OK.  I can take everything, very happily and very patiently.  Even the reams of paperwork, repeating the same information on patient history, medications, hospitalizations… knowing full well that one computerized system might eliminate this tedious step in the medical process.  I don’t even mind the sitting and waiting part, because I usually spend it talking to my mom, or, like today, explaining what Bruce Willis and Emma Heming were actually doing in their W Magazine “Honeymoon Hotel” photo shoot.  (Whoa.  But I guess all that skin is appropriate in a physician’s office.)

But wait.  There’s more.  The J-thing.  The johnny.  That’s the one thing that drives me to drink.

My mom is 4′ 7″ short.  She is tiny.  And yet, at every office, we are asked to wrap her in a bolt of fabric that would fit around a brewery (see, there’s the drinking reference again).  The ties that allegedly tie these things don’t tie these things.  The cotton that comprises these things doesn’t comprise these things.  And the privacy that defines these things isn’t definable.

This leaves me ass-king lots of questions.  Like where are all the “dignified” gowns that I’ve read about?  The ones with side ties.  Or the sarong-type wrap?  How about the “pajama” style ones?  I’ve even read about “break-away” paneled gowns that allow for “peeks” at important areas rather than the whole kit-and-kabooty.

But anyway.  I have decided that the next time I have the occasion to wear a johnny, I am going to politely pass on the opportunity.  No more wrestling with the endless yards of flimsy fabric and ties that don’t tie and forgetting if the opening is in front or back.  No. This is not for me.  I am, rather, going to take a stand and just sit there naked.  Nude.  In nothing but my smile.

And, probably, a beer.

JEN, DAVE AND BABY ARE DOING WELL.

7-7-09

11:40

6 LBS  7 OZ

HE’S NICE AND PINK AND HEALTHY!

LOOKS GREAT!!

HE OPENED HIS EYES AND LET OUT A PEEP.

PICTURES TO FOLLOW.

This is life, in all its richness and combinations and jouneys and tribulations and blessings.  This new little boy, Carter, has given life to life.  Creation to creation.  Love to love.  Peeps to peeps!  And, of course, “snips and snails and puppy dog tails” to, well… everyone!   He has brought great joy from the greatest sadness, and will sing of life and creation and love and angels.  Most especially, his sister, Angel Caroline.

My heart is full of joy for Bernadette and Ed and for her entire family.  It makes me feel like dancing!  And singing!

Welcome, Baby Carter, to this wonderful, wonderful world.  You arrive with love’s perfect harmony!

As I’ve written before, I don’t complain much about the weather because it’s truly is something I cannot control.  But 30-some-odd days of rain, clouds and thunderous storms do tend to crawl into the psyches of people.

But on a clear day, everything is different.

My mom is feeling much better, and it looks like surgery may have been averted… for now, at least.

My dear friend’s daughter is in labor today… and I’m counting the moments until I hear of “Little Guy’s” arrival.

My 1-year old grandson got his first haircut… and I just melted into buttah when I saw him this morning.

My 3-year old grandson asked me to “stop and smell his flowers” today.  Big, glorious orange day lilies.  My nose was bright orange with joy.

All of my windows are open, and life is beautiful all around me.

I think I can see forever today.

Dear lady,

It is 4th of July weekend.  I get this.  People have the day off and there’s lots to do.  Like gettin’ your hair bleached.  Or gettin’ your nails done, for things, you know… like flippin’ people off.  An’ there’s booze to buy, too.  You know, for your pah-ty.

I’m just not sure if you know that there are other people on the roads.

I’ll try to explain.  Real slow-like.  So you un-da-stand.

Main Street is, well, a main street.  Lots of stores.  Lots of side streets.  Lots of automobiles (that would be “cars”).  Lots of people in these “cars.”  The speed limit on this main street is 25 mph (that would be “miles per hour.”)  So when you’re drivin’, oh, about 40-50 mph, you might not be able to decelerate (that would be “slow down”) in enough time for some other person in her car to safely merge (that would be “blend together” in traffic) from a side street.  And if you happen to accelerate (that would be “speed up”) just so that person cannot merge in time, just so you can tear-ass into that liquah store parkin’ lot 5 seconds soonah… well, there is the potential for a problem.

Maybe if your radio was turned down a notch or two, you could concentrate (that would be “pay attention”) bettah to your surroundin’s.  Now, I know you’re old enough to drive.  And to buy booze. And I’m sure you’ve been drivin’ and buyin’ booze for some time, because, well… I was close enough to see not only your middle fingah in its upright position when you flipped me off, but I could also see beyond your giant golden laced D&G sunglasses. You might want to get a bigger pair.  Of sunglasses, that is.  Because your other pair was big enough to bust (no pun intended… and I won’t even bother defining the word “pun”) a move on your steering wheel.

