Planet McGrath, Episode 1 The Chihuahua

<Slow, dramatic, British voice of David Attenborough, BBC Earth>

The Chihuahua…

Weighing no more than seven pounds, basks in the sun of the Sahara- like land (thanks to a clear, plastic, homemade slip and slide set up by an unknowing 20 year old for the Fourth of July) and diligently peruses the dry, vast landscape for its next meal. It sits with confidence in the warmth of the sunshine.  There is another Chihuahua here too… she is three pounds…a killer.  They pace the perimeter of their land… silently awaiting the unknowing, unsuspecting bike rider…the dog walker…or the skateboarder to brush the outer margins of their home. A dog walker approaches… it sees the Chihuahuas and comments on how little they are. The walker’s companion dog… without knowing it has invaded the territory of the threatened Chihuahua… excitedly wants to play with the small animals on the other side of the fence.

<Dramatic Music>

The Chihuahuas, in their abundance of energy, in all their ten pound combined glory, leap and bound along the fringe of their home, barking in deafening tones, letting their potential prey know…it is not… welcome.  The Chihuahuas seem increasingly desperate.  It is now or never. The Chihuahuas attempt to catch the dog walker by pushing their small noses through the slats of the fence…but the walker manages to escape and slips from the Chihuahuas’ potential grasp. 

The Chihuahuas will not feast on the dog walker today. There will be no easy meals from behind the fence. They will, rather, settle for bowls of holistic dog food so expensive, the owners may take second jobs. 

The Chihuahuas retreat to the dead grass. They lay down and wait for their next possible victim. They roll over and scratch their backs on the stiff, dead blades. A hawk, largely looming over head, circles above the landscape, taking stock of the small Chihuahuas in their habitat. They are not watching the predator. They are too busy sniffing each other’s behinds and chasing butterflies and birds. The hawk lands on a nearby pole and observes. The hawk, however, is unaware that his predator, the keeper of the Chihuahuas, is closely watching from the landscape… in the shade of a large tree… She steps closer to the Chihuahuas and encourages them to head to the deck and into the nearby shelter. The hawk flies away…Chihuahua-less.

<Happy Music>

The Chihuahuas will not become prey today. They will continue in their habitat, in the safety of their shelter with the humans over which they have complete control.

Join us next time when we observe the behavior and eating patterns of another inhabitant of Planet McGrath- the 17 year old.

More “Mom of Boys” Stuff, like Wrestling at Church

Things have started to open up in some places and a few weeks ago, we made our first trip in months to Mass on a Sunday morning. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but we actually went to the Illinois side of the Mississippi to attend Mass because the Iowa side hadn’t opened yet. (Don’t get me started- you’ll be exposed to a rant that you will not be able to unsee or unhear and it’s just not worth the spike in my blood pressure.) It was beyond refreshing. I had almost forgotten how much I love attending Mass and what a necessity it is to maintain composure and kindness and sanity in this life of whatever you call what this life is full of on a regular basis. The smell, which is just a lingering scent of Frankincense, probably burned during the Christmas season at some point; the quiet atmosphere which brings a calmness to my head and my heart that no other place can, the candles, the statues, the altar. All of it. It was healing. I breathed deeper and fuller than I had in months.

I couldn’t help but notice in the front pew to my left was a family with two active littles. The boy was probably 4 and the girl was maybe 2. They were making noise with toys and their voices. My 17 year old was sitting next to me, quiet and reserved, staring up at the altar, deep in thought and I was thinking how different my life is at 47 than it was when my 17 year old was 3 or 4 or 5 and I was, well, much, much younger. I wanted to get up and walk over to that mom, who was keeping her composure far better than I ever did, point at my son and tell her, “honey, this is going to be so easy some day, I promise. Just plow through and do the best you can to keep your kids in the pew and you will be rewarded. We’re all pullin’ for ya.”

Honestly, I remember those days so well. It was a struggle. We knew if we fought the good fight, these boys of ours would succumb to our routine of going to Mass every Sunday, we JUST! HAD! TO! PERSEVERE! But that was not easy for several years and it tried our patience, for sure. We would try holding them and walking to different parts of the sanctuary, thinking that location would intrigue them and stop them from squirming. We tried taking them to the cry room in the back, but all the other parents in there had given up and their kids were running around the pews, smacking each other over the head with rosary beads and having food fights with Cheerios and Pepperidge Farm Goldfish snacks, so we quickly exited stage left and headed back to the pew, deciding that our only option was to sit on the kids until they were 12. Eventually, though, they learned to have self-control for an hour each week and Mass became refreshing again.

But there was that one Sunday, and confession…it’s the only Sunday since I became Catholic that I left right after Communion…

I think the boys were maybe 6 and 3. John was, by then, really used to Mass because not only did he attend all Sunday Masses and Holy Days with us, he went to a Catholic school and attended Mass frequently there as well. Sam was three. He was just three. And that’s all I have to say about that.

That Sunday, I was charged with getting the boys to Mass by myself because I was taking them somewhere for the day and Scott was working and had to attend Mass at a different time. The boys and I loaded up into the family mini-van and headed to Corpus Christi in Galesburg. Corpus is beautiful. It’s cathedral-like– high, royal blue ceilings, ornate gold trim, stunning altar. And the aisles… The aisles are about 6 miles long. Knowing that I would be having to man-handle Sam, and shush him when he would inevitably ask loudly why someone was so fat or “why are they walking like that, Mama?”, I sat wayyyyyyy in the back of the church in the corner.

When it was time to head up to the altar to take communion, Corpus always starts at the back, so the people sitting the furthest away begin the six mile trek in front of the entire congregation. I had been strategically sitting between the boys during the Mass, for obvious reasons, and as we stood up to get out of our tiny, three-person, corner pew, John was first to get out. (If you need clarification on “obvious reasons”, I mean that separation is key when you have more than one boy. They are a driving, unified force and their sole mission is to destroy all adults in the household. If you don’t get that shiz under control and exert your power from day one, you have not only lost the battle, friends, you’ve lost your dignity and self-respect and they know it. They know it and they and use it against you until they’re searching for and have found your long-term care facility).

John got out of the pew first and I followed, holding Sam’s chubby, three-year-old hand, guiding him out of the pew. But Sam is competitive in nature. At a very early age, as soon as he was able to recognize that John was his brother, Sam was determined to beat John at everything he could think of. He watched John’s every move and learned very quickly how to master every task that John could do- walking, getting dressed, feeding himself, getting his shoes on, climbing things. For the love of all things holy, that kid climbed everything. And he would always take it a step further than John. If John climbed to a branch 10 feet off the ground, Sam would climb 12 feet. This is not an exaggeration. To make matters worse, and much to our dismay and horror at times, Sam would Peter Pan himself right off of whatever he had climbed! (He once climbed a fence, grabbed a tree limb and attempted to swing himself across the yard. Great plan, genius, but unlike the trees in Indiana Jones movies, our branches are, shall we say, more likely to snap under the weight of a human child, thus dropping the child to Earth, on his back, with a loud thud. It was then that I had to have a conversation with my mom about reminding Sam “don’t try this at home” when they have movie night together.) Sam wanted to be faster at everything when it came to John and this particular Sunday was no exception.

As soon as Sam exited the pew and saw that John had already begun the journey down the aisle ahead of him, Sam began to walk faster. John, hearing that Sam was gaining on him, began to speed walk to stay ahead. Sam (and I can still picture this and it seems funny now, but I can tell you, I was legit scared for my reputation at this point) bent his arms so that his little elbows stuck out, hunched over slightly in determination and sped up his walk. Looking back, it was hilarious, but that day, he looked pretty scary from behind and I fully understand now why John picked up the pace to a steady jog.

Seriously. These aisles are so freaking long.

Sam sped up to a full-on sprint and it. was. on.

By the time I reached the front of church, two things were happening.

First, everyone sitting within eyesight of this scene was laughing. Well, everyone except for the mom, who was bringing up the rear of this shit-show. She was not laughing.

Second, and this was the worst part, at the base of the altar, literally at the foot of the priest, were my two boys. On the floor. Wrestling.

