tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23970215641661961102024-03-14T07:49:13.720-05:00Empty Nest FeathersHey, wait! I'm still living here!MomQueenBeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16502633396015922540noreply@blogger.comBlogger1239125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397021564166196110.post-34095663354914727312024-02-12T12:20:00.001-06:002024-02-12T12:20:25.152-06:00Chiefs Victory Celebration<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEDQyJPf-fyL41gnre8wtosvJrtI7EdkTQS85rh3twf75NQNnAU3q8SOznfdjw2f_MnGgpnjx_yZEalKjfrMtqV6YTyvGwFTjhDf2XDdFApubW4tQU0HqRB5zNNVeMH9geUU4-lDBEvllXawM8xaR-QAnZjMZ7ZBwOeVHyl5XtAR_I0x4123txX4qJvN5f/s1125/2024%20Chiefs%20win%20cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1125" data-original-width="843" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEDQyJPf-fyL41gnre8wtosvJrtI7EdkTQS85rh3twf75NQNnAU3q8SOznfdjw2f_MnGgpnjx_yZEalKjfrMtqV6YTyvGwFTjhDf2XDdFApubW4tQU0HqRB5zNNVeMH9geUU4-lDBEvllXawM8xaR-QAnZjMZ7ZBwOeVHyl5XtAR_I0x4123txX4qJvN5f/w300-h400/2024%20Chiefs%20win%20cropped.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>Now that we live in five different states the MomQueenBee all-clan celebrations are technology-assisted sagas--text threads with shared reactions, memes, re-tweets, links. As last night's game drew down we depleted our annual allotments of exclamation points and fireworks emojis, then exchanged video captures as all four Boys pulled out their <a href="https://emptynestfeathers.blogspot.com/2020/01/holiday-recap-and-happy-birthday-boy3.html" target="_blank">bottle sabers</a> to open what I am quite sure were celebratory bottles of 7-Up. </p><p>The bottle sabers don't emerge every day: The Fours' saber has been moved a couple of times and wasn't immediately at hand so Lovely Girl#4 pulled out her high school twirling knives in order for that state to be represented in the celebration.</p><p>But when the hoopla had almost died down, Lovely Girl#1 sent the perfect benediction to the event, a three-text interaction between an almost-4-year-old and his dad.</p><p>"(Baby Wonderful#1) was awake when (One) went to check on him because of the fireworks. But also One wanted to remind BW that the win record during his lifetime isn't normal."</p><p>Then she sent the picture you see of the baby monitor that shows a loyal Chiefs fan whispering to his son, whose superhero cape is hanging next to them. </p><p>"Then they watched fireworks out the window."</p>MomQueenBeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16502633396015922540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397021564166196110.post-11360626514324757482023-12-20T10:07:00.001-06:002023-12-20T10:21:29.904-06:00Thank You. Amen.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUg1TZ2WCcgXQOdtjoe3Q1wYIy0XejvkO2Dc20TeQX5UVGFsNogjbftufoGJTgiURcisTH930JfEimLGwHao-QfKlfmzNbUuAQN-4p0v-E_CbsTK_kXI97FF8kOBlPL7ghbxNhnSTA0gLdTlnXTeuNnDCBmPahbf7gz_GPCwvrYKFZagrnHTaFNGv8nFV-/s3445/Threes%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3445" data-original-width="2546" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUg1TZ2WCcgXQOdtjoe3Q1wYIy0XejvkO2Dc20TeQX5UVGFsNogjbftufoGJTgiURcisTH930JfEimLGwHao-QfKlfmzNbUuAQN-4p0v-E_CbsTK_kXI97FF8kOBlPL7ghbxNhnSTA0gLdTlnXTeuNnDCBmPahbf7gz_GPCwvrYKFZagrnHTaFNGv8nFV-/w295-h400/Threes%202.jpg" width="295" /></a></div><br /><p>All of us who are mothers begin praying the moment a child is born. Whether it is to God (as I do), or to Allah, or to the universe, or to the unknown forces of nature, we ask blessings for our beloved one.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Let this child be healthy. Let this child be happy. Let this child be kind. Let this child be loved.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Let this child find someone with whom a life can be shared fully and joyfully. Please.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Allow me to introduce Lovely Girl #3, the answer to decades of this mother's prayers. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Saturday morning it was Boy#3's turn to call and say the magic words--"LG#3 is here with me." Those have been the key opening phrase when each of the Boys have called to let us know they've become engaged, and in each case I believe I've screamed and cried and laughed. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I had prayed so hard for this moment.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This Lovely Girl and Boy#3 had met during the pandemic so getting to know each other was not easy. Between social distancing and not living in the same city, their courtship was one that developed over time and space. They discovered they both loved travel and board games and cooking, and, eventually, each other. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Husband and I met her as shut-down restrictions were easing but that meeting was in a park followed by masked ordering of ice cream eaten outside. And still, we drove away grinning from ear to ear. They were so clearly The One the other had been meant to find. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But there was still one hurdle left. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Our family is not for the faint of heart. We are loud and competitive, opinionated and unreasonably fond of puns. I admit that I was nervous before we made plans for an all-family Christmas last year. LG#3 is much like me in that she needs solitude to recharge. Would we be too much for her?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I shouldn't have worried. She may not be as noisy as <strike>many </strike> all of the rest of us, but she's strong and compassionate and loving. She's smart and funny and thoughtful, and matches us toe-to-toe on competitiveness. She sees what needs to be done, and quietly does it. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And she loves my son.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As I hugged her before she got in the car to leave, I whispered to her that I hoped she'd be back soon. I don't remember my exact phrasing, but I told her I felt like we'd been saving a place for her for so long and she had finally arrived. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So when she and Three called Saturday to let us know they were engaged and are planning to be married in June or July next year, I screamed and cried and laughed. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I had been praying for her since he was born. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Thank You. Amen.</div><p></p>MomQueenBeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16502633396015922540noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397021564166196110.post-23591653634177048852023-11-07T13:11:00.000-06:002023-11-07T13:11:14.752-06:00Welcome to Where You Already Belonged<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNtIkfBBFUDp5oRhhzhTXiAnYk3a_Htv8B7uItfJDgthMS1KZvetnnAzqIdL7kAMBRBVjVX_X_MgDybpazlSUhsVjBIZ9KQTfWyNN4pnH9Uh6Kx3LNk5rSENbMJMGsEyLY9lGnVhkGewWPMHK6au52AKbb5EW4z5vIc7yKOunuO1p8xIk6Tgj6HvKvgk-_/s3088/Lovely%20Girl%204.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNtIkfBBFUDp5oRhhzhTXiAnYk3a_Htv8B7uItfJDgthMS1KZvetnnAzqIdL7kAMBRBVjVX_X_MgDybpazlSUhsVjBIZ9KQTfWyNN4pnH9Uh6Kx3LNk5rSENbMJMGsEyLY9lGnVhkGewWPMHK6au52AKbb5EW4z5vIc7yKOunuO1p8xIk6Tgj6HvKvgk-_/w300-h400/Lovely%20Girl%204.