Brainstorms!

Sifting through my vast warehouse of foibles for a post, I could not seem to focus.  My mind ran something like this:

How about the cowboy in the post office - or feeding maize to the class fish - uh-oh, the red dog needs to go out - hey, did I already do a post on the time our dachsy ate a spider and blew up like a Shar-Pei?

You get the picture.

I tell myself, "QUIET DOWN! I AM TRYING TO BRAINSTORM!!"

Seriously? That is, in fact, the problem.  I am under attack by
BRAINSTORMS!!

All the time.

With Mr. Wonderful: "Email says we're part of a class action against one of those ticket vendors. Maybe we'll get a discount on tickets. See the Black-Eyed Peas. Remember when we convinced the girls that ketchup on  black-eyed peas would wreck the good luck?"

Online. Just checking emails - then a quick peek at Facebook (puppies - awwwww), eBay (outbid - DRAT!), weather (cloudy - so why is red dog drenched?), CNN (wait, the candidates are doing rock-paper-scissors?), JUST checking my emails . . .

In prayer: My daily Prayer to St. Joseph for Mr. Wonderful suddenly sounds suspiciously like the Prayer to St. Michael but evolves into the Prayer to the Holy Spirit!  Um, "Dear God, bless Mr. Wonderful every which way! Amen."

I blame the web.

And multitasking.

And my age. (BINGO!)

And Trump and -

GET A GRIP, GLADYS!!!

And I say a heartfelt but very short prayer - so I don't start meandering and bring Mother Teresa into it - NOT HER PROBLEM!

Okay.  I am fine.  Really.

Wait, what the heck will I blog about  . . .?

Security Breach - Circa 1975

Back when D1 was the lone sprout on our family tree, Mr. Wonderful bid Uncle Sam goodbye and finished his degree at In-State University (IU) regional campus. Our sole income - a whopping $298.00 per month under the G.I. Bill - also had to cover tuition. We rented a little house from St. Raymond (my dad) for $134.00 a month. Thus, I was always on the prowl for freebies and cheapies to enrich baby D1's world.  

The library, of course, and church and the YWCA, where we found "Diaper Dolphins," the latest in mother/baby swim classes. This is D1's ACTUAL swimsuit with patch. (A post on hoarding is overdue.)

We both loved this program - at least I am pretty sure. At bath time D1 began hurling her rubber ducky into the tub shouting "one, two, frrreeeee!" Surely, her adorable way of sharing her joy with ducky. 

Anyway, when we learned that D1 would not be an only child, I hoped to stay with Diaper Dolphins until someone shouted "Whale" (which did happen, but that is another post). 

Wanted: maternity bathing suit. Growing room. Cheap. 

If the 1970's are history to you, you should know that pregnancy was hush-hush. Expectant moms essentially pretended not to be pregnant. No one announced her with-child status until little children starting asking if there was a "beach ball under there," and then only to a select few (the grandparents).

Our clothing was also in on the ruse. We wore yoked, pleated or gathered over-blouses and dresses (no hint there, right?). Often these fashion statements came with a huge bow under the chin - as in "no-one-will-notice-I-am-wearing-a pup-tent-over-a-watermelon-as-their-gaze-rockets-upward-to-the-bow." (See purple number at right.)

Maternity swimwear also took a camouflage approach, with the top designed to hide several small children.  No warning labels back then, but I would offer this: "Warning: Check for stowaways before laundering."

Anyway, the Sears Catalog came to my rescue with a turquoise and green print number - ON CLEARANCE.  Catalog orders were snail mail or phoned in. Since this was a hot item (sale!), I should phone.

(Also, when you talk with an 18-month-old for most of your waking hours, you long to speak with an adult.  Any adult.  And adults answered the phones at Sears!) 

So I called. I gave the page number in the catalog, the size, color number and pricing. Meanwhile, the saleslady looked up the item in the same catalog and wrote up the order. She chatted and suggested other purchases as she got all the details.