I’m laughing so hard right now, while I try to type this. But I can tell you that I was not laughing at that moment. And maybe I should’ve. Looking back now, I think… who cares? They were just being boys and they didn’t understand the reverence of where they were. This is how grandparents become the way they are and why kids love their grandparents more than their parents. Grandparents just get it. They look back at their lives with their children and realize things were pretty good and maybe they got upset over things that didn’t deserve getting upset over and they take on this new, chill approach to taking care of little ones. Oh, you broke something? I don’t mind that it’s a thousand years old! Have a cookie! Oh, you got in our car and put it in neutral and rolled it down the driveway? That’s great! We were going to clean out the garage anyway! Thanks for being a big helper!

But that day. Oh, that day. When I finally made it up to the altar, I grabbed each one by an arm and wedged myself between them. I hastily took communion from a smiling and patient priest and then walked past all the laughing on-lookers with a boy on each side. When we reached our pew, they attempted to slide into it, but I held tight and headed for the enormous wooden doors only feet away. I pushed the door open with my body, since I still had a boy in each hand, and in a voice I have only heard from myself a few times as a mother (it resembles more of a growl than a voice), I said, “get. in. the. van.” They took off down the steps, and ran out to the van, exactly like told them, except that they were giggling the entire time and of course, racing each other.

When I got into the van, I prepared to unleash the wrath of hell on those two and then I looked into the rear view mirror. Both boys were looking at me, with the sweetest and most angelic faces I had ever seen. John innocently asked, “what’s wrong, Mama?” How could I yell at them? They’re boys. They’re physical. They do boy stuff. They wrestle. ALL THE TIME THEY WRESTLE. I calmed down and told them we don’t run and wrestle in church. They looked at each other and giggled some more. Out of exhaustion and exasperation, my head fell forward and hit the steering wheel, which only encouraged them to laugh harder.

Sam is still competitive and pokes the bear as often as he can. They peaked when John was a senior. I have a dent the size of Sam’s head in my hallway wall to prove it. There is less wrestling now, more “shut up idiot” or “don’t be a moron.”

Sometimes I really miss those days and those sweet little innocent faces that didn’t have to deal with all the world’s yuck. The most challenging thing in their tiny lives at that time was how to manipulate mom into letting them stay up a little bit longer or eat a little more sugar. And I wish that mom and all moms of littles the best in church. After months of church on tv at home, the struggle will undoubtedly be real when they return to the actual, physical pew. Fight the good fight, girls. And keep yourself between them at all times.

2005
2019

Prepping for Round Two

“Things change. They always do, it’s one of the things of nature. Most people are afraid of change, but if you look at it as something you can always count on, then it can be a comfort.” ~Robert Kincade, The Bridges of Madison County

If you’re thinking this blog entry is doomed because it’s prefaced with a quote from the Bridges of Madison County, well… you might be right. I haven’t exactly been cranking out fully engaging, mind-blowing posts lately.

This week, Sam received his acceptance to Iowa State University. The second of my two boys has legit plans to leave our home next fall and while he was off in the living room, talking with one of his buddies, excitedly making plans for living arrangements and questioning the importance of air conditioning in a dorm, I was in a corner of the nearby dining room, curled up in the fetal position, desperately trying to stifle my cries. Also, who the hell questions the need for air conditioning? What is wrong with my kid? To his credit, my mom always called our house “the meat locker” due to its constant state of 64 degrees. Have I pushed our son away from us just because our house requires gloves and jackets in the summer or does he really, really want to go to college and further his education? And hey, before you get all judgy about my temperature control, I have actually increased the indoor temp to 67, so chill out everyone! No, seriously. Chill out.

But here it is. He’s finished his junior year of high school and now I’m right back where I was three years ago, preparing my heart and my mind for this long year of “lasts”. The last first day of school. The last night of marching band. The last concert. The last watching him drive away as he heads off for his school day. And I know what’s coming- it’s a storm of emotions of pride and fear and love and anger and confusion. Because dammit, I love having him home but he’s a man now and I have to let him be one. He’s excited and I have to be excited too, in front of him, because I love him and I want the best for him, but inside, my heart is breaking into a million little fragile pieces.

I was thinking back to January of 2019, when we were getting ready to send John off into the world on his own. John didn’t take the four year college and dorm life route. Instead he opted for a community college, located an hour and fifteen minutes from our home, to acquire a two-year degree in Fire Science. He would be living in an apartment- like a real grown up. The day before he left, John and I spent the day together, packing his things so we could move him to Cedar Rapids. In an episode of The Office, Oscar says, “time is a son of a bitch”. That quote crossed my mind so many times that day. It seemed like I was just rocking him to sleep in my arms, taking first-day-of-school pictures, buying him his first pair of football cleats, cheering him at the sidelines, witnessing his last football game and then, finally, feeling like I was watching a movie of someone else’s life while he walked on stage and accepted his high school diploma. And now, here I was, busy packing things for his new apartment- dishes and pans so he can cook for himself, bedding, cleaning supplies… big boy stuff. It was painful. It made my heart hurt. And it left a lump in my throat that I couldn’t swallow.

But honestly, what did I think was going to happen when he graduated high school? Did I think he would just live here, with us, his lame parents, forever? If he did, I didn’t do my job as his mom.

But, oh please, please, just stay forever.

A frequent flyer on my playlist when I’m driving is a Tom Petty tune called “Walls”. The last verse in particular ran through my head while I was helping him pack that day and all the days since, reminding me that I have to learn to accept the change at hand and all the pain that comes with it…

“Some things are over
Some things go on.
Part of me you’ll carry
Part of me is gone.

But you’ve got a heart so big
It could crush this town.
And I can’t hold out forever
Even walls fall down.”

Ultimately, John’s move to Cedar Rapids was a success. We were there most of the day, getting him settled and organized. We took him shopping and out to eat. At one point, while he and I were in the kitchen, organizing things into drawers, he said, “you can come back next weekend, Mom.” Those words were like long- awaited medicine for an ailment from which I’d been suffering for months. Truth be told, I hadn’t really thought much about whether he would miss me or not; I guess I assumed he wouldn’t. And then I felt a little selfish for thinking that I was the only one feeling the pain of this change, the overwhelmingness of his growing up.

When Scott & I left John’s apartment that day, I opened the door to leave and then we each gave him a hug and told him we loved him. He hugged us tightly and then said, “I love you too. Now get out, you’re wasting my heat.” It’s good that he has a sense of humor- it kept me from crying as we walked away. Scott and I got in the U-Haul and began to pull out of the parking lot. He looked around the cab and said, “do we have everything?” It was as though my emotions had been under a huge amount of pressure and his question sent them into combustion mode. I burst into tears, went into a fit of panic and shouted, “No! We don’t! We just left my baby in his first apartment to fend for himself!!”

Then I ugly cried all the way home.

I learned two things that weekend. First, time discriminates against no one. It has no remorse, no sympathy; the world just keeps turning. I guess you can lament the loss of it or you run alongside of it, capturing and savoring every moment you have left along the way.

The second lesson I learned was that separation is just geography. When we returned home, I told a friend that I felt like I had left a piece of my heart in Cedar Rapids. She replied that I took a piece of his back home with me. It left me speechless, that comment, because I realized that’s how we all work, right? When you love someone, you share your pieces with each other- that’s how we stay connected.

Looking back on it now, it was so hard but we’ve come so far. In fact, John’s done with his college career already and well on his way to becoming a firefighter. Like all things, it was challenging at first, almost unbearable at times, but the days, weeks and months seem to soften the pain, while hardening our resilience and making us stronger.

So I guess it’s time to prepare myself for the second round. I’ll be busy making lots of “last” memories, but we’ll be making lots of “firsts” too. You know, the first time we drop him off and drive away, leaving him to fight his own battles in a bigger world; the first time he calls home because he’s homesick but also three hours away, the first time…excuse me… I need a Kleenex.

You don’t need to be in the same position I’m in to relate. We all experience change every day. Some of it is easy to navigate, leaving us feeling strong and confident. But some of it is heavy and we just want to put it down and walk away. Stay strong friends. Whatever you’re facing, whatever changes are being presented to you, take them on with vigor and continue to challenge yourself to the very end.

Oh, did I mention that in the first semester in his apartment, the first semester that I left my son alone, in an unfamiliar town, in a new place where he knew NO ONE, that someone in the apartment living below him shot off a gun and the bullet came up through John’s living room? Yeah, see? Change isn’t ALL bad. You got this. No sweat.