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Boy#4, Husband, and my Younger Younger Brother have <strike>incessantly whined about </strike>occasionally pointed out an injustice of life: Their presence in the world is not nearly as documented as those of their older siblings. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">They may have a point.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">All of these wonderful men are the youngest in their families, and the youngest almost always is woefully underrepresented in non-group family photos. That was especially true in the days when those men were photogenically young, before smartphones let moms carry their cameras in their pockets. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The beautiful brunette in today's picture could make the same complaint about my practices as a blogger. Back in the day, I introduced every Special Guest that visited the House on the Corner, making sure to ease them into an online presence bit by bit before they were engaged to one of the Boys. Thanks to my unforgivably lazy blogging practices these days, though, today there is no easing:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This is Lovely Girl#4!*</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Four years ago last month we were on a dream vacation in Costa Rica. We had hoped that the entire family would be able to go, but Lovely Girl#2 was newly pregnant and Boy#3's teaching schedule made an October vacation impossible. So Boy#2 and Lovely Girl#2 joined Husband, Boy#4 and me in a trip that was equal parts Peace Corps Memory Tour and Rich Tourist Vacation. It was awesome.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">What we didn't know was that the week before we left Four had gone on his second date with someone he already was suspecting would be special in his life. We talked about every possible topic on that 17-day trip--life, love, politics, career--but because he is inherently cautious he did not mention that the night before we left he had cooked dinner for this woman. In fact, it was months before he told us she existed.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Between Four's caution and Covid shut-downs, it was many more months before we met her in person, even more months before she visited the House on the Corner for the first time.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But, oh, she was worth the wait. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I wish I had blogged those first visits because I don't remember the details. I remember loving her laugh, and being relieved that she was so easy to talk to. I remember finding out that, like Lovely Girls#1 and #2, she is smart and funny and dark-haired and her only sibling is a brother. I remember tearing up as I watched her and Boy#4 together, loving each other. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Since then she has become part of the family. She was the activities director for the all-clan week we spent together last summer, and wrangled spreadsheets and schedules of activities appropriate for ages two to 68. She is the good humor, the huge smile, the hugger and spoiler of all of us. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Four years is a long courtship, though. We gently, then not so gently, encouraged Four. "You know," we told him, "if you two broke up we'd miss you terribly."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Every phone call or visit home we speculated whether this would be the occasion for some kind of announcement. Spoiler: It never was.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Then two weeks ago, they FaceTimed us. They were on their way home from Costa Rica, where Four had finally carried out a romantic tropical proposal at the foot of the volcano near where I had lived more than four decades ago. As the Lovely Girl grinned and held up her be-ringed hand, I shrieked, then cried a little, then smiled and laughed until my face hurt. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Husband was the one who summed up our feelings when he texted her later though.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"It's great you're becoming part of our family, realizing you really are already."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Welcome, Lovely Girl#4. We've been waiting for you. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><i>*I know--she's the third Lovely Girl to join the family, but she is partnered to Boy#4 so she becomes #4.</i></div><p></p>MomQueenBeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16502633396015922540noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397021564166196110.post-36257607315654324792023-09-18T11:28:00.000-05:002023-09-18T11:28:19.807-05:00The Fall<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht3zzs7MyCjc-XjUDeqtq6GDbfWvEf_SKV8umwDfKR4v5BAq_x9CgG5H2DhIec1GZSCT4UIMnnWyO1k47qw_QVB1KiAfoO0gHN9kKPDqKhExW7Zi_waSzdDnRJoqbeBx6Ixx5dTI23exLvo7oAxmeFqB3EKMBH-MRCJ7cmj8-CFt7mhL0v5_l_KH5YzS5F/s4032/Dad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht3zzs7MyCjc-XjUDeqtq6GDbfWvEf_SKV8umwDfKR4v5BAq_x9CgG5H2DhIec1GZSCT4UIMnnWyO1k47qw_QVB1KiAfoO0gHN9kKPDqKhExW7Zi_waSzdDnRJoqbeBx6Ixx5dTI23exLvo7oAxmeFqB3EKMBH-MRCJ7cmj8-CFt7mhL0v5_l_KH5YzS5F/w300-h400/Dad.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p><br /></p>My father had been angry with me when I left the farm the last time. <p></p><p>I had just extracted a promise that he would use his chair lift to get to his bedroom, his office, all the rooms that are inconveniently located on the second floor of his beloved farmhouse. The chair lift was installed after a hip injury a year ago, and in that year he had used it exactly twice--both times to move baskets of laundry to the second floor.</p><p>But aging, even for someone who is as amazing as my 96-year-old father, is inescapable. </p><p>I had spent a few days with Dad, and saw that his navigation of the stairs was becoming shaky. I had watched him pause on every step to grope for the next. And I knew his cardiologist had told him he should be using that chair lift. </p><p>"Dad, I'm going to ask you to do something hard. I want you to promise me that you'll use the chair lift," I said.</p><p>It really wasn't fair to do this. I knew Dad couldn't refuse direct requests from any of his five children, so we don't often present ultimatums. This was a promise, not a loose agreement that could be circumvented by "I'm sure she didn't mean ALL the time," or "She would want me to keep up my leg strength." But I pinned the promise down: The chair lift every single time up or down the stairs, with an extra lap at the wellness center to keep up the leg strength.