Then, we verified: "You are ordering a turquoise and green two-piece maternity swimsuit in size small, correct?"  

"Yes."

"And your name - wait!  Libby, is that you??"

"ALMIRA?"

Keep in mind, dear reader, we had not announced.  

And Almira was our very chatty (two-pots-of-coffee) neighbor who lived across the alley.  

And she worked at Sears. Um, apparently in the catalog department.

Still, what are the chances that our neighbor would find out I was pregnant before the grandparents because I ordered from Sears?????

I had no choice but to admit who I was.  We had a good laugh, and I cautioned that we had not yet announced. So far as I can tell, despite the caffeine, Almira never told.

And it was a blessing to have a caring friend who knew why my mornings were queasy, and to advise on keeping D1 from unloading her dresser every single day. (Yardstick through the pulls.)

And so D1 and I continued to enjoy Diaper Dolphins.  

And D2 joined us for the swim - stylishly concealed under a turquoise and green tent.

Experiencing Technical Difficulties

I like to think I have passable technical skills. I am writing this on my iPad. My iPhone outsmarts me only occasionally. (Okay, I phoned D3 during her prom when I was trying to watch a DVD, but that was years ago.)

Even so, there are times - like this weekend -  when I know my limits.  

By way of background, I had watched our youngest grandson at D3's house for a week last summer while his parents were away. They left on Sunday night.  It was Wednesday when I finally stumbled on the secret combination to watch TV. Even then, I didn't dare turn it off. There are two clickers and an X-box thingy. And even though it says "HDMI 1" on the screen, DON'T YOU BELIEVE IT!  

This weekend I watched the littlest guy again, while D3 and her husband attended a wedding. D3 prudently gave me instructions on how-to-play-little-guy's-favorite-movie. 

She led me through the steps on the X-box control. (Why does it look like a mini flight simulator yoke?) At one point, she looked hard at me and said, "Mom - your eyes are glazing over - are you getting this?" 

Here is what I remember: The large button with an X turns it on. Amid the multicolored buttons to the right, the green one is important. Also, although there are buttons to both right and left of the X button, focus on the left one. If Mater suddenly speaks Swahili, employ the joystick at the far left. 

The part she didn't tell me - but I picked up over the summer: KEEP THE REMOTES UP HIGH!! Still, only once did I shout "DON'T TOUCH THAT BUTTON!" as I dove for the remotes. And little guy thought it was pretty funny. Anyway, it was just one night and we made it through the movie part.

However, I was then flummoxed by the bathtub. That should be low tech, right? Read on. When I last bathed little guy, he used a plastic tub in the big tub. No more. He's a big-tub-boy now. I started to run bath water, but wasn't sure how to plug the tub. I have only showered there. There is no stopper visible, although there is a lever on the tub for one.

I searched the surrounding area. There were the familiar bath toys, and also something new.  A round soft blue thing with a suction cup on the bottom. Maybe it's like the whale over the water spigot - meant to keep little guy from injury - so I put it over the opening - about the right size - and filled the tub.  

Little guy played happily with bath toys as I washed his hair, scrubbed off the days' grime. The stopper came off a time or two, but generally I would give it 3 1/2 stars. Then we brushed his teeth, put on pj's and played a bit in hopes that he would be sleepy soon.

When his parents came home, his daddy put little guy to bed and I told D3 of our adventures. Mentioned that it had taken me a bit to figure out how to run the bath without the little tub, but that the new stopper was pretty ingenious.

"What new stopper?" D3 asked.  

"Um, you know, the blue one with the suction cup.  I had to put it in a few times but it worked pretty well. Expect it keeps little guy safe, too," I replied.

It is pretty rare, but D3 was actually perplexed for a moment or two. Then -

"MOM! That's a shower speaker!! Are you saying you USED A BLUETOOTH TO KEEP THE WATER IN THE TUB??" 

Seriously? Um . . . 

Hindsight:  Take nothing for granted. 

Still, I have photos.

You be the judge. 