Or, maybe you could send someone else out to do your errands.  That might be safer.  But then again, how can someone else get your hair and nails done so, so, so… 80’s?  Silly me.  And oh, I did notice as I narrowly escaped death that your license plate is one of those super low initial and number plates that used to be so populah in the littlest state in the union.  Just wonderin’.  Is your husband or boyfriend a politician or judge or lawyah or somethin’?

But anyways.  Like I said, it’s 4th of July weekend.  On this special day way back in 1776, the remarkable document known as the Declaration of Independence was approved by the Continental Congress.  The 13 colonies were on the road to great freedoms.  Including, eventually, freedom of expression.  Some argue that your middle finger “expression” is “protected” expression.  Hmmm.  Somehow I kinda think you’ve done this before, many times, and that you’ve not given this expression/freedom much thought.  So I will give you mine.  Thought, that is.  In a town filled with people, including children, on a beautiful July morning on Main Street USA, your reckless driving was trumped only by your crass and distasteful gesture/behavior.  Translation:  although flipping the bird with your manicured nail is not quite illegal, it is impudent (that, my dear, would be unladylike).

Happy 4th of July to each of us… with each of our great freedoms!

Sincerely,

The Lady in the silver Pilot

It was 8:00 pm.  I put in a call to her physician’s emergency line, but already knew that an over-the-phone diagnosis was not only impractical and improbable… but impossible.  My mom lives about 10 minutes from me, so I made the decision to pick her up and bring her to the ER of our local hospital.  My mom was not happy about this, but there was no other recourse.

We arrived at the ER at around 9:00 pm.

We left at 8:30 the next morning.

The in-between consisted of waiting.  Blood pressure testing.  Oxygen level testing.  Temperature readings.  Blood work.  Chest x-ray.  Electrocardiogram.  CAT scan.  IV’s. Sample varieties.  More waiting.  My mom has a hernia that she absolutely hates, and I certainly understand why.  It is irritating and annoying and it interferes with the fit of her clothing.  My mom is a fashionista, even at 84… and she is very self-conscious of what she perceives to be something huge.  In truth, it is not visible to the observer, but she still finds the hernia very “visible.”  I get it.  But it has not, until now, given her pain.  Pain is what her physician is concerned about.  Pain is what brought us to the ER.

The 12 hours of waiting and tests seemed endless… but the worry trumped it all.  I held my mom’s hand each time a new procedure came along.  I helped her get undressed.  I folded her clothing neatly, as she asked me to.  I watched her sleep as I kept vigil.  I am my mom’s ears and eyes in situations like this, and I took note of everything everyone said.  The receptionists and technicians and nurses and doctors and the surgeon who was called in to consult were all kind and caring and patient and wonderful.  I kept myself awake and together throughout the long night.

But it was my mom’s little shoes that got to me.  One of the nurses had taken them off and placed them in a basket under her bed.  Each time I caught a glimpse of them, I felt like crying.  I was with my mom when she bought them.  They are little brown leather Naturalizers… and she loves them for their comfort.  They slip on and off easily, and she can wear them year ’round.  But what my mom really loves is high heels.  My mom has a collection of high heels in every color.  They are lined up so neatly in her closet, but she cannot wear them anymore.  She doesn’t have the stability or balance.  I got my love of high heels from my mom.  My childhood memories start at my mom’s feet.  She loved to dance.  I loved to watch her shoes as she danced.  I still hear the sounds of her click-click-click high heels clicking along the sidewalk as she held my hand.  I remember putting on her shoes and click-clicking around my house to her laughter.  My mom loved to color coordinate everything, especially down to the shoes.

It’s the little brown shoes that tell me that everything is different now.

With the sunrise on Sunday morning, we were sent home with instructions to see my mom’s physician, consult a surgeon, stay on a liquid diet for a couple of days and take medication for pain.  Oh, and an infection that needed antibiotics.

I helped my mom get dressed.  I combed her hair.  I gathered her purse and instructions.  I thanked the nurses who had been so very kind.  Then I got my mom’s shoes from that basket under her bed.  I choked back tears as I helped her slip them on.  But at the same time, my mom looked at those little brown shoes and said, “Thank God for these shoes.  At least I can walk out of here.”

Touche, Mom.  I guess the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Except for the click-click-clicking.

Because “if anyone ever told me” 8 years ago today that 8 years later I would be wondrously in love with 4 little boys who would come from the marriage of Audrey and Matthew… well, I probably wouldn’t have believed those “anyones” anyway.