Balls & Strikes

As baseball season approaches, and those of us who enjoy baseball are being deprived of it at all levels, I am reminded of a season when John, my then 10 year-old, played for the Duck Creek Tire team in the BPV baseball league. His coach was the principal in the first school John attended when we moved here and it was a great surprise to find out he had been able to get John on his team.

At the first practice, I sat on the bleachers watching Coach work with the boys- assigning them to different positions to find strengths and weaknesses and throwing pitches and dodging hits. At the end of the first practice, he pulled the kids into the dugout to discuss practices. Being a mom, I was listening to the information he was giving out because I was the party responsible for getting my kids where they need to be. My job title of “stay-at-home-mom” was really a bogus title. My daily activities were more comparable to a taxi cab driver than to someone who “stays home”.

At the end of Coach’s talk, I heard a word I was not ready to hear. At first I thought I heard wrong, and so my ears did that little twitch that all mom’s ears do when they were not sure they heard something right and are waiting for a replay. No, I heard it right. “Cup.” I am no man, but I know that Coach was not talking about a drinking apparatus and I suddenly realized that my son, my little angel boy, is equipped with the accoutrements that would require the aforementioned necessity. I shivered as I thought of myself having to figure out exactly what he would need and then the horror of having to figure out how it goes on…or under…or around.

Swing and a miss. Strike 1.

Being a Boy Mom can be exhausting because every stage of life offers a challenge. There’s the newborn-until-potty-training phase we like to call “watch out, get control, that thing will spray everywhere!” There’s the phase where you realize that boys like to get dirty and have no idea how much mud the bottom of a tennis shoe can hold. There’s the inevitable time frame where boys think they are invincible and climb very high things and Peter Pan themselves right off. Thereafter comes the chapter when you realize they have no concept of the fact that Mom doesn’t always want to hear about their adventures- “hey Mom! We went walking through the storm sewer tunnel and there were lots of dead animals in there! Can I have a cookie?” There’s the moment where you realize your home is starting to smell all gamey and locker room-like and you stock up on deodorant. And then lastly, you become conscious of the fact that boys settle a lot of disagreements with physical force or wrestling, regardless of their age- and that one just continues through an indefinite amount of time.

This was going to be one of those phase-defining moments when I have to tackle something of which I have no understanding. Enter my husband! He’s a guy. This is his area of expertise.

I went home and informed Scott of the needed materials, which was met with an explanation that he would be out of town for a business trip and wouldn’t be available much that week. So… exit, my husband!

It was very clear to me that I, the mom, the only existing female in our little family unit, was going to go on this shopping adventure with my son.

I took John with me to Wal-Mart one evening and after placing several other necessities in the cart, we headed to sporting goods. We walked through the aisle looking at our options- small, medium, large. Uhhhhh. I don’t know. I mean, who’s to say? How does one determine a “size”? I asked John which one we should get and he shrugged his shoulders and said, “I dunno.” I looked a little while longer but I honestly couldn’t figure out how they worked. I mean, how on earth do you attach it?!

We left. Strike 2!

Later that week, John informed me he also needed cleats. Cleats I can do! Cleats go on feet! Don’t know the size? That’s ok! The stores have a little contraption that can measure your foot! I’m pretty sure that nothing like this exists for cup measurements. Don’t even try to imagine it. You can’t unsee it.

We headed over to a sporting goods store in Davenport.  I decided to take care of the least painful part first and head back to the shoes.  We were approached by the salesman and he knew exactly what we needed in the cleat department.  He was great! He was friendly!  He was knowledgeable!

After he fitted John for shoes, he asked if I needed anything else.  Well, do I?  Do I need anything else? 

“Uh, yeah, so he needs a cup.”

“Oh, no problem.  Right this way.  What size?”

Seriously? Again with the size.  “Well, you’ve got his shoe size. I don’t suppose-”

“Um, no”  he says as he turns his head away from me and laughs as nonchalantly as he can.

“I have no idea how to determine a size for that,” I say, as I throw my arms up in disgust with the world of man stuff.

“Oh, well, it’s just the waist size.”

While that comes as a huge relief to me, despite that it makes no sense, I now have to vocally admit that I have no idea what his waist size is. How do I not know this? At this point, I’m pretty sure this guy thinks I am the most useless mom ever.

Almost strike 3, but we’ll call this a foul tip out into the bleachers.

The salesman said he could measure John’s waist, but apparently the staff at this particular store are not prepared to assist uninformed, uneducated mothers like myself who are unaware of their son’s waist size, because when he returned he was carrying a tape measure- like the kind you would use to measure a piece of lumber. I take the tape measure and find an approximate measurement.  They have one left! and off goes the salesman to retrieve my purchase. He returns and hands the package to me to me- it looks like a pair of boxer briefs.

“Yeah,” I say, “I don’t know what to do with this.”

 “Oh!” he says, (although I’m pretty sure he was thinking, ‘of course you don’t! You haven’t made any contribution or exhibited any knowledge about being a mom since you walked in the door!’) He explains that the compression shorts I can see through the plastic packaging actually hold the cup inside a little pocket.  He pulled it out of the package for me and showed me- you just slide the cup into its little home and put the shorts on.  New moms, you’re welcome.

Cleats, check.  Cup, check.  Dignity, check.

That experience left me with a pretty good amount of confidence that I can navigate myself through this phase of my Mom of Boys life, but I wasn’t the only one feeling confident. One day, shortly after acquiring the safety equipment, I could hear two voices coming from the bathroom.  John and his little brother Sam.  I leaned in to listen to the conversation…

(Dull thunking noise) “Did that hurt?”

“Nope.”

(Louder thunking noise)  “How bout that?”

“Nope.”

Success.

The season ended well, but I lost count on how many times I had to say things like, “please do not take your cup off in the kitchen and leave it on the dining room table.” Ugh. Boys.

Now that he’s all 20 and a grown-up, he doesn’t need me to help him much anymore. When he does actually need me, it’s welcomed with enough enthusiasm to let him know I’m happy to help, but not so much that he won’t ask in the future. It’s a fine line. A life with boys is a life full of contradictions and every stage offers something contemplative and gross and enlightening. I’m glad the gross stages are over. Well, maybe they’re not over, per say, but I won’t hear about them. In some ways I miss those days where he depended on me for so much. I look forward to the day (not too soon, though) when he has littles and we’re back at the ballpark again, watching them take a few swings. In the meantime, I’m going to relish in my now easy life of buying girl stuff like (here’s the pitch…) nail polish and shoes and pink pillows. Yeah, baby! Home Run!

Memories of Something that Never Happened

The last couple of months have been strange ones, no doubt, as I’m sure you’ll agree. My husband Scott is working from home, John is back from college and Sam’s high school will not be returning for the final month of classes so he is home full time as well. I mostly work from home but sometimes go to work for a change of scenery. I don’t know about y’all, but my personality was not meant to be quarantined or sheltered in any one place. I have missed my friends and family so much. I do enjoy having everyone home though. There is something about having us all together under one roof; I just feel safer, more grounded. I love my little family unit- they complete me and best of all, they tolerate me and even love me, which is not an easy task.

Once a week, I make the drive to my hometown of Aledo, Illinois to check on my dad. During a typical week, when The Rona isn’t running our lives, I drive there regularly to visit family or meet friends for lunch or a beer. But not much of that going around lately. My weekly trip to Aledo is one of the best parts of my week. Seeing my dad and spending time with him, both of us still grieving the loss of my mom, is healing for me. And I love Aledo. Even though I probably will never leave Iowa and I love it here, it’s always hard for me to leave my hometown of Aledo and head back home to Iowa.

There’s a million ways to make that trip back home but my favorite is Route 92 to Route 94. Route 92 is a little rough because the road hasn’t been maintained well and it’s probably not good for the car, but it’s my favorite route, so I tootle along, bouncing around in the driver’s seat, while my fairly new car shakes and rattles. If my husband knew I was taking that road, he would have a cow.

One of the reasons I drive that route is because I like a house that sits on a curve outside of Andalusia. I don’t know what it is about this house- there’s nothing spectacular about it. I sell houses. I’ve seen spectacular. If I had to guess, my attraction to it is purely nostalgia-related. From the outside, it’s a combination of the homes I loved as a child- my grandma’s house, my aunt’s house and our own home, when we lived in the country, not far from where this home is located. It’s a two-story white home with a couple of porches- one on the front of the house, the other on the side, toward the back. It’s the side porch I love the most because it’s large enough for a porch swing.