</p><p>We had already seen the worst that can happen in a fall--fourteen years ago my mother fell just three steps down into the garage, but she suffered a traumatic head injury and died the next day. </p><p>So Dad promised, but he wasn't happy. When I hugged him good-bye as I left for home later that day I told him how sorry I was that he didn't want to do this, but that I loved him. He sighed and hugged me tighter. </p><p>"I love you, too," he said. "I'll get over it." </p><p>I thought of that moment when the text came from my brother last Tuesday. Dad had fallen in the garage and they were on their way to the emergency room. A few hours later we knew he had broken six ribs in his back, near his spine. </p><p>As I made the cross-state drive toward the hospital I was struck by how the landscape had changed in just the few weeks since I had last been there. Late August was still full summer, bright and glaring and hot. But now the sun is lower and fields and trees have taken on the bronzes and muted greens of fall. Road shoulders and ditches are riots of wild sunflowers, final splashes of color that are the annual gaudy announcement of imminent winter.</p><p>One week after his fall, Dad is doing shockingly well. His hospital status has moved to swing bed rather than acute care, and he surprised his physical therapist by acing several proficiency tests. He's in pain during transition (up and down from chairs, coughing) but otherwise comfortable. And he was delighted to have me with him, and had put his pique about the chair lift behind. </p><p>Now we're talking about what kind of accommodations need to be made to be able for him to stay at home rather than in an assisted living setting. We want him to be happy and self-directed, but we want him to be safe as well.</p><p>We are in a different season.</p>MomQueenBeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16502633396015922540noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397021564166196110.post-7988071353789895872023-03-14T16:41:00.001-05:002023-03-14T16:41:26.546-05:00Who? Me?<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiypqllBQzYCj-ak2DE-R7BfKhn2T_cl_OdDNAXh5iiU0qIOy9pbELhSj5q6ZTJ3bGfCycG3qGdGIkfSdeXXGRH29WmQ86mOl0uVuAhj3MKL585vWqEsDuXvvOc57EEwfpr33s8DybljwvGuyKNTXdm-OeIpdROUgN_LYDpomxl-Hk4vBI-VQaY21FnCA/s758/Hampton%20Inn%20Meridian.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="667" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiypqllBQzYCj-ak2DE-R7BfKhn2T_cl_OdDNAXh5iiU0qIOy9pbELhSj5q6ZTJ3bGfCycG3qGdGIkfSdeXXGRH29WmQ86mOl0uVuAhj3MKL585vWqEsDuXvvOc57EEwfpr33s8DybljwvGuyKNTXdm-OeIpdROUgN_LYDpomxl-Hk4vBI-VQaY21FnCA/w353-h400/Hampton%20Inn%20Meridian.jpg" width="353" /></a></div>I have spelled my name out approximately eight gazillion ninety-eleven tantillion times in my life. <p></p><p>That is probably a conservative estimate, especially for someone whose name is only about an eighth of an inch off the center line of middle-of-the-road, but believe me when I say that pretty much no one can reliably spell it correctly without my help. My first name is actually quite common but its spelling is one of two accepted variants, and if I'm being perfectly honest, probably the less common variant. I grew up with a surname with one tricky option, and married into a surname that I've seen misspelled at least a half dozen different ways. It's as if my name were Betty Davies (it's not). That's not what you think of when you hear the name spoken.</p><p>That's why I was just a tad surprised when I opened the email from the Hampton Inn Meridian at 11 p.m. Saturday night. </p><p>"See you soon, Betty Davies!" it gushed. "Your reservation for Mar-11-2023 has been confirmed!" </p><p>Hey! Good for them! They spelled my name exactly right! But if you check your calendar you'll see that last Saturday was March 11, and at 11 p.m. I was in my nightgown multiple states away from Meridian, Mississippi. Also, the reservation was for two adults and two children and unless we've entered the multiple-universe world of Oscar-winning movies there was no way Husband and I would be multiple states away from the office with corporate tax deadline only four days in the future. Also, our children have pretty much passed the days of sharing hotel rooms with their parents. </p><p>So Husband, who was (shockingly) working on a tax return in the next room, heard my shriek:</p><p>"Oh, no! My credit card has been hacked!" </p><p>One of the best things about being married to a CPA is that he's dealt with a lot of Stuff when it comes to all things financial, so he checked my credit card online while I fretted and paced. No charges had shown up, so he called the card company to make sure.</p><p>"If the charge hasn't shown up, this is probably a phishing scam," the nice customer service rep reassured us. "Don't click on any links." </p><p>Even though I had passed that exceedingly low test of tech savviness (no link clicking for me), I wasn't reassured.</p><p>So Husband put his phone on speaker and called the hotel number.</p><p>"Hampton Inn Meridian! How may I help you?' Husband explained to the nice lady who answered the phone that I had received a reservation confirmation, and gave her the confirmation number.</p><p>"Yes, we have that reservation, and it looks like...you're already checked in?"</p><p>That's when I shrieked the second time. </p><p>"NO! I'm not checked in! That's me, and I'm in Kansas, and I'm not in a hotel in Mississippi!" </p><p>The poor clerk was non-plussed. </p><p>"But you used your credit card and checked in. And the room is paid for. And you're here." </p><p>Husband made shushing gestures at me and began asking questions she couldn't answer. What was the home address of the people in the room? What was the credit card number?</p><p>Finally she told us that the credit card was a MasterCard, and the last four digits were XXXX, which isn't a card owned by any of us folks in the House on the Corner.</p><p>"Well," she speculated, "maybe there's just someone else out there named Betty Davies." </p><p>I corrected her firmly.</p><p>"There's only one MomQueenBee, and that Bee is in Kansas in her nightgown at this very moment."</p><p>Bless her, the clerk told us she'd check into the issue and call us back.</p><p>An hour later she called back with the astounding news that there is someone else out there named Betty Davies, with the exact same tricky spelling variations of my first and last names. </p><p>"I checked her ID," she told Husband, "and it definitely matches the credit card."</p><p>Well, I'll be darned. The next morning Husband handed me a stack of papers printed out from one of those internet people searchers. </p><p>Not only does one Betty Davies live in the House on the Corner (me), another Betty Davies lives in New York, and another Betty Davies lives in Georgia, and another Betty Davies lives in Indiana, and another Betty Davies lives in New Jersey. The Betty Davies who lives in the House on the Corner (me) actually has two nearly-identical listings in this report. And the more-common spelling of the first name plus the correct spelling of the surname show up in Florida, Wisconsin, Virginia, Illinois, Michigan, South Carolina, and three places in New York.</p><p>While I was deeply relieved that my credit card was secure, at least for the moment, there was the slightest twinge of disappointment at how many other MomQueenBees are scattered across the country. I guess Margaret Mead was right: </p><p>I am absolutely unique, just like everybody else.