8 years ago today, Audrey and Matthew were married on what would be the hottest day of the entire summer in Rhode Island.  But that didn’t matter.  The sky was blue.  The flowers were in bloom.  Music and laughter and joy was in the air.  People had come from far and near to share this special day, this special ceremony, this special couple, their lives and their future.

Their future would include, in 8 years, 4 children.  4 boys.  4 beautiful little blessings.

Today, I accompanied Audrey to her pool club with William (4), Alexander (3), Benjamin (2) and Henry (1).  I couldn’t stop looking at these little guys and thinking of the miracle of each of them.  In 8 years.

And it just so happens that Audrey’s pool club is the very same one that we belonged to when my kids were kids.  This photo is Audrey at age 6.

I don’t remember ever feeling as full of life… the full circle… as I do today on Audrey and Matthew’s anniversary.  The past, the present and the future is all wrapped up in this magnificent little circle, and I feel extraordinarily blessed to be a part of it.  I feel extraordinarily whole on this most special day.

I think this is why we have special days.  Special days of celebration.  These days give us reminiscences and recollections to embrace as we take a step toward more special days and more memories that have yet to be shaped.  These days bring the great, great joy.

Centuries ago, Martin Luther wrote, “There is no more lovely, friendly and charming relationship, communion or company than a good marriage.”  Audrey and Matthew are greatly blessed that these words describe their marriage… and I am going to add just a few more words… “and 4 precious little boys.”

I love you, all my little darlings.  HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, AUDREY & MATTHEW!!

We go way back.

I first met the bride, Jessica, when she was… oh, maybe 2 or so.  Ellen was calmly getting Jessica and her twin brother, *Paul, ready for swimming lessons at our local YMCA while their older sister, Alicia, sat so beautifully and read books on the ladies’ room bench.  I was not-so-calmly getting Audrey ready for the same class.  I remember, so vividly, Ellen’s serenity in comparison to my franticity (is this a word?).

(*I reminded Paul at his sister’s wedding that I once saw him naked… and his immediate response, in front of many guests, was, “Oh, that’s right, Sharon.  Last week.”  You got me, Paul!).

Our family paths would cross even more-so as Jessica and Audrey became teammates on the Barrington Printing Minor League Softball Team, where Dave was the coach and Barry the co-coach.  By then, the girls were about 7 or 8 years old.  I don’t think I have ever had more fun in my life than I did at those many, many nights of softball games… me with my opinions and ideas, suggestions and game strategies, and Dave with his, “Hey, Barry, reign in your wife, will ya?!”

And it got even better.  By then, Dave and Ellen had another daughter, Tara, and we had Jane.  Tara and Jane would go on to play softball, too… with Dave and Barry as their coaches.  Me… same opinions, ideas, suggestions, strategies.  Dave… same calm, fun, generous, loving man and dad and coach.

Dave and Barry also have a professional relationship, and this means that I see Dave often.  I have for years.  And Dave never lets us forget that the score is 9 to 0.  In grandchildren, that is.  According to Dave, Jessica and her husband, Jason, had better change that score!

I heard from Dave wonderful details of Jessica’s wedding to her fiance, Jason, as the plans rolled along.  Love, excitement, wonder, happiness and joy was in the air.  Then, just 6 weeks before the wedding, Ellen was rushed to surgery.  Open heart surgery.  An 11-hour surgery, where Ellen’s very life hung in balance.  It was like silence in the world.  Moment to moment.  Hour to hour.  Then day to day.

Ellen fought valiantly.

On Friday evening, at her daughter’s wedding, Ellen… escorted by her son Paul… walked that glorious walk down the center aisle of the outdoor ceremony.

I have cried at weddings before.  At seeing the bride.  Her dad.  Or a very special escort.  But I have never cried at watching the mother-of-the-bride… until on this glorious day.  The joy was so great, so strong, so powerful, so blessed that the dark, ominous rainclouds parted in the sky and rays of light shone through.  This is the truth.  And as the beautiful bride, Jessica, and her dad came into view… well, there was joy to the sky and beyond.  And I know there was divine intervention because immediately after the outdoor ceremony, lightning ripped across the sky and a cleansing, good-luck rain sprinkled the ground below our feet.  The party moved inside the elegant Kinney Bungalow at Sunset Farm.

The rest of the night was one to remember.  Glorious sun.  A little more rain.  A magnificent sunset to honor the bride and groom and the farm itself.  And dancing.  Joy.  Happiness.  Warmth.  Wonder.  Blessings.