For me, a porch is one of the best parts of a home. A porch is where you greet the ones you love when you haven’t seen them in a long time. It’s where you sit to watch sunrises or sunsets or wave to the neighbors who are out taking their evening walks with their children and their dogs. It’s the place you stand and watch a storm roll in or run to shelter from rain when you’ve been outside in the garden. It’s the place where you say your goodbyes, sometimes for the last time, without knowing it.

If you’re lucky enough to have a porch large enough for a porch swing, then you are indeed, very fortunate, because a porch swing is the cherry on top. You can sit and rock a baby to sleep on a porch swing, while a soft breeze gently grazes his little eyelids as they grow heavier with tired comfort; meanwhile, you take in the scent of the nearby lilacs, making you drunk with spring. It’s the place you wait for a family member to come home after he’s been away in a war for far too long, while the yellow ribbon you tied around the oak tree in the front yard moves in the breeze and seems to beckon him to come in and lay down the heavy load he’s been carrying for months…or years. It’s the spot where you lay and put your feet up and drift off for a summer nap to the sound of the wind in the pines. It’s the perfect place to watch the leaves turn and fall from the trees and dance across the sidewalks or to watch children run up and down the street in their Halloween costumes, squealing with glee and excitement over pumpkins filled with candy.

A porch and a porch swing might just be what could cure the world of all of its ailments.

Aside from its simple white structure with the two porches, there isn’t much more to mention- it has a couple of screen doors that slam every time someone leaves or comes inside, a red barn or two and a gravel driveway that makes popping sounds under the tires when someone pulls up to the house. It really isn’t any different than many houses you find in the country along quiet, Midwestern, two-lane highways, lined with Queen Anne’s Lace and Black-Eyed Susans. It’s what I imagine when I drive by it that makes it so intoxicating to me and the daydreams usually stay with me until I pull into my own driveway, twenty-five minutes later.

On Sunday mornings, my husband pulls the car out of the barn and up to the side porch for me. I come out in my Sunday-best and climb into the passenger seat and we quietly ride to town to go to church. We don’t say much because we’re both enjoying the scenery and the sunshine. We spend a little time after church, having a cup of coffee and catching up with our friends. If we were Lutheran, we’d spend significantly more time chatting after the service and the coffee would be stronger. But we’re Catholic and Catholics will run you over in the parking lot, trying to get out of there as quickly as possible, so no one really sticks around long. I know this because I’ve been both.

We ride back home and talk about the Mass and the homily and about upcoming events like the Rhubarb Fest in Aledo or the Mercer County Fair. When we arrive back to the house, we’re greeted with the savory scent of the pot roast I put in the oven earlier that morning. I immediately put on my apron and begin to peel the potatoes, while watching out the kitchen window above the sink for my boys and their families to pull into the drive for Sunday dinner. Scott sits in his recliner, reading the paper or watching a baseball game and nodding off. Soon the home will be filled with the sounds of stories and laughter, children playing and music in the background, probably from the record player, since we both like the sound of the crackle the records make. Hours later, saying goodbye will be the hardest part of the day, but you can bet I’ll be on my porch and in grand family tradition, we’ll wave to them until we can’t see their cars anymore. The boys and their families don’t live far and we’ll see John and Sam throughout the week when they have time for a cup of coffee and want to check on us; but goodbyes are always hard, regardless of the time in-between, now that I’ve learned that sometimes they’re final.

During the week, we’ll live our simple, retired life. Scott will don his Pioneer hat and faded jeans that seem to become looser and looser every time he puts them on. He’ll go out to the barn in the morning, after the dew dries, and pull out the John Deere rider to mow the grass. I’ll bake something for when the boys stop by- an apple crisp or maybe just biscuits to eat with butter and homemade strawberry jam. The breeze comes in through the open windows and makes the curtains billow and then snap! before they fall back to the window sill. The smell of freshly turned earth fills the air from the nearby farmers prepping the fields for planting. I occasionally step out to the porch, while drying my hands on my apron, to check on Scott and see how close he is to done so I can greet him with a mason jar full of water. He’ll stand on the porch and drink it, while admiring the clean and straight lines he made with the mower.

We’ll “run to town” together and get groceries and he’ll stop at the hardware store to get a part for my dryer so he can fix it, even though I’m not in a hurry because I can hang the clothes on the line for now. We’ll stop at the Maid-Rite and have a bite and maybe we’ll split a shake. And on the way home, back to our little house in the country, I’ll think about how I’m the luckiest person in the world.

My life in this house is simple. I tend to my flower gardens that are full of lilies that I brought from my mom’s garden, and Scott and I will plant and weed and harvest our own vegetables that I’ll freeze or can in the late summer when the air is heavy and heat is almost unbearable. The nights will be filled with the sounds of soft Big Band music in background, chirping crickets and croaking frogs, and the squeaks of the porch swing, lazily moving back and forth while we sit and talk about what a great life we’ve had.

I have to laugh a little at this fake life I’ve created. It’s so horribly unrealistic. I mean, seriously, what would I do with barns and acreage? What am I, a farmer? Please. I’m scared of spiders. I wouldn’t last a day. If I’m being honest with myself, I’ll probably end up in a condo in town where I pay an HOA fee for someone to mow the grass and clear the walk and I agree to not hang clothing on a line in the backyard. HOA bastards. I won’t “run into town” because I’ll actually already be there. And we won’t eat apple crisp and homemade strawberry jam because all that sugar would give us heartburn. But for that 25 minutes left in my drive, the memories I didn’t make are pretty charming.

I think the message behind my made-up memories is clear though- and here’s what I’ve been realizing over the last couple of months- these little daydreams are telling me that I long for a simpler life and I don’t need much to make me happy. That’s how my mom was- she found joy in people, not things. It’s not really things or places that make the memories, it’s the people we’re with when we make them. Maybe that’s what this “quarantine” has been all about- taking a break and evaluating and prioritizing. Wherever I end up over the course of the next thirty or forty years, I’ll be surrounded by the people that matter most to me- the family and friends that I have missed seeing so much of over the last couple of months. And even if it’s not in some farmhouse between Andalusia and Aledo, it’ll be my own kind of perfect and the memories I created in my head will pale in comparison to the ones that I actually make.

Snowy Day Super Mom

It’s snowing. It’s about time really. It’s January, for Pete’s sake, and this is the first real snow we’ve had in Iowa. There was a little spattering of winter at some point in late 2019, but it was unmemorable, only because it melted the next day. I’m pretty sure that doesn’t count. But this weekend…it rained all evening, hard enough that I went down to check the sump pump a couple of times. (Which really doesn’t mean anything.  My boys are at Notre Dame this weekend for hockey and basketball games. When I say “boys”, I’m including my husband in there because often I feel like a single mom with three children. Anyway, if there had actually been a sump pump emergency, I would’ve just said, “huh.  Well, that sucks,” and I would’ve come back upstairs and closed the basement door. Last year when they went on their annual trip, it snowed about 9 inches and I looked out the window and said, “huh. That sucks,” and I went back to binge watching Parks & Recreation.) Back to last night- the rain turned to ice and now there is a beautiful coat of the slippery stuff all over everything, which is now being buried under a layer of snow- a deadly combo for someone like myself who can’t walk properly on a sidewalk on a sunny day, much less an ice and snow-covered one.

There was a time that I really looked forward to winter weather. I used to go outside and make snow angels and then come inside and drink hot cocoa. Now, I fear winter. First, hot cocoa gives me heartburn. Second, with one partial knee replacement completed and one coming up in February, I now act like a senior citizen and I refuse to go anywhere when the weather is bad. On top of that, my knee surgeon told me not to fall.  What’s wrong with this guy?  Doesn’t he know that I’m going to fall just because he told me not to?  I’ve fallen four times since he said it. Luckily for me, most people don’t want to go see houses on days like today, so I guess I have the luxury of watching it from inside the house.

This week, our nineteen-year-old, John, told Scott and I that we are boring. I quickly informed him that we used to be fun. We used to stay up late! We used to close the bar! We went out with friends! But then, twenty years ago, we got pregnant and after having two children that sucked our will to live, we are now in bed before ten. (And ten is a stretch. Usually I want to go to bed at six, but I can’t because I have these ridiculous, adult-y responsibilities and I can’t get them done by then.) Someday, twenty years from now, if I’m still alive, I expect a phone call from that young man, telling me I was right and that he’s tired and likes to go to bed early.