</p><p><br /></p>MomQueenBeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16502633396015922540noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397021564166196110.post-15122493548169220422023-01-16T10:00:00.007-06:002023-01-16T11:34:54.526-06:00The Top Half of the Photo<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHAHQkrglW6lE48Dvk4lIKk2eO86fSkKs69Z_UMvZOF85bk0Rt9W7ITFwKlFJnYsRUyfwYDY1tZ_Wk3WTaFOiyebORceP6fpVGuwMbOQeIIGPDxLI7p5pAmqiQqfZUKsdFgJOMbW29O3h_6qU5OpIzZIztyXAeRYf_kTFMOaXLn1InIP5y99FqpP221w/s4032/Ketchup%20taste%20test.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHAHQkrglW6lE48Dvk4lIKk2eO86fSkKs69Z_UMvZOF85bk0Rt9W7ITFwKlFJnYsRUyfwYDY1tZ_Wk3WTaFOiyebORceP6fpVGuwMbOQeIIGPDxLI7p5pAmqiQqfZUKsdFgJOMbW29O3h_6qU5OpIzZIztyXAeRYf_kTFMOaXLn1InIP5y99FqpP221w/w400-h300/Ketchup%20taste%20test.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So much ketchup in my refrigerator</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>This post is a follow-up to one I wrote almost two weeks ago, in which I promised the rest of the story in a post "tomorrow." HAHAHA! Isn't it nice to know that in this world of constantly shifting expectations and mores, some things never change? In my defense, time is rushing so much faster as I age that I'm not sure "two weeks" and "tomorrow" aren't the same thing.</p><p></p><p>Anyway, in my last post I bemoaned (albeit bravely, don't you think?) the way our much-anticipated gathering of all of the chickadees back into the House on the Corner turned out to have some empty chairs. That part of the celebration was completely stink-o.</p><p>But go back and look at the last post and move your focus to the top half. That's the part that symbolizes how much fun we had in spite of the gaping gap left by the Covid exposure of Boy#1, Lovely Girl#1, and Baby Wonderful#1. (Also, Husband would like me to correct the last post's identification of the flu-ridden and therefore late-to-the-party parties as Boy#4 and his Dear One rather than the Boy#2 clan. This continues a 35-year-old tradition of my calling the Boys by the wrong names. So sorry!)</p><p>Anyway, I had the most amazing realization midway through our holiday week: It turns out that there comes a time in your children's lives when you don't have to entertain them. They entertain you. </p><p>This isn't only because the crew now includes an adorable toddler who is beginning to talk and calls me Meemaw and adores Beebaw. Husband and I should have paid closer attention when friends told us we aren't in charge of choosing grandparent names, that the budding babbler would do that. Certainly I wouldn't have chosen Meemaw, which brings up mental images of a snaggle-toothed hillbilly in a rocking chair. Hearing the original "Grandma" and "Grandpa" emerge in translation from this wee one's mouth, though, is absolutely precious and endlessly endearing.</p><p>Even after the wee one had gone to bed, the entertainment didn't stop. The three Boys and their beauties organized activities to keep us together, even though a wonky hip was hobbling me. One night, for example, we spent hours doing taste tests. </p><p>Friends, I never would have imagined how much fun this would be--like wine tastings for tee-totaling parents, without the hangovers. For two hours we dipped mini-hash browns into different brands of catsup, licked peanut butters off spoons, sipped orange juice (from concentrate and not from concentrate), and nibbled onion-and-sour-cream potato chips.</p><p>We are a family of, shall we say, strong opinions. We are brand loyal, and know deep down that our preferences are undoubtedly correct. But what do you know? If we don't have the brand names in front of us, it's a lot harder to be persnickety. After years of arguing for their personally preferred peanut butters, Boy#4 and his Dear One discovered they had top-rated the other one's brands. The moment was fraught.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQqnDynEwk5h5tMkFxWjzhB41l1aMM9KbVC-LkZzznKdDvMU7VZyDJoOohSptvnBRD_J2eiQzUhAli3xbHPFKGRwOX1ILRpp8NuPDFkofdR051pAmza813NJoTjOjP6_X9gyWH0NoOixhnOZWyBj9ifnZYQOacMvHeRr3gsuQ0rlbLWJTx2XL909BGQg/s1024/Peanut%20butter%20taste%20test.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQqnDynEwk5h5tMkFxWjzhB41l1aMM9KbVC-LkZzznKdDvMU7VZyDJoOohSptvnBRD_J2eiQzUhAli3xbHPFKGRwOX1ILRpp8NuPDFkofdR051pAmza813NJoTjOjP6_X9gyWH0NoOixhnOZWyBj9ifnZYQOacMvHeRr3gsuQ0rlbLWJTx2XL909BGQg/s320/Peanut%20butter%20taste%20test.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Noooooo!<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div>We disagreed on much. Some of us have palates that preferred a vinegary ketchup; others preferred it sweet. Two of us are rabid fans of the store-brand peanut butter. But we also agreed on much. "Natural" peanut butter is a crime against sandwiches. Ruffles are the finest style of potato chips and Pringles are...not. Three containers of ketchup earned their way into the refrigerator but the Great Value did not. <div><br /></div><div>And when it was over the next generation cleaned up the dozens of little plates and put the tasting spoons in the dishwasher, and generally got the kitchen ready for the next meal. Which they would cook, and that right there is another level of wonderful. </div><div><br /></div><div>We also spent one evening in a rousing session of <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Monikers/dp/B00M07OQ1U/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2CDVOJU87BXY3&keywords=monikers+game&qid=1673721887&sprefix=moniker%2Caps%2C134&sr=8-1" target="_blank">Monikers</a>, which was the perfect intergenerational game, except for the answers that made Meemaw blush just a little. </div><div><br /></div><div>Being the Old Folks is not always ideal. I very much regretted that the cursed wonky hip kept me from playing on the floor or taking walks with the wee one. And the one meal I did cook was not so good, with the only reliable specialty I claim (dinner rolls) falling victim to expired yeast. I would have checked that when I was younger.</div><div><br /></div><div>But, oh, young parents, just wait. There will come a day when you are not the one responsible for the logistics or the food or the entertainment. Then you will sit back and look at your children having fun without your orchestration, and it will be the best. </div><div><br /></div><div>There's no comparison..</div></div>MomQueenBeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16502633396015922540noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397021564166196110.post-44100085572758074232023-01-03T16:12:00.000-06:002023-01-03T16:12:28.416-06:00Counting the Blessings; Rolling With the Rest<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZJ5S_i-5mFPTDCVI4vXdo7cyZSdVDvhKkFljXmlQPVDYbjykOoNVcAD3LDaLNgwTSZCfRlVbuJDSk5pzBeGzoTAgIRLCDwnap2wXxEZghhGe2jHDBgDsUOFHfHYE980RxO4NsXYSf4PL0uBki0Ox66rqOv7Z1KWNVd9ZQ0L0eMva6hqZI1Y6KOOJ4xg/w300-h400/2022%20Christmas.