy's (no last name - just Andy).  A mile from the Speedway - score!

Okay, this was a bit more fluid than our usual planning, which usually includes a clipboard with confirmation numbers, maps and rates in chronological order. Spare room at Andy's. That is all.

Our destination was the tree-lined streets and uniformly tidy homes of “Leave It to Beaver,” er, Speedway, IN. At first, the Beav's Beaver was the only motor home. Soon, three other behemoths joined us - including one that had come only six miles.

Next came tents. And porta-potties.

And a huge party tent.

This looked like fun - even to an adventureless soul like me!  Especially since yours truly would not be sleeping in any of the tents. Heh-heh.

Then we saw our room. Think guys' dorm. And not the weekend mom is visiting.

Two beds - a double and a twin. Each loaded with miscellaneous stuff. Nothing else in the room. No lock.

Leave it to Beav to give us a heads up on bedding!  We stripped the double (I am not sure what a bedwetting alarm looks like, but I think we removed one!)

We left a plastic cover on the mattress, and put our own sheets and pillows on, and mounded everything else on the twin bed and covered it all with a comforter we found there.

Andy agreed to leave a back door unlocked. He forgot only twice.

Indy is hot and humid by Memorial Day. It was the nights of my childhood. Where was the cross breeze? The plastic cover on the mattress wasn't helping. The double bed. (Were we both smaller when we last slept in one?) Andy left his bedroom door open to catch a breeze. (Right next to ours – dueling snoring with Mr. Wonderful.) On day three, Andy said "Hey, I turned on the A/C today." Seriously? There was air?

All in all, it was a pretty good arrangement. We just popped outside to hang with the Beav and his wife. Forty minute walk to the Speedway (drive time from nearby hotels was 3 hours!). And there is nothing like being in the midst of a bunch of happy race fans.

Still, I wish I could have recorded my conversation with my sister afterward. She seemed to be channeling my mother.

"Where did you stay?"

"At Andy's"

 "What is that?"

"A house near the Speedway."

"Whose house?"

"Andy's."

"Andy who?"

"Don't know his last name."

"How do you know Andy?”

"Don't know him.”

“What is your relationship with Andy?"

“None. The Beav set it up. Four nights in Andy’s spare room."

"You had your own bathroom, right?"

"Nope.  One bathroom.  Shared with Andy."

"Whaaaatttt?"

Hey, maybe I do have a sense of adventure after all!