It got me to thinking about how I was as a young mom.  It’s amazing, really, how much energy we have back then, even though we don’t think we do.  What I mean is, when I think about that time in my life, I remember being so tired all the time, but I did stuff anyway. I worked full-time and I kept the house up and I made meals and did laundry and still took time to read stories at bedtime and play with the boys. In fact, I was happy to bundle them up on a day like today and take them out to enjoy the snow. There was one particular incident though, that may have just earned me the “Most Fun and Bravest Mom Ever” award and apparently John has forgotten all about it. 

This story begins on one of the snowiest days of the year when John was 5, which means Sam was 2. The storm was moving through slowly and dropping enormous, heavy, wet flakes.  John was so excited- he wanted to go sledding in the worst way. Sam, on the other hand, who was afraid of grass in the summer and leaves blowing across the sidewalk in the fall, was slightly more apprehensive of the changes in season and wasn’t completely sold on the idea of playing in the snow just yet. But we had a whole day to do whatever we wanted, and since I was in love with winter and cold and snow at the time, I was totally game for a day of sledding.

We spent the better part of the next hour getting dressed.  When I say “we”, I mean I spent the next hour dressing us. I wrapped, bundled, stuffed, packed, muffled and restrained both children in their warmest winter gear- layers and layers of it.  Because, let’s face it, sledding is only fun if you’re warm. Even if it means you lose circulation to the extent that you need a limb amputated or you simply can no longer walk because of the heaviness of the layers, it’s necessary.  Otherwise, you’re one trip down the hill and ready to go home and warm up.  Dressing is key.

After expanding the car seat restraints to adjust for all the extra layers, I piled the boys and the sled into the van. At the time, we lived in Galesburg, Illinois. I had not grown up in Galesburg, and it wasn’t until I was in search of a hill for sledding purposes that I learned just how un-hilly Galesburg is. After driving around for a while, I decided we needed to travel, despite the wintry weather.  That’s when I had an idea…

We were only about 40 minutes from my hometown, so I pointed the van in that direction and off we went into the abyss of white wonder! Remember, I’m Super-Mom!  Ambitious and unafraid! I knew exactly the hill that would be perfect for a sledding adventure. Soon, the boys and I were parked in the tennis court parking lot behind my old high school, standing at the top of the most amazing hill (cliff) and staring down at the bottom (death). Now those of you who grew up with me, know what hill I’m talking about.  It overlooks (or did- maybe the landscape has changed like everything else) the football field.  At the base of the hill, encompassing the football field, was a cinder track.  It had metal rims all the way around it on the inside and the outside of the track, that rose about 4 inches from the ground, to keep the cinders in, I suppose, or perhaps for sled-launching purposes, as you will soon discover.  It was like standing at the Grand Canyon, except it was covered in white and there were no signs to keep the stupid people from running down the cliffs.

John looked at me nervously and asked, “Is this the football field hill?” “Oh yeah,” I said, with a look in my eye similar to the one Chevy Chase in Christmas Vacation has when he finds the tree out in the middle of nowhere and decides that despite its enormous stature of about about 25 feet high, it’s going in their living room. I turn to John and say, “you’re not chicken, are ya?”  His reply was, “let’s do it.”  That’s my boy.

This is where being Super Mom can be a dangerous thing.  My kids at their young, impressionable ages, think I can do anything.  They’ve seen me use power tools, they watched me flip my husband over my shoulder once after he jokingly put me in a headlock, they think I can fix anything and do anything, and they completely trust me and rely on me for their protection. My five-year-old has just placed the lives of him and his two-year-old brother completely into my hands, trusting that Mom would never do anything to jeopardize their health and safety.

Now the first struggle was getting us all into the sled- not because we wouldn’t all fit, but because there are white posts at the top of the hill to stop cars from plunging to their destruction below. The hill immediately drops off after the posts, so it required a bit of a balancing act on my part to hold the sled while positioning the kids on it, without prematurely sending them down the hill, sled-less. Then, there was the process of determining the seating order. If I sat in back, I could hold the kids onto the sled with my legs. John put on a brave face and got in front and we wedged little Sam in between us, certain that he wouldn’t be able to fall out. I could not have been more wrong about that scenario, or a million others I had imagined when I haphazardly created this plan.

At this point we are all in the sled and I am clinging to one of the white posts to keep us from sliding until we are completely ready. I wasn’t worried at this point.  In fact, I was completely exhilarated! The danger! The speed! The wind in our faces! It was going to be an exciting ride, no doubt! It’s possible that this outlook comes from my dad, who at times, was a not a “safety first” kinda guy.  But that’s another post.  And a hilarious one.

Now, it’s possible you have heard me tell this story in person, and if you have, it’s much more animated and hilarious. But for now, I will do my best to describe the following events as best as possible in order to give you the most accurate visual image.

I let go of the post and immediately threw my arms around both kids.  John let out a scream of what really should’ve been excitement and laughter but sounded more like a piercing shriek of terror. Sam remained silent, probably because he was suffocating. But also, because he couldn’t see what John and I could see.

Because I was so tightly wrapped in the layers of clothing, I wasn’t able to turn around and look behind us, but I’m certain there were flames coming out of the back of the sled.  We flew down the 90-degree hill at approximately the speed of an Amtrak train moving cross-country while bits of icy snow were flying in our wake. The ride was completely breathtaking. And I mean that literally. We hit the bottom of the hill and then flew forward just slightly before hitting the first of the metal track rims. Upon hitting the rim, the sled went airborne. If I had had a chance to look down at that point, I’m sure the view would’ve mimicked that of the view from a window seat in a 747 at 50,000 feet.  But before I had a chance to enjoy the view, we landed and hit the second of the rims, which sent all three of us flying out of the sled.  Maybe launched is a better word here.  We were launched from the sled and came down on our backs, somewhere near the long jump pit inside the track.

We hit the ground with three crunchy thuds.  I had no idea snow could make a thud sound. None of us uttered a noise. The only thing we could hear was the wind in the park trees and the enormous flakes falling to the earth. I stared at the white sky, wondering if I was alive, or if I had died and was slipping into “the light”. But then I started laughing.  Immediately, John followed suit and yelled, “THAT WAS AWESOME!”  I laughed and asked if he wanted to do it again and he enthusiastically (and probably stupidly) agreed to Round 2.  We stood up and realized that Sam was stuck in the snow…crying.  In a joint effort, we unstuck him (he left one hell of an imprint) and I picked him up. I tried my best to console him, but I was laughing too hard.  I carried him and the sled back up the hill, which was no small feat, mind you.  Coming down was a hell of a lot faster.  Going up felt like it should require mountain-climbing equipment.

We reached the top and John and I prepared for the second launch. I reached for Sam, but he clung to the post for dear life and shook his head.  I told him to wait for us at the top off the hill- it would only take us a second (probably less than that going down, if I’m being honest).  John and I replayed the incident but this time, when we hit the first metal rim, the sled disintegrated into several plastic shards and left us on the track.  We laughed all the way to the top of the hill, and I loaded them into the van.  Yep, two rips down the hill and we were done.  We headed to my parents to be spoiled with hot chocolate and popcorn and snuggles on the couch under warm blankets.  When we headed back to Galesburg later that day, the boys slept in the backseat while I laughed the entire trip home thinking about our day.

I didn’t win any “Mother of the Year” awards from Sam that year and I’m sure someday there’s a psychologist out there who is going to make a fortune off that kid when he realizes what I put him through. Ironically, though, he is my risk-taker and John has become our cautious one.  Not sure what to make of that, but the therapists will have an answer, I’m sure.

In a way, I miss those days.  Not just because the boys were younger, but because I was younger.  It’s hard to imagine myself doing those things now, in my late forties, with all my broken parts.  At what point in my life did I become less fun and more afraid? These days, the most dangerous thing I do is drink hot cocoa, knowing we’re out of Tums.  Funny how twenty years can make all the difference.  I suddenly feel brave, though, now that I’ve told you this story.  Maybe I’m still kind of a Super Mom!  Maybe I’ll do something crazy tonight while no one is here! 

Maybe I’ll stay up until 11.