Meanwhile, I learned this week that there is a patron saint of technology. Excuse me while I do a novena . . .

A Pie in the Face

I know without asking Mr. Wonderful that I am not a perfect wife.  Still, I can point to a few Herculean efforts over the years. Ten moves - all but one for his job - which is roughly three years of hanging curtains. I gave birth to three lovely daughters. No small effort, that. And wonder of wonders, I am finally a college basketball fan.

So, dear Lord, how can it be that one seemingly small shortcoming from more than forty Thanksgivings ago remains my all-time epic fail?

Yes, the PECAN PIE!

A bit of background: My childhood Thanksgivings consisted of Aunt June meticulously planning every detail, then sprinting between the kitchen and dining room to ensure hot gravy. Later there were pies.

When Mr. Wonderful and I made our first married home at Ft. Lost-in-the-Woods, family was far off, so "orphans" got together. But our celebrations were very different - as in less. Much less. The low point was arriving for dinner one Christmas to be told, “grab a paper plate and help yourself to what’s left on the stove. We got hungry – we ate.”

Still, there were bright spots.  The best was a Thanksgiving we spent with fellow Hoosiers and their family. True, the quarters were, like ours, long ready for bulldozing, but the food was delicious and our hosts treated us like family.

I had baked pies. As we said our good-byes, I insisted that our hosts keep the remaining pie - a bit of pecan - so their family could enjoy it with the other leftovers. Mr. Wonderful seemed supportive of my impulsive generosity - until we completed the thirty second walk to our quarters.

"MY PIE! MY PECAN PIE! YOU GAVE THEM MY PECAN PIE!”

I remember his lament as if it were yesterday.  Why? Because I probably heard it again yesterday. And last week.  And every time we see pie on a menu.  And every time someone mentions pie. And when our three oldest grandchildren decided that pecan pie is their new favorite and there were no leftovers.

You get the picture.

Never mind that for more than forty years I have made pecan pie every Thanksgiving (except the year that my kitchen was torn down to the studs).  Never mind that I awake at dawn to bake the pies before putting the turkey into the oven so the pie crusts are just-baked flaky. Never mind that the pecan pies I bake after all these years of experience are surely superior to that first effort!

Nope. The memory of that first pecan pie haunts Mr. Wonderful, and as a result, me.

So, IN HINDSIGHT, here is my advice for young marrieds: you may be able to give away his too-short-1970’s-basketball-shorts.  You may even be able to hide his Mario Andretti poster.

But pray, dear newlyweds, that you NEVER GIVE AWAY HIS PECAN PIE!!!!!!!!!.

NOT IF HE BECOMES DIABETIC.

NOT IF HE DEVELOPS A RAGING NUT ALLERGY THAT INVARIABLY RESULTS IN ANAPHYLAXIS.

NOT EVEN AT GUNPOINT. 

UNLESS YOU WANT TO HEAR ABOUT IT FOR THE

REST.

OF.

YOUR.

LIFE!

It Made Sense At The Time

For single parents and moms or dads with a spouse who travels on business, Section Y (why?) of Murphy's Law states: "All serious injuries to minor children shall occur during one-parent circumstances."

I won't say Mr. Wonderful was never home, but I once got a troubling phone call from D1's teacher. The class was discussing parents' jobs and D1 announced her dad "packs a suitcase and leaves."

And some kids are frequent fliers in the emergency room - like ours, for example.

But despite Mr. Murphy's crummy law, one day Mr. Wonderful and I were both home when IT happened. D1 and D2 were out riding their bikes, when D2 burst through the door in tears. "D1 had a BIKE WRECK and now she's been KIDNAPPED!!"

We had just enough time to almost panic when a pickup truck (a neighbor D2 did not know) pulled up to the curb and unloaded the battered D1 and her bike.

So much blood!  Carefully, we laid D1 on the the kitchen floor and looked for the wound.  It didn't take long.  Amid the scrapes and scratches, D1 had a big gash in her mouth - above her front teeth.  And like most head wounds, it was a gusher. She needed medical attention pronto.