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="300" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A scroll-down representation</td></tr></tbody></table></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span></span></div><br /><p></p><p>Today's beauty shot is the most recent one on my camera roll, and it makes me laugh ruefully. In some ways it's a scroll-down representation of the Christmas goings-on in the House on the Corner. </p><p>As you look at it, hold your hand up to your eyes so that your fingers only reveal the serene, well-ordered reading nook that is one of my favorite parts of our newly-remodeled kitchen (the process of which I completely neglected to blog, but the results of which I love soooooo much). The nook is the ideal place to snuggle up with an afghan and a book, and to glance up often at the pictures of loved ones I've packed onto the south wall. </p><p>Now move your hand up so that the mission chair and reading lamp are covered and all you see are bags and bags of trash, half-filled cartons of pop, a deflated air mattress, and a roaster still greasy with the remains of our holiday ham dinner. </p><p>That was Christmas around these parts. It was a combination of perfection and wow-that-stinks. Here's where I must once more tell you young moms to hang in there. A quarter century ago I would have let the wow-that-stinks parts completely erase the good moments. It was PERFECTION OR BUST! for me, and I'm here to tell you that Christmas perfection is a myth. </p><p>So I'll tell you the wow-that-stinks parts before anything else, because these were not inconsequential. </p><p>When the Boys began establishing homes of their own we began sharing holidays with the families that were now theirs by marriage. Every other non-pandemic year the Boys and families are here for Christmas; every other year they're here for Thanksgiving. This was our Thanksgiving year so Husband and I spent Dec. 25 by ourselves, watching movies and eating Chinese food. The festivities would really begin Dec. 27, when the ENTIRE CLAN would begin to pile in! I restrained myself from adding an additional dozen exclamation points to that last sentence, but just know that the last time we all were gathered in the old crappy kitchen it was to announce that Baby Wonderful #2 was on his way. Baby Wonderful #2 now is within spittin' distance of turning two years old, so you can do the math. And if it wasn't exciting enough to have all the Boys home, we would also have four girls, not even counting me, for the very first time ever! </p><p>It was so much wonderful I couldn't bear it. </p><p>If you look back to the middle of that last paragraph, though, you will begin to see a tiny little dark cloud developing on the horizon. Are you noticing that before they were to come to their mama and daddy's house, our kids were spend time with the extended clans of their families-in-law? Unfortunately, two of those tiny little dark clouds blossomed into the cumulonimbus variety.</p><p>Boy#1, Lovely Girl #1, and Baby Wonderful #1, spent Christmas Day sitting next to a relative with a cough, and sure enough, that relative spent Boxing Day morning swabbing her nose and watching two lines appear on the rapid Covid test. Boy#2 and his Dear One spent Christmas Day with a relative who had tested positive for flu, and sure enough, soon Two was coughing up a lung and shivering with chills. There was no possibility those in Covid quarantine would be able to attend, and the flu guy would need quick bounce-back.</p><p>It was beyond disappointing. This was going to be the first time Baby Wonderful cousins were to meet, and they're now old enough to interact. It was going to be a return to normalcy, a reward for the years we've endured missed holidays and postponed celebrations. </p><p>But while I don't want to minimize the wow-that-stinks, and I do not at all minimize the hurt that scuttled holiday plans caused this year, for me (and I am only speaking for myself) age and the pandemic have softened my need for perfection. Half a loaf is better than none, after so many years of no loaf at all. In our case we got three-quarters of a loaf: The flu guy did bounce, and was here with his Dear One for the end of the week. The Covid-exposed sidestepped the infection at home.</p><p>There were many, many moments during the past week when I found my eyes unexpectedly filling with tears of gratitude. Sitting in the New Year's Day church service in a a pew completely filled with my family. "Playing" the piano with a toddler who giggled and imitated me. Opening gifts that were so heartfelt and thoughtful. Being with grown-up children, who have chosen to love each other. </p><p>We talked and talked and laughed and laughed, and when we waved goodbye through the fog Tuesday morning we knew again how blessed we were, even though there hadn't been a moment when the underlying "If only..." wasn't being felt.</p><p>Tomorrow, if I don't get too lazy, I'll talk about the top half of the picture. That's the one that went mostly to plan, and was everything I had hoped it would be. </p><p>Well, except for the holiday dinner rolls, which I made using yeast which I apparently bought before the pandemic. They did not rise at. all. and wow, that stunk. But everything else? </p><p>Perfection.</p>MomQueenBeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16502633396015922540noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397021564166196110.post-89280443353300355692022-11-10T11:12:00.000-06:002022-11-10T11:12:59.479-06:00This Is Not a Political Post<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikutcruqH8ZTpErqWdvdH_HHbpBOaEbBSQR1nPkEo-ICth9Rskqo2bZ2Vctfne9khuFXvYBG8_xv5U47-Q6yeYPvCKqYexPgqJ9qU_e_LCBeAjFyErwCEn3Va7HJWlC7rujIDDLHZL_kcyJZrUwlvAujHQgWRgrX2DiZQRcL-uWehnUCPWrq0vpb7o4w/s4032/2022%20Election.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikutcruqH8ZTpErqWdvdH_HHbpBOaEbBSQR1nPkEo-ICth9Rskqo2bZ2Vctfne9khuFXvYBG8_xv5U47-Q6yeYPvCKqYexPgqJ9qU_e_LCBeAjFyErwCEn3Va7HJWlC7rujIDDLHZL_kcyJZrUwlvAujHQgWRgrX2DiZQRcL-uWehnUCPWrq0vpb7o4w/s400/2022%20Election.jpg" width="400" /></a>I had hoped to write this post yesterday, but yesterday I was a useless bag of bones. As I had suspected, I am no longer able to work a 14-hour day then bounce back with cheerful energy the following day. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Tuesday I did something I've wanted to do since the first time I cast a vote: I donned a pin identifying me as an official poll worker and spent the day helping voters carry out their democratic duties. And even though some of my candidates won and some did not win, I left the polling place more hopeful about the future of our democracy than I have been for some time. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">If you don't want to read through a whole slather of words (and just who has been slathering you with words while I've been on break?) here's the bottom line: </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">This election crew in Small Town was absolutely dedicated to making sure every single person who showed up had a chance to vote, and that every legitimate vote was counted correctly, and that every vote count was reported scrupulously. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">And just as importantly, of the 450-plus voters for whom I checked credentials, there were exactly two persons who made a single partisan comment, and those two comments were non-threatening and non-specific. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Friends, this was not at all what I expected. I read the news, listen to radio reports frequently, and occasionally watch commentators on television through splayed fingers. I saw the <a href="https://www.seattletimes.com/nation-world/nation-politics/unofficial-poll-watchers-showing-up-with-handguns-and-tactical-military-gear/" target="_blank">balaclava-masked armed "observers"</a> looming over the ballot boxes in Arizona. I had been horrified by the traction gained by <a href="https://www.cnn.com/2021/05/19/politics/donald-trump-big-lie-explainer" target="_blank">the Big Lie</a> concerning the 2020 election. What was the truth?