Southern Hospitality

First, I must apologize for the long lull between blog posts. You must be thinking… she isn’t taking this blog thing very seriously. What on earth is she doing with her writing self? She must be caught up in spreading all kinds of Christmas joy and cheer and she’s completely ignoring her reading roadies!

Well.

Almost two weeks ago, I started writing a Christmas post about my mom and her Christmas tree-cutting shenanigans and her lack of ability to understand the ratio between Christmas tree size and living room square footage. It’s a fantastic story. But then, and I still can’t wrap my head around this, my mom died. She just collapsed and died. It’s been almost two weeks and I just don’t feel ready to post anything about her yet. Besides, you don’t want to hear me blubber and bawl all over myself here, so here’s something completely unrelated. It’s an old story I wrote several years ago but never published to Facebook, so I thought this would be a good time to share it. Honestly, I’ll take all the funny I can get right now.

Several years ago, my IT Director husband, Scott, had been asked to make a business trip to Mississippi to help the company move their plant from one location in the city to another. He would be responsible for all the network stuff- I don’t know what that means and he’s given up explaining it to me. Scott and I hadn’t been on a “trip” since our honeymoon, which was 12 years ago at that time.  We had been on overnights here and there, but nothing extensive.  My saint of a mom-in-law agreed to take our kids for the week and since her place is on the way to Mississippi, it was an easy drop off. I was so looking forward to the trip. It was shortly after Christmas and that seemed like the perfect time to head South.

If you know anything about me, you know I am pretty organized.  Actually, that’s a bit of an understatement.  That would be like saying that the Pope is kind of Catholic.  I prepared for this trip from the minute we decided to go together in November.  First of all, I packed enough crap to take with us that if we had to move to Mississippi on short notice, we could have probably bought a house and just furnished it without having to buy anything.  I packed all kinds of things to keep myself busy while Scott was working.  I was downright giddy, looking forward to my quiet time in the days, but also the evenings when we could go out and enjoy our time to ourselves. Of course, at the time, my boys were eight and eleven. They had a lot of energy, they smelled like a locker room and I was growing tired of all the wrestling and the headlocks that accompany the joy that is having boys. Hence the desire for quiet time.

The trip down was relaxing.  We talked and talked and amazingly enough, never ran out of things to tell each other.  We ate at some great places and made good time.  That was Monday.  Tuesday was fun-  I didn’t even leave the hotel.  I worked out in the fitness center and took a long, hot bath.  I scrapbooked, watched Harry Potter and took a nap.  We went out for dinner and had some awesome steaks.  On Wednesday, I woke up not well.  Not well at all.  Before Scott went to the office, he took me to get some medicine and some OJ.

Just remember- we are in Mississippi at this point.  And God bless Mississippi. Really. I mean that. I honestly don’t mean any disrespect over the course of this entry.

I probably should start providing “Stories on Tape” because really, you need to hear the Southern drawl I’ve acquired in order to truly appreciate the rest of this story.  But since you cannot, please insert your own Southern drawl as best as you can in the appropriate places.  I will do my best to spell the words exactly how they sounded- I’m sure spell checker will have a seizure trying to figure out what I’m up to.  But before I go any further, I also need to preface the remainder of this story with the following:

1.  At the time, I didn’t have a smartphone. I had a GPS, like a Garmin. And I hated that thing.

2.  Mississippi has its own time zone.  It’s called “I Got All Day” and everyone operates at the same speed.  And it’s really freaking slow.

3.  As far as the South is concerned, the Civil War never ended.  In fact, the South interprets the Civil War and its outcome entirely different than the rest of the country.  How do I know this?  Perhaps it was upon entering Corinth, MS, home of the “Corinth Civil War INTERPRETIVE Museum”. Is there really anything to interpret here? Evidently, Mississippi thinks so.

4.  It appears that “the beehive” is still a popular hairstyle in Mississippi.

5.  People in Mississippi are very, very nice.  They really are.  It actually makes up for the bad hair, the slow speed and the whole Civil War bitterness they carry around.

So, back to Wednesday.  Scott drives me to Wal-Mart to grab some medicine. I pick up some Nyquil, Alka-Seltzer Plus, TheraFlu, cayenne pepper, Vicks Vaporub, Kleenexes and orange juice.  I walk to the check out where two cashiers, who have beehive hairdos (see #4), stop talking and look at me with complete and total pity, so much so that I want them to take me home and make me chicken soup.

Cashier (who resembles Flo from Mel’s Diner):  “Awwwwww.  Are you okaaaay, huuuuun?”

I wanted to say “no, Flo. I am not. And I am headed back to a hotel where no one knows me or cares about me and my mom is 10 hours away, so can you please take me home with you and feed me and get me a cool washcloth for my forehead and rock me?”  But instead, I smiled and said, “not really.” 

Cashier:  “Awwwwwww.  Wellll.  Y’all take care now an get you better”.  Not quite the outcome I had hoped for in this friendly exchange, but nice enough anyway. 

By Wednesday night, I was a mess.  I was sick.  And I knew it was a sinus infection, complicated by a root canal in one of my molars under the sinus cavity.  So I was in pain and a lot of it.  On Thursday morning, Scott said he would take me to Urgent Care.  I told him I would, instead, drop him off at the office and I could drive myself.  After all, I had Emily, the voice of some British chippie housed in the GPS, so what could possibly go wrong? Surely she can get us where we need to go.

I dropped Scott off at the office, a place I’m sure he was more than happy to go since I had been hacking, sniffling, snucking and coughing for the last 24 hours, and then I entered the address of the Urgent Care into the GPS and took off.  I drove to the exact point where the black and white checkered flag was located on the screen and the Brit in the GPS told me I had reached my destination.  Well, unless Urgent Care is located in a factory where they make paper products, I was in the wrong place. 

So I have a brief conversation with Emily, the British GPS Chippie:

Me:  “Drive to the nearest urgent care.”

Emily:  “Drive to Corinth Tire and Repair.  Is this correct?”

Me (slightly louder because maybe Emily is hard of hearing): “No.  Drive to the nearest medical facility.”

Emily:  “Drive to the nearest McDonald’s.  Is that correct?”

Me:  “No, you piece of s&*t! URGENT CARE! I NEED AN URGENT CARE! Forget it!  I’m sick and you’re worthless!”

Emily:  “I’m sorry.  I did not understand that command.  Please choose another option.”

Me:  “I choose to throw you out the window, Emily.”

Emily:  “I’m sorry.  I did not understand that command”.

For the love of all things holy… Emily is fired.

I feel rotten.  I’m far from home.  I don’t know a doctor in this town and I just want to cry.  Instead, I drive around, attempting to be optimistic. After a while, I give up and stop at the nearest building, which happens to be the health department, to ask directions. 

Me:  “Hi.  I’m looking for the Urgent Care facility.  Can you give me some directions?”

Receptionist:  “Oh!  Hun!  Yer soooo cloooose!  Nowya’ll just driiiive down that way there and it’s ouuuun the leuft side of the rowwwd.  On the LEUFT.  Ya cain’t miss it.  Ya just caiiiiiiiiin’t.”

Oh good.  I caiiin’t miss it.

Receptionist: “But if ya come ta Waaaaaalmrt, ya dun gown too far and then ya gotta turn arooooound, and theun, it’ll be on yer RIIIIGHT side.”

Thank heavens for that clarification.

So I head in the direction in which she pointed, looking for Waaaaaaaalmrt.  And I reach Waaaaaaaaalmrt and unfortunately, I still have not located the Urgent Care.  I turn around and look on the RIIIIIIIIIGHT side of the road, but still nothing.  And for the love of Pete…why is everyone driving so damn slow? I turn back around, try again and give up.  I pull over, lean forward and place my forehead on the steering wheel, asking God to please put me out of my misery and end it all for me, right here on the side of the road in the middle of the state of Mississippi. 

But look!  There’s the Social Security office! ‘Nope! Don’t finish me off yet’, I think, and I pull in and ask directions.

Me:  “Hi.  I appear to be lost.  I’m looking for the Urgent Care.  Am I close?”

Receptionist:  “Oh yer so close!  It’s juus riiiit up th rowd!  Yer gonna driiiive thaut waaay and keep yer head all poppycocked to the siiiiide cause then auftur the liiiiite, yer gonna tern left.  Its gotta big ol siiiiign.  Ya cain’t miss it.”