Time stood still at Jessica and Jason’s wedding.  And all was well with the world.  Everything was exactly as it should be.  A beautiful tapestry of colors and laughter and emotions.  The swirl of life itself.

And I will never forget that one glorious walk.  One gloriously beautiful mom.  One glorious wedding day.

Ah…

And it was on the way home from “the pool” today that I learned a new word from one of my grandsons.

DIVINGSAUR.

Swimming lessons include a modified/assisted “jump” off the diving board, and Audrey’s 3-year old, Alexander, asked both William (4) and Benjamin (2) if they liked jumping off the DIVINGSAUR.

It’s gotta be the cutest thing I’ve heard in many a summer!

But there are some things that I love.  Like pecan pie.

Well, I loved pecan pie.  Until today.  This is why.

I was craving a nice piece of pecan pie, and there is this little place kind-of near my house that has superb pecan pie.  Let’s put it this way… it’s worth the drive.  I ordered my lone piece of pie at the take-out counter.  The lady behind the counter cut me a nice slice from an almost-whole pie as she asked if I wanted it with whipped cream.

“No, thanks,” I answered.

She put the pie slice on the counter and reached for a take-out container.

Someone behind me ordered something.  The take-out lady asked a question about the order.  I don’t remember what the order was because my mind went blank and my taste buds wilted as a big bubble of spit flew from the take-out lady’s mouth and landed on my naked pecan pie.

I stared at the bubble of spit as it disappeared into my pie.

All of my senses ceased.  I didn’t hear the snap of the take-out container or the normally friendly sound of the paper bag my order went into.  I couldn’t feel my fingers handing over the money.  I couldn’t smell the delectable aromas that envelop the restaurant.  I couldn’t see beyond that bubble of spit that melted into the pecan pie that sat inside the container inside the paper bag.

I couldn’t speak when the take-out lady handed me the bag.  I simply took it, walked to my car, drove home, walked to my trash bin and threw the take-out bag away.

I don’t think I will ever be able to eat a piece of pecan pie again.  Ever.

Am I being overly dramatic?

Who do they think they are, anyway?

(Oh, wait.  That’s right.  I am one.)

And I’m of the not-so-humble and categoric grandparent opinion that the rite of passage into grandparenthood does allow me to cross any line… invisible or otherwise.

Which brings me to this morning.  Benjamin.  And a bottle.

Audrey came to my house at around 7:00 am with Benjamin and Henry.  Her other guys were with their dad, and she knew we could squeeze in some quality work time before 9 or 10:00.  We did.  At about 10:00, Henry needed a little nap, so Audrey put him in his pack-’n-play while she attended to some important phone calls.  That left me alone with Benjamin, and the first thing he wanted to do was open the kitchen drawer where I keep my spatulas and cooking spoons.  Of course, we did.  But way in the back of that drawer Benjamin spotted something.  Something from his past.  Something taboo, shall we say.

“Look, Grandma.  A bottle,” he said, with wide eyes.

“Oh.  A bottle,” I answered.

“And a nipple,” he correctly assessed.

“Ah.  A nipple,” I agreed.

Then Benjamin looked at me with his big blue eyes and asked, “Can I have a bah-bah?”  It nearly broke my heart that he called this thing a “bottle”… but the act of having one became “bah-bah.”

I melted into the oceans that are his eyes and said, “You know Mommy and Daddy would say ‘no’.”

“Pleeeassse, Grandma,” he whispered… like Mommy or Daddy would be bounding around the corner at any moment and end this fantasy.

I hesitated for a moment.  And in that moment I remembered that Audrey and Matt had allowed Benjamin his bah-bahs until he turned 2 years old (in April) because he is only 14 months older than his little brother Henry… and Henry used bottles.  A few weeks ago, Audrey and Matt “weaned” Benjamin to sippy cups.  It wasn’t an easy transition.

But then I looked into Benjamin’s eyes again and I found myself saying, “Yes.”

‘Cuz I am a grandma.  And I can say “yes” to “no” things.  (I will admit that I felt a twinge of “oh,oh” but that didn’t stop me.)

I took the bottle, screwed in all the right pieces, filled it with milk, added the nipple and handed it to Benjamin.  He said, “Thank you,” and immediately took it to my family room… and this is what I found:

Benjamin soon asked for more milk, and I accommodated this request, too.  I had fallen deeply and hopelessly into those beautiful eyes.

When Audrey came into the room, she screeched to a halt at the sight of Benjamin sprawled across Pop-up’s chair with a bah-bah.  “WHAT?” she asked.

I had but 3 words.  “‘Cuz I can.”

Period.