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">So it was an easy decision when I was contacted about being a poll worker. My flexible, mostly-retired schedule can now afford a day off so I went through pre-election training. There I asked an innocent question: Should I bring my knitting for the lulls during the day? I remembered when my mother was a poll worker in the rural township where I grew up, which had a total of (if I'm remembering correctly) 27 registered voters. She did most of her Christmas knitting on election day. The burst of laughter let me know that this isn't the case in Small Town. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I showed up at our 6:00 a.m. report time packing my lunch, snacks, and a day's worth of coffee. By then the senior members of the election team had set up the voting stations, but I opened the first sealed bags of ballots to get them ready for early voters. Then I was assigned to my spot as a Poll Pad judge, got a quick tutorial on the iPad-based ID verification system, and we were off and running. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">"Every voter who comes in and wants to vote will vote," we were told. If there's a problem with the registration, such a name change from the driver's license to the voter registration because of marriage, or someone is voting in the wrong location, the voter would need to fill out a provisional ballot to be counted separately. This process has the side advantage of cleaning up voter rolls--a change of address for the next election is filled out on the spot. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Every single voter had to be identified with photo ID, and every single voter had to match name and address to the registration rolls before being given a ballot and casting a vote. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">When the polls opened at 7 a.m. voters came in like the tide, snaking through the crowd control stanchions like cranky travelers working their way to the ticket counter. The room was packed. But by 7:27 a.m. (I checked my watch) every one of those persons had been verified and moved on to voting. For the rest of the day, although traffic was steady, we never had more than a dozen or so persons in line and almost everyone moved immediately to a verification clerk. Not one person I verified was peevish or nasty. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">By the time I left the polling place at 8 p.m. I was ready to be done, but I also had a new perspective on our elections. Here are my take-aways from a day on the election frontlines:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">1. People are interesting, and a driver's license is a great ice-breaker. I complimented one man's flowing beard and handlebar mustache and he pulled out his business card--as Santa Claus! Santa votes in Small Town!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">2. Voters want their votes to count. Provisional ballots take slightly longer than regular ballots, but I didn't see anyone walk away from the process. (I don't guarantee this across the whole election, only what was observable from my piece of the process, but I'm fairly confident this statement holds.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">3. Election workers at our polling place are top-notch. Every vote was crucial to us, and we all wanted to be impartial irrespective of our personal views. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">4. Democracy is important, and we may yet be able to save it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Also, I am now old and creaky and my wonky hip and knees do not like long days. But I'll be back for the next election if I'm invited. This is important work, and I want to be part of it.</div>MomQueenBeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16502633396015922540noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397021564166196110.post-8789142424849665942022-06-14T11:00:00.001-05:002022-06-14T11:00:26.771-05:00Be Patient With Me--I'm a Toddler<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgngMHSoh0IBvLD8v2q7MoV6AjFnNGYs3VCDDHrZirw31WiteH90zIl9IDbd37_5Fc_L6QamqqhZYNL9oZtM66fBTHr1cN_-mwyGqXOCcicNy_Bis17KAOBdkBdgzcU6oRyLCv6_pCs7g6fyWr0W9BamDVKIngYzMHJsl2NhkOMdmCSaJMRQWePva0RHg/s1438/Spaghetti%20Baby1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="984" data-original-width="1438" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgngMHSoh0IBvLD8v2q7MoV6AjFnNGYs3VCDDHrZirw31WiteH90zIl9IDbd37_5Fc_L6QamqqhZYNL9oZtM66fBTHr1cN_-mwyGqXOCcicNy_Bis17KAOBdkBdgzcU6oRyLCv6_pCs7g6fyWr0W9BamDVKIngYzMHJsl2NhkOMdmCSaJMRQWePva0RHg/w400-h274/Spaghetti%20Baby1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy birthday to this cutie who made me a mother!</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The screensaver on my computer plays a never-ending stream of old
pictures from the folders I have amassed over the years. Frankly, this is one
of my favorite features of the digital age because I frequently catch a glimpse
of a shot I might not have otherwise remembered.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This morning for example, I saw the face of a perfectly contented
one-year-old Boy#1, who had just finished a meal of spaghetti. He is happy, the
bowl is empty, and there is complete oblivious peace regarding the spaghetti
sauce that coats his highchair, face, bib, arms, and the general three-states
area.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So how are things going now that I'm two weeks and three days into
having a broken wing? Well, pretty much like Boy#1 in this picture. I'm mostly
content, well fed, and learning new things every day.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And, holy cow, am I messy.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Much of the messiness, to be sure, is inside my head. The Puritan
work ethic that is especially strong in Kansans is leading to much guilt about
what I cannot do. What I cannot do is what formerly filled the majority
of my time.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I cannot cook. I cannot clean. I cannot type. I cannot knit. I
cannot play the piano. (And we will not even mention the personal hygiene
things that are difficult but not impossible to do one-handed, including showering,
combing my hair, moisturizing my “good” arm, etc.)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Every single thing I do, including the things that I used to do
without even thinking about them, takes many multiples of the amount of time it
normally take. I'm looking at you, toothbrushing.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">What I can do, I am finding, is figure out how to do the things
that have to be done and quit doing everything else.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This post, for example, is being composed using voice-to-text
technology. I'm speaking thoughts into my computer's microphone and it is more-or-less