I leave, muttering to myself things that fit into the Not Safe For Work category. Right.  I cain’t miss it.  I just cain’t.  I get in the car and I drive past the light.  And I apparently miss it.  I thought there was a big ol sign?  Shouldn’t I have seen it by now?  I backtrack to the Social Security office and decide to try again, and seriously!! Is this the fastest you people can drive down here? Are your cars physically made differently so that you cannot accelerate anywhere near the speed limit? At this rate, I should be able to find medical assistance by the next week. I’m pretty sure calling an ambulance is off the table. It could take days before they reach me. The death toll down here must be absurd.

I pull out of the Social Security office parking lot again, making sure that this time, I’m keeping my head all “poppycocked” because maybe that’s where I failed the first time- I wasn’t poppycocked enough.  Then, I see it!  But ya cain miss it and there ain’t no big ol siiiiign.  It’s off the road and there is a small-ish sign on the side of the building.  Whatever.  I’m there.

I literally drag my decrepit, sick body through the doors and to the check-in window, where I give the receptionist all my info and then sit down to wait.  But sitting there, I begin to the notice the artwork that is surrounding me in the waiting room.  I mean completely surrounding me.  It’s like a noose around my neck.  I can feel my breathing become a little more shallow while the noose closes tightly around my esophagus.  There are framed prints on all the walls depicting scenes of the Civil War.  But not just any scene.  Large Confederate flags grace every battle behind the glass.  The Yanks are all lying on the ground, missing limbs, bleeding out, while the Confederates seem to be celebrating on horseback, waving their guns in the air like a bunch of Afghans with AK-47s at some Middle Eastern celebration.  ‘Interesting’ and ‘maybe a little concerning’, I think to myself.

The nurse comes out and calls my name and I follow her to an office where there is another nurse at a computer (okay, so this is good sign, they use modern technology here as opposed to using techniques like an ink blotter and parchment paper or lopping off someone’s limb while they bite on a stick).  I sit and begin to answer the questions that both nurses are asking me.  While doing so, I try to take inventory of the artwork again.  This time, I am looking at portraits of Civil War Confederate Generals.  I’m starting to get nervous and becoming more and more aware of the fact that I am from Iowa. 

Then…

Nurse 1:  “Arrrrya a drinker?”

Me:  “uh, casually, I guess.”

Nurse 1:  “Arrrrya a smoker?”

Me:  “No.”

Nurse 2:  “Arrrrya a dipper?”

Me:  “Uhhhhhh.”

Am I a dipper? Does she mean what I think she means? Do women do that here? Suddenly my mind is trying to piece together the visual of a lady with a worn, circular, faded mark in the front pocket of her favorite jeans where she keeps her chew. She looks like she’s part chipmunk with a cheek full and she’s spitting into a cola can. Does she pee standing up? I’m trying to sort all this out in my mind and the nurse continues, but clearly she is working on her own visual…

Nurse 2:  “Well, I gotta ausk.  Ma granny’s a dipper, so ya just never knowwww,” she says, as she is quickly pumping the blood pressure cuff with a smile on her face.  She seems to be lost in thought, as the cuff is tightening more drastically than usual and I feel like my hand might either spontaneously combust or fly off the end of my wrist.  She brings herself back to reality (or perhaps it was the grunting noises I was making as she cut off the circulation from the elbow down), then she laughs.  “Ohhh my!  Did I git that too tiiiight?  I’m so sorry!  I got ta thinkin bout Granny and her dippin can and I wasn’t payin you no attention.”  She says this with a smile that appears genuine, but General Lee is bearing down over her shoulder and I’m starting to wonder if I’m imagining things or if I should make a mad dash for the door.

After Q & A, at which time I realize nothing should surprise me at this point, I am escorted to an examination room…full of pictures of Confederate soldiers. I wait, a little nervously, until the nurse practitioner comes in.  She listens, pokes, prods, asks some questions and informs me of the recovery plan and because I can’t really understand her, I hear something like “Blah blah blah, lots of southern drawl, blah blah blah, southern drawl, SHOT, blah blah blah blah blah.”  Wait a minute.  I know I heard “shot”.  I begin to break out into a sweat, wondering if “shot” refers to a firing squad and a blindfold.  I quickly glance at the Confederate soldier on the wall to my right and feel my throat closing in on itself again.  So I repeat the only word I was able to comprehend- “shot?” and she says “yup.  You’ll feel a lout better, a lout fasterrr.”  Okay, I’m not a big fan of needles, but at this point, I’m sick enough that I don’t care.  The nurse with the granny who apparently loves her tobacco comes in and preps the needle.  She seems to be enjoying her nurse position here at the Urgent Care.  It appears that giving shots might just be the most fulfilling and rewarding thing she does all day.  She not-so-gently gives me a shot in the behind and tells me to just lie down because “yer gonna feel that fer a whiiiile.”  ‘A while’ was an understatement.  I felt it for 3 days.

When I retreated, and I use that term loosely, back to my car, I drove to the pharmacy (while simultaneously suspending my ass from the driver’s seat) to get my medication.  I’m standing at the counter (I would’ve writhed in pain but I was in public), placing my order, when I hear, “Ya’all wanna sit dowun hun?  Ya luuuk like yer in a lotta pain.”  I turn around and there is an elderly woman sitting behind me next to an empty seat.  I take her up on her offer and she comments that it appears I’ve had a shot.  I’m so glad she noticed.

Needless to say, the shot did not make me feel better faster.  The drive home to Iowa, while greatly appreciated at this point, was long and excruciating.  Upon returning North, my sinus infection resulted in numerous doctor visits, lots of heavy medication and ultimately, a tooth extraction, which ironically makes my smile look eerily like some of the people I was sitting next to in the Urgent Care.  Thankfully, here in Iowa, we don’t whittle false teeth out of branches and I’ll be able to have an implant where my tooth was.  

It was a few weeks later that I was telling one of my Southern friends about the events that took place on our trip.  When I presented my observation that the South seems to have a completely different perspective of the Civil War, she replied, “Yes.  They do.  In fact, in many southern Civil War reenactments, the South actually wins.”

Yes.  Yes.  I believe they do…

Blogging… it’s NOT for everyone.

Wow! My first-ever blog post! Thank you for joining me on this little journey. While I’m a full-time Realtor, I’ve been a hobby writer for a long time, simply sharing my own stories about life in brief fits and spurts on Facebook. Every time I put my stories out there, people ask me why I haven’t written a book. It sounds easy enough and maybe when someone is able to write things you enjoy reading, you think they shouldn’t have a problem with it- it should come easy to them, right? But book-writing requires a magnificent imagination and a lot of patience, and I suffer a shortage from both. If I’m being honest with myself, my writing is like a small chihuahua who suffers from ADHD and drinks a lot of espresso. Short story writing is probably in my best interest. Again, with the honesty, I’ll be shocked, and yet pleasantly surprised, if I publish a book before I die. On the other hand, if I’m published after I die, I won’t be shocked at all.  Because I’ll be dead.

For me, writing is like an old boyfriend you keep handy in case something else doesn’t work out with someone else.  It really likes you, so it hangs around and waits for you to call it. You bat it around like a kitten with ball of yarn for a while, and then you discard it because it’s not convenient or it’s boring or it’s not a viable cash flow and you have needs. But it doesn’t get over you and it never goes away.  It’s grateful for the time you spend with it and it misses you when you’re not there.  Essentially, you become accustomed to using it when you’re bored with other things. The people around you think you should actually marry it, because it’s perfect for you, but you’re not sure because deep down you love it and you don’t want your relationship with it to fail.

But here we are…I’ve decided to take the plunge and marry it.  As long as writing understands that we have an open marriage and my other lover is real estate.  So far, they seem to be flexible with one another, although real estate can sometimes be very greedy with my time and then writing gets all jealous and naggy because I’m not spending enough time with it.

It was my husband Scott who said, “why don’t you write a blog?” That sounded innocent enough. So I started doing some research and thought maybe this could work! Maybe I could find a way to successfully integrate writing into my life without having to drop everything else! I don’t want to bore you with all the start-up specifics, but…well…here we go.