I am not proud of this, but I looked at Mr. Wonderful and said, "Thank God you're home. You can take her to the ER!"  His reply? "I can't - I'm not dressed for it."

So I scooped up D1 and dashed to the car. And to the ER. And to the dentist. And did I mention it was a holiday? (That was why Mr. Wonderful was home!!)

That evening, I took a hard look at my spouse and asked if he had, um, changed his clothes. Nope, same T-shirt and shorts he had worn all day. I looked down to see what I was wearing that was so much more appropriate for the emergency runs. Yep, T-shirt and shorts.

I must admit that Mr. Wonderful stayed home with D1 for a few days until the swelling and bruising abated (I know what you're thinking - I am referring to the injuries on D1!) and she could return to school without evoking abuse accusations.

And as to hindsight, I got nothin.' Apparently your brain leaves your head when your kid is really hurt.

Fact is, it made sense at the time.

Family - Gotta Love Them!

Easter[i] Weekend!  Time for a family dinner!

How will you spend your holiday meal? Hearing a detailed description of a recent surgical procedure?  Or wishing that at least one family member would turn off a cell phone and start a conversation? Or maybe you will be in a foxhole.

Family.  Gotta love them. And we do - through thick and thin.  

So today I would like to share a prayer for all of us:

Dear Lord, bless our families this Easter. Help me remember that You chose them to be family to me. Give me a loving spirit for the difficult times, a short memory for hurts, a loyalty that holds each one close always, and forgiveness for those times that nothing less will do. Help me to remember that, in your wisdom, families are forever. Help me to follow your perfect example of unconditional love for my family – this day and always.  Amen

*        *        *

Have a Blessed Easter with your one-of-a-kind family! 

And for the record, I will be missing those foxhole stories.

---

[i] Not so fast, my Jewish friends – Passover will be here soon!!

Panty Raid

We were richly blessed that day. It has only taken me 35 years to realize it.

The blessing? No cell phone cameras. No posts on social media. Nothing to leave a lasting imprint in cyberspace. 

It was a typical Sunday morning.  Daughter 1 was learning to dress herself, while Daughter 2[i] was wriggling out of her ruffled socks and Mary Janes as fast as I could put them on again.  Finally, both wore the matching yellow dresses – very short (think Shirley Temple) - from Grandma.  Perfect for a spring morning.

Running late as usual.  Why was our parish the Cathedral? And why were the empty seats in the very front?  Up the long center aisle we went, little girls swinging their arms enthusiastically.    

Half way through the second reading, D1 dropped her little straw purse.  As she bent down to retrieve it, I glanced over and saw . . .

The moon!  I SAW THE MOON!!  No ruffled Sunday panties! And no plain underwear! No panties pulled up backwards! No panties anywhere!!!

Prayer was difficult.  It was too late to pray that no one would notice (see mention of aisle, above).  

I believe in miracles, but slowly I realized that panties would not be among them, no matter how fervently I entreated the Blessed Mother.

The final hymn. We beat a hasty retreat.  Upon arriving home, I grilled D1 with useless questions like "didn’t you feel a breeze?” and “where were your panties?”  

It had just seemed too basic.  Face it, I had taken underwear for granted. No more! 

I overcompensated.  We had “panty check” every time we left the house. Something like "Miss America, show us your shoes," but with panties. Not kidding!

Only now do I realize how blessed we were. No photos!  None of the naked bum.  None of the laughing congregation. And especially none of the hysterical mother in the second pew!! 

Oh, and thankful that we moved away not long after that.

---

[i] From here on out, my daughters will be known as D1, D2, and D3.  Yes, we did name them, but see Disclaimers.  They are definitely some of the guilty mentioned there.

---

Up in the Air

Obscure facts: women can suffer tooth decay in pregnancy. Also hair loss. But there is another, little known, much more sinister side effect. (No, not children - that is well known.) And mommas have been silent for too long. 