accurately transcribing them into a Word document that I will copy and paste
into the blog. I do not like doing it this way. I've long thought that my
fingers did most of the thinking for me when I typed, and now I know that is
actually the case. But I'm grateful that this technology exists and I'm
building new synapses as I learn how to use it.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm getting better at using eating utensils in my left hand. I
believe I no longer look like a deranged toddler shoveling half my food into my
mouth while the other half drops in my lap. But I have a great admiration for
those toddlers who are figuring out how to use spoons and forks without having
a real appreciation for why this is better than using their hands. (Is it? Is it, really?)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I am discovering the best wardrobe options for a one-handed
person. This includes a total lack of fasteners--no buttons, no hooks and eyes,
nothing to tie or buckle. Over-the-head T-shirts and elastic-waisted skirts are
my friends. And why skirts, you might ask? Because in the complicated world of dressing
and toileting, anything that doesn't need to be pulled up with two hands is a
plus.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Pillows are essential. I sleep surrounded by fluffiness that can prop
up the cast in the most comfy position. That cast by the way, cannot possibly
weigh more than a pound or two but feels as if I'm hoisting a barbell at all
times. A sling is helpful but mostly that just transfers the weight to a neck
that is already achey.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'll be honest, though: The most crucial component in this healing
process is a husband with a servant heart.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Husband does not cook. At all. But since I made my way head-first
into the iris bed, he has done the shopping, prepared the meals, set the table, cut
up my food, and cleaned up afterwards.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And have I mentioned that we're doing this in the middle of a
kitchen remodel? All kitchen duties are undertaken in the most primitive of
conditions. I kept him company one night as he was washing the dishes on the
deck, having filled the dishpan in the bathtub.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“It's like camping, isn't it?” I asked him.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Yes, but with Wi-Fi and air conditioning,” he replied. “It's not
so bad.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I decided that for the next month or so that's going to be my
mantra. This isn't my usual life, with its activities and responsibilities. But
it could have been so much worse and I have Husband pampering me at every turn,
good books, and Acorn streaming on the TV.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I may have spaghetti all over my face but it's not so bad.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFaNNHwj3Y_sgE-2dwDlGr6vD1pRSXjVg57s3DsRdA5qDzI1IZeTcmWULZYN8UAkm5K8yMPL9dJcW_vzwzCIGYfzJg8sqf-Uj2bZzCqX73riGvJ3PhFbTvgcd1XVnzxBlAEtMpEGF1Fo1Yx1T08NHZ-guUTPfD88-UlLiUYmfckrFezkpvpcf_M3lsDQ/s4032/deck%20kitchen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFaNNHwj3Y_sgE-2dwDlGr6vD1pRSXjVg57s3DsRdA5qDzI1IZeTcmWULZYN8UAkm5K8yMPL9dJcW_vzwzCIGYfzJg8sqf-Uj2bZzCqX73riGvJ3PhFbTvgcd1XVnzxBlAEtMpEGF1Fo1Yx1T08NHZ-guUTPfD88-UlLiUYmfckrFezkpvpcf_M3lsDQ/w300-h400/deck%20kitchen.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He's a keeper.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p></div>MomQueenBeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16502633396015922540noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397021564166196110.post-11439867448990664752022-05-31T18:10:00.000-05:002022-06-01T09:06:04.964-05:00Not the Memorial Day Memory I Expected<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrFYxOdsanwJX8wnVom5aE1Gej9AF25qJ925k6xf-wezVDUOkbE-8HrS7gixO3GPDxGPjPqfWh7acZJj2neqg_hujBUd_QZs6BgKtehu9LmJp18KM966ODNhGC6YcujQCYtnZxfEJf2IhcacM17MRlDeYMgaRfyI1XmbKaV9EKZbQEVE7aof_B8OXGvw/s2576/IMG_9783.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1932" data-original-width="2576" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrFYxOdsanwJX8wnVom5aE1Gej9AF25qJ925k6xf-wezVDUOkbE-8HrS7gixO3GPDxGPjPqfWh7acZJj2neqg_hujBUd_QZs6BgKtehu9LmJp18KM966ODNhGC6YcujQCYtnZxfEJf2IhcacM17MRlDeYMgaRfyI1XmbKaV9EKZbQEVE7aof_B8OXGvw/w400-h300/IMG_9783.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Woohoo! Class of '72!</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>I already was planning to write a blog post about the Memorial Day weekend. Truly! I knew there would be a ton of things to discuss and it's been months since I checked in.</p><p>It was, after all, my 50th year class reunion. (How? Just how?) I had waited 50 year to be in the class that sits smack-dab in the middle of the main intersection of Tiny Hometown while the firetrucks and decked-out horses and antique cars drive by for the honor class's approval. </p><p>Somehow I'd become part of the organizing committee for this grand event and after looking at old yearbooks and scanning pictures and compiling lists, I'd gotten excited about seeing the Class of '72 after a half century. (And I repeat, how did that happen?) </p><p>And it was also the first time since before the pandemic that all of the Boys who live within driving distance of where I grew up would be back on The Farm. Even though we'd be sad to be missing the #Two family, I couldn't wait. The stories I'd be able to tell about Baby Wonderful #1 meeting the feral sheep!</p><p>I got within half an hour of living that imagined post. That was when, on Saturday morning, my 95-year-old-father came in the back door with his hand dripping blood. He had fallen in the basement and the resulting skin tear was more than dripping--blood thinners and tissue-paper-thin elderly blood are a tricky combination. While Dad's wife applied pressure I stepped out on the deck to try to get cell phone reception, something the pioneers forgot to include when they were building the limestone house 150 years ago.</p><p>I started a text to my Youngest Brother, who lives just a couple hundred yards down the road from Dad and would know how to proceed. He's a farmer and a volunteer firefighter and what he doesn't know about emergencies probably isn't worth knowing. That's what I was thinking, anyway, as I was walking across the deck looking for those elusive bars and stepped off the edge, swan-diving face-first into my mother's iris bed.</p><p>It is a most disconcerting feeling, and one that provokes an amazing array of reactions during the literal split second between the right foot missing the deck edge and the right hand/arm/shoulder/sternum/lower extremities hitting the ground. I mean, the drop is two feet. How was I able to do so much internal processing in this amount of time?</p><p>"WHAAAAT?" I thought.</p><p> "Oh, crap," I thought.</p><p>"That was stupid," I thought.</p><p>"This is going to hurt," I thought.