First, I just have to tell you, starting a blog is really an intense process. I had no idea. I had this assumption that you simply find a format online somewhere, choose your own platform and start writing. I could not be more wrong about that. It begins with the daunting task of finding a name for your blog. The best option is to use .com, because it’s the most popular. But you have to find a name (called a domain name) to end with .com that has not been taken already. I next had to decide what I wanted to describe…me or my writing. It’s exciting at first because it’s a new endeavor and you start coming up with all of these grand ideas for .com names. You plug them into a site to see if the domain name is taken and you find that every name that suits you is already registered by someone else! I hope whoever has all those original website names I came up with is doing them great justice.

So what do you do when you have already reached the point of moderate frustration in the very first baby steps of your new undertaking? You call your best of friends and put them to the task of assisting you in creating your domain name. You have high expectations of them- they should be dropping all other seemingly important duties, like work and rearing children, to assist you in this endeavor. They comply, only because they already know how bossy you are, and giving in is just easier. For days, you and your word posse blurt out random ideas, while you plug each one into the domain search engine to see if it already exists. It’s mentally exhausting. And emotionally, I might add, because you realize that maybe in this big, big world, you’re not so special, since everyone is coming up with names for themselves that describe YOU.

First conversation with Friend Jules went like this:

Deb: I need a blog name.

Jules: Funnyshit.com. Because you write some funny shit.

Deb: Two things- should I be describing my writing or me? And two, you know I have to tell my mom and my mom-in-law the name of my blog, right? Do I really want to tell them that my blog name is Funnyshit.com?

Between Jules, Megan and myself, we forged onward to find something slightly more appropriate, but just as accurate.

“How about French Bread? I’m crusty on the outside and soft and warm on the inside.” No, that’s taken.

“How about Frayed.com? It’s a trim that can be decorative or a worn out edge on an old piece of material. That describes you perfectly!” Also taken.

“How about Life Animated, because you bring life to plain, everyday stories.” Really?  Yes.  Taken.

How about “Stop Wrestling Before You Break Something”- it’s just something I say a lot as the mom of boys. And it doesn’t matter how old they are. For that matter, I could use, “Please Don’t Break Your Brother’s Neck” or “What’s That Smell” or “Please Take Your Protective Cup Off the Dining Room Table.” I mean, if we’re trying to describe ME, these are the things that I have heard myself say out loud and frequently over the course of 19 years.

In the end, my favorite possibility for a domain name was “Unpolished”. Maybe that’s because it describes not only me, but also the stories my life permits me to tell. I am not a polished gal. Example. There’s a lady that I work with at my real estate office- picture this- she is tall and blonde and beautiful. She is perfectly manicured and lovely. She wears heels in which I would undoubtedly fall and break my neck. I’m sure her closet looks like a Talbots store and I’m guessing she smells like what I think Julia Roberts would smell like. Now, erase the picture I just created and imagine the complete opposite.  That’s me.  I am not her. Not in any way, shape or form and I am not kidding.

But it’s not just my appearance. My personality is rough around the edges (I know! Another good domain name! No, it’s taken). I’m slightly tarnished (oh! Good one! Sorry, being used). Even my parenting skills aren’t polished.  My language and my behavior are slightly irreverent.  I have a sense of humor that rivals that of a 12-year-old boy (I giggle when I hear the word Uranus- literally- I just giggled while I typed that), I speak sarcasm fluently and sometimes, things fall out of my mouth before I have the opportunity to edit them. I can be brutally honest and painfully direct. In person, the look on my face often reflects what I’m thinking inside. These facial expressions are apparently something over which I have no control and which can have dire consequences, often requiring further explanation or public apology. I’m not graceful in the least bit. But therein lies my point. I’m unpolished. But, wait!  Before you get all judgy, I’m not a total human failure.  With many things, when you polish the surface, you’ll find there’s something shiny underneath.  I’m passionate about things I love and believe in and I try to be kind.  And even though I might occasionally say I don’t like people, I really do love most of them and have an intense desire to make other people’s lives easier. So, there I am.  I just laid out my unpolished self to the world.  Not gonna lie, that was slightly painful. But it’s all true.

Of course, “Unpolished” was taken as a domain name (shocking), so I had to play with it a little. My Life, Unpolished seemed to be the right fit and the important people in my life all agreed.

If I thought finding a domain name was near-impossible, it was nothing in comparison to the technological debacle that happened shortly thereafter.  I tried following instructions from other bloggers who posted a lot of blog entries. But I’m going to admit something that few people know about me. I hate to read. (I apologize for that audible noise you just heard in the background as you read that last line- that was my retired, high school English-teaching parents letting out a shriek of terror, followed by wails of disappointment). Although I have some favorite authors and I read their stuff in my free time, reading is just not something I enjoy much. And in my work, although it’s necessary, reading is far down on the list of things about my job I like doing. Regardless, even if I had doctorate degree in English Lit, there are few people who can understand this technology stuff. It’s written by a generation of people who emerged from the womb with cell phones in hand, asking the doctors what the hospital Wifi password is and if their network is secure. This generation can’t have a conversation with a human being but they have the ability to create words and apps and programs that can suck the will to live from anyone over 40.

I read a few posts on blog-writing, but then turned to the endless how-to videos online. I quickly found out that they have no idea how to put their instructions into terms that the average technologically-challenged Joe can understand. The words they’re using aren’t familiar to me and they talk so fast, I have to keep replaying the videos, over and over, in order to take notes. I feel exactly like I did in my first and only accounting class in college, where I received the lowest grade I ever received in four years, trying to earn my BA. I’m starting to question whether this blog thing is a good idea or not, but I did manage to salvage a few directions…

After you’ve chosen a domain name, you sign up for a host (some company to host your blog) and then some software (for something I can’t remember) and then you have to manage email addresses so you need a company for that too.  This is where I should add that when you hire said company to manage email for you and then you call the support line and ask no less than twenty questions, the guy on the other end gets a little HUFFY and starts letting out big sighs, which I will assume are similar to a pressure valve release and if he doesn’t do it, he’s going to blow a gasket and hang up on me.

And oh!  Did we mention you’ll want to be a member of every single social media outlet on the planet, regardless of whether you know how to use it or not? At this point, I’m in full-on sweat mode. My hands are clammy and I’m feeling lightheaded. My breath is shallow, the room is spinning, I’m grabbing my chest and I’m seconds away from calling 911 because I’m sure I’m having a heart attack or a stroke or something. I try to calm down and keep watching video tutorials but they’re telling me to click here on widgits! Well, where are they?! And open the whooziewhatsit! Where’s that?! And post the bibbity bobbity! How?! Click the doohickey! Find the whatchamacallit! Don’t forget to install the whoopsiedaisy and Whiskey Tango Foxtrot! What just happened?!  My brain just broke! It broke, I tell you! Smoke is pouring from my laptop, my room is up in flames and at this point, I don’t even care.  I’m walking out on this dumpster fire and I’m not even calling the fire department. It’s too much.  I feel like I just aged 30 years trying to figure this shizzle out and all I wanted to do was tell you some stories, which have completely escaped my mind at this point, because I replaced them all with a bunch of robotic gibberish information technology garbage and terms I’ll never understand.  I suddenly feel old and I want to go out on my front porch, wave my cane and yell at the neighbor kids to “get off my lawn!” before heading back inside for my daily dose of prunes. I first send my IT Director-of-a-husband a very colorful text about how his idea of my writing a blog is a really bad one.

Then, I lie down and take a nap. Because when you’re old, you sleep a lot and this is where I am now. When I wake up, I’m going to buy some elastic pants from the Blair catalog and God help me if those kids are back on my lawn.

When I wake from my nap, though, I find this sweet little text from my husband; its notification is just sitting there, on my home screen, all quiet and calm-like, as if it knew I had worn myself out and was just patiently waiting for me to wake up and read it.

“Heyyyy…I can help. I will look at it this weekend. We will keep it simple. If it goes somewhere, great. If it doesn’t, that is fine too. Basically, you write and I will focus on the site. I love u. U r amazing at what u do.”

Do I have a great husband or what? Well. He was the one the with the crazy idea in the first place, but it’s clear to me now that I’m not in this alone and reinforcements are on the way. There’s a wave of relief that comes with that thought. I feared briefly that maybe this marriage between me and writing just wasn’t meant to be and I almost called it off, but all it took was adding my husband to my already weird, three-way marriage between myself, writing and real estate.

When Scott returned from his work trip, he immediately went to work for me to make it happen. He said, “you write.” So I did. I wrote. And I hope you’ll stick with me as I continue to do it. Welcome to My Life, Unpolished.

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