Post-Baby Bubble Brain is real. Today I am blowing the lid off mothers' secret shame. There are support groups and help lines for everything else, while new mothers suffer for 18 years or more. Need proof? Read on.

Our newborn D1 was  beautiful. Mr. Wonderful was getting an “early out” from his military duty, and we would leave Ft. Lost-in-the-Woods in weeks. 

Soon the movers were everywhere in our humble (think “condemned”) quarters. This made nursing almost public. And I was no help with packing.

Finally, we surrendered. Mr. Wonderful drove the baby and me to the airfield, and we took the first of three flights that would take us to grandma’s.

D1 was a good traveler for three weeks old. I nursed her on takeoff and landing to make sure her ears did not hurt. My thirst was soon HUGE. Thankfully there were complementary beverages in those days.

Needed the bathroom. Soon. We landed at a small airport to board a puddle jumper for St. Louis. Just a quick connection, so I waited.

By St. Louis, the need was urgent. Luckily, Lambert is a major airport, and I quickly found a ladies’ room. “Closed for Remodeling.” Ugh. Baby D1 and I hiked the length of the airport to the other restroom. Open!    

A bit of history: this was before baby seats mounted into strollers. No one had ever seen a strap-on baby carrier.  This was the time of babies-in-arms. 

Where exactly could I put my precious baby in the germiest-place-on-earth?  Could not put her down. Have someone hold her? A stranger? My firstborn? Visions of kidnapping swirled in my head.

Back onto the plane, sloshing. Knees together, all the way to O’Hare. 

The new grandma and grandpa met us at the gate. (It was before security, too.)  They were immediately in love, and grandma carried D1 through the airport, I think.  I can’t know for sure – I was in the restroom during these touching moments.

It was YEARS later that it hit me.  At any time during my three flights, why hadn’t I asked a flight attendant or grandmotherly passenger to hold D1 so I could use the on-board restroom?  Where exactly did I think they would take my baby while we were 30,000 feet up?? 

I told you – part of the brain is just gone.  Next time your teenager asks “what did you EVER do for me?” try to remember this.  Of course, since you are a mom, you may not be able to.  

Not your fault. Post-Baby Bubble Brain is real.

You Are Getting Very Sleeeepyyyyyy. . .

Shortly after the Paleolithic Age, Mr. Wonderful served his military commitment and I taught music to officers’ kids at an elementary on Fort Lost-In-The-Woods.

Young and enthused, I did not own a pitch pipe, and never, ever resorted to “Let’s listen to 'The Grand Canyon Suite' by Ferde Grofe again.”  

Instead, I sang a quick melodic excerpt to each student entering the music room and urged them to sing it back to me. With hand signals.  We plodded through an actual curriculum, uphill, since most parents got orders for elsewhere during the year.   Still, it was music class.

So it came as a shock when I saw a student copying during a test.  Later, I discreetly told the pupil what I had seen.  Done, I thought.

Until student's Mama Bear stormed the principal’s office  - on fire!  I was summoned, but had sense enough to let Mrs. Bear vent. The principal was supportive, but I was shaken.  

Fast forward to some minor surgery.  At the post hospital.  The anesthesiologist arrived.   Name tag: "Sergeant Major Bear."  As in, spouse of Mama Bear.  And he would be putting me to sleep.  TO SLEEP!!

Dr. Bear asked what I did on post. Apparently, the "loosen up" shot was working well.  I spilled the news about being the music teacher at his kids’ school, heh-heh, small world . . .

Would I wake up?  Would he tell the surgeon I was there for an amputation?  Would he slyly tell Mama Bear “Never mind that music teacher – she won’t be bothering us again.”

I said a quick “Hail Mary” as I nodded off.

Yep.  You would not be reading this blog if he had been out for blood.  In fact, he gave credence to that old adage, “opposites attract.”  What a nice man.  Very professional. Would recommend him.

But, in hindsight, I would NOT tell him about being the music teacher. 

Maybe just, "my dad always wanted me to be an anesthesiologist."

By a Jury of . . .

Everyone has a memory that can still knot your stomach.  Yep, turning over as I write.

But first, background. Degree requirements for music teachers at In-state U ("IU") included a bit of torture, no exceptions.

1. Perform three patriotic songs on the piano. Challenging for woodwind, brass, or string players, but at least they read music. For vocalists – lots of non-readers - it was climbing Everest. My instrument was piano - heh-heh. 

But wait - there was a separate gauntlet for would-be vocal music teachers.

2. Obtain a passing grade in three semesters of private voice study.  

Funny, it seemed doable in the course catalog. And before I knew my "passing grade" would decided by a voice jury.  Still, no one had ever succumbed from this requirement, right?  

So, I dutifully memorized an Italian song, enlisted my roommate, Jan, (a French horn and piano player and soprano – the envy of the campus!) as my accompanist, and we rehearsed and rehearsed.  

My TA mentioned that her teacher, a “Ms. Harshaw,” at IU from NYC a couple days a week, would judge my jury.

(Okay – I Googled Ms. Harshaw just now for actual facts. The much-revered Margaret Harshaw[i] sang 22 seasons (375 performances) at the Metropolitan Opera.  She had 39 roles in 25 different operas, and sang in 40 of the Met’s weekly live broadcasts.. Yes – that Ms. Harshaw was judging my breathy second soprano.)

The big day arrived.  Ms. Harshaw was ready.  Jan played the introduction to my Italian song, I opened my mouth, and . . .

NOTHING – NOT A SQUEAK, SQUAWK, SHRIEK . . .

Jan looked up in surprise (okay, alarm!).  Ms. Harshaw graciously asked if we would like to begin again.  I nodded, mutely.

Again, the introduction.  Here I go, I will be singing in a second. Breathe . . .

MOUTH. OPEN. SILENCE.

Ms. Harshaw, a bit concerned now, inquired whether I would like to get a drink of water.  Again, I nodded. Mutely.

Jan and I went to the hall.  I drank.  I cleared my throat and drank again.  I tried to produce some sound – anything! Who is the patron saint of singers? St. Cecelia? St. Blaise? Eventually there was a strained kind of croaking.

Back in we went. Tried again. The intro – very nice - though Jan now had a distressing red tone creeping up her neck to her ears and beyond.

What was that sound?  Was someone singing? It was not a voice that I, Jan, my TA or any other living human being had ever heard before, but the words and the notes were MY ITALIAN SONG and (gasp!) correct! 

Finally, it was over.  Ms. Harshaw thanked us and we exited with haste.  

Later, grades were posted.  The Metropolitan Opera Wagnerian Diva had given me an A. For courage, no doubt. 

Bravo, Ms. Harshaw! Bravo!

As for hindsight, have I mentioned that my dad always wanted me to be an anesthesiologist?

---

[i] Ms. Harshaw is now deceased. These figures are from her New York Times obituary, which was impressively lengthy, even for a famous opera singer.

My Vast Storehouse of Hindsight

Where to begin . . . and what should you expect?

“If you’re not making mistakes, then you’re not doing anything.” John Wooden.

Apparently, I have been doing plenty!  Marrying Mr. Wonderful. Raising three daughters.  Starting grad school at age 40. Moving ten times (NOT in the witness protection program). And, as my dear departed dad would say, I was “right up front” when God gave out the klutz gene.

A well-adjusted person would just move on with life.  Not me.  Inventing perfect do-overs is in my nature. Thus, I have accumulated a Vast Storehouse of Hindsight.  I cannot promise it is 20/20 (and sometimes I got nothin’), but now and then it might be better than what I did at the time.  So, I will share. 

Note to Self: when you find yourself in muck to your armpits, (a) you are not the first person step in it, and (b) it will not help to stand there and shout "why in the world did I walk into this??"

IT IS WHAT IT IS.

Time to don your big kid pants and hasten to Plan B (C, D, etc.).

And most of life's awkward situations will, at the very least, give you a funny story to tell.

Ask me.  I know.