</p><p>And then I hit the ground and it did hurt. A lot. </p><p>I allowed myself a few seconds to relax and reflect there in the irises. Was I alive? Yes. What hurt the most? Definitely the sternum to shoulder route, where a <i>Game of Thrones </i> assassin was stabbing his war sword straight through from front to back. I started to lift my right arm to check for blood, and what do you know! There was something more disconcerting than pain, and that was the clearly discernible grating noise coming from my forearm.</p><p>At that moment, like a knight in shining armor, Youngest Brother appeared through the iris leaves in my peripheral vision. He was (and I'm not kidding) carrying a big pan of biscuits and gravy and for a second episode of split-second multiple thoughts, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. I mean, can you think of a better way for St. Peter to welcome you in? But no, YB was just bringing breakfast for the gang and he set the pans on the deck before dashing over to assess the situation.</p><p>Within moments he was doing triage. Boy#4 had arrived on the scene and (still not kidding) THOUGHT I WAS DOING SOME GARDENING. (Later Four admitted that he doesn't know of many kinds of gardening that are done face-down and crumpled on the ground with skirts barely providing dignity.) Youngest Brother dashed inside for a magazine (without staples) that he rolled up and taped to my arm, and the improvised splint made life worth living again. He and Husband carefully rolled me to a sitting position, then lifted me to my feet and got me into the front seat of the car. Dad was bundled into the backseat, and 10 miles later we were in adjoining rooms of Tiny Hometown's excellent emergency room.</p><p>There it was confirmed that my right arm was indeed broken, but I had managed a nice clean break. The assassin's war sword was diagnosed as stretched and abused muscles/tendons/whatever and would heal without intervention. Dad got a few squirts of Super Glue For Skin and made it to the parade in time to be honored with the rest of the veterans.</p><p>I, sadly, did not make it to the parade but dropped into one of the day's later events where I discovered the rumor was that I had broken my nose. </p><p>Later, as reunion participants Facebook-gushed about how much fun the day had been, I was sad to have missed it. But I realized I got much out of the day that my classmates did not. A sweet navy blue cast, for example. The brand-new knowledge that putting on underwear and earrings are both jobs for two hands. The realization that I may have been remiss in my sons' gardening education.</p><p>But also, a deep, deep knowledge that this could have been so much worse. I'm boundlessly grateful for the relatively soft landing strip of iris, and especially that Youngest Brother was there within literal seconds of that landing.</p><p>It wasn't the memory I expected, but it's the one I have, and I'm grateful.</p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOT8jwRdI_V84gOhItTF4t4qgX9acwnw7Z0i1jNkVtm2hZeR7rHtWhpJmKucop5xnJuST6XGLRCKI6UEDTAHo1G486oM4VimRRxBNGjH-as0PuNJ9yjeUdRyvLeSCwqywE43Ygiq0w6WECqx0i7RMiXfwDX7FMIrfVGZ1XuW_IS8kZ3deAdun-B0K-QA/s4032/IMG_9799.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOT8jwRdI_V84gOhItTF4t4qgX9acwnw7Z0i1jNkVtm2hZeR7rHtWhpJmKucop5xnJuST6XGLRCKI6UEDTAHo1G486oM4VimRRxBNGjH-as0PuNJ9yjeUdRyvLeSCwqywE43Ygiq0w6WECqx0i7RMiXfwDX7FMIrfVGZ1XuW_IS8kZ3deAdun-B0K-QA/w400-h300/IMG_9799.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My mother's irises may never be the same. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p>MomQueenBeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16502633396015922540noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397021564166196110.post-38376121902710939422022-02-07T11:46:00.000-06:002022-02-07T11:46:05.026-06:00Wordle Knows I'm a Terrible Sport<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjKIYKSqwUqB2BXaIVPKr70vZUjhEEsKpREVa2xUtCaq-G7zqUbbBOP_El54xgRHibqRD4DbAh1BTqCQ4ifovvcAHXNsfWOEuFuJ8S0Vuls-DrmOJpu1swPFz16S6DC5omGUePP3Gx1P51D9x4WOCwWBIyhvFhD_Mm9Ma1DkFjp2L93v4EJ_zDtvIR2bw=s2001" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2001" data-original-width="1125" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjKIYKSqwUqB2BXaIVPKr70vZUjhEEsKpREVa2xUtCaq-G7zqUbbBOP_El54xgRHibqRD4DbAh1BTqCQ4ifovvcAHXNsfWOEuFuJ8S0Vuls-DrmOJpu1swPFz16S6DC5omGUePP3Gx1P51D9x4WOCwWBIyhvFhD_Mm9Ma1DkFjp2L93v4EJ_zDtvIR2bw=w225-h400" width="225" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Before I begin this whine, I need to preface it with a solid declaration that I love word games.</p><p>Love. Them.</p><p>I love Scrabble, and spelling bees (obviously), and as of today my <i>New York Times </i>crossword completion streak stands at 625 days. That is one year, eight months, and three weeks that I have earned a gold star for completing the puzzle on the day it was published. And my personal solving standards mean I can ask anyone within earshot (Husband) for help on esoteric sports names, but no Googling allowed. </p><p>So I not only love word games, but I'm pretty good at them.</p><p>But this new word game? The one everyone in the known universe is now playing and bragging about on Facebook and Instagram and who-knows-where else? </p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg0yxq4nfP5Jo86hloau47rD6DH-fhGP19rmTIq2KNzsLK53JsWUiIJBFUfDhpM4CDR8xpg_ZvrkLHYBpvAoElbwUzA9hm7DuDDSqlZbP_RDdt8K0vo-NgqBKSiu6SB3TM6XUHOZFUh1SIg_4OZ9dHirTcIzZg-64nHqO3-aodxX_jatIjSFCMRNoFz8g" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg0yxq4nfP5Jo86hloau47rD6DH-fhGP19rmTIq2KNzsLK53JsWUiIJBFUfDhpM4CDR8xpg_ZvrkLHYBpvAoElbwUzA9hm7DuDDSqlZbP_RDdt8K0vo-NgqBKSiu6SB3TM6XUHOZFUh1SIg_4OZ9dHirTcIzZg-64nHqO3-aodxX_jatIjSFCMRNoFz8g" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My usual reaction</td></tr></tbody></table><br />In case you are the single person in the world who has not jumped on the <a href="https://www.powerlanguage.co.uk/wordle/">Wordle </a>train, the rules of the free-for-now* game are that you have six chances to guess a five-letter word. When you enter the first word, the game lets you know if you've guessed any letters in the right spot (green!), any letters that are not in the right spot (yellow), and any letters that are wrong (grey or black). Then you have five more guesses. At the end of the six attempts, you have the option to share your results with the world. </p><p>Several far-flung MomQueenBee family were early Wordle adopters and started a text thread so that we could share our results among ourselves. Now I know that at a few minutes after 6 a.m. my text notification will chime with news that the East Coast contingent of our text thread has discovered the word. The Central Standard participants come in a couple of hours later, and the rest will check in before the day is over. </p><p>So why does this thing that combines words and family and should be my very favorite thing in the world having me clenching my fists and shaking my hairbrush? </p><p>Because I don't win. </p><p>I have never once, in the month or so that we've been doing this, had the low score in the family. Others have routinely guessed the word in three tries, sometimes even two (which, HOW?). I hover around the four-to-six guess range, and twice have failed to get the word at all. </p><p>How can this even be? I am by far not the sharpest knife in this drawer of sharp knives, but I am the only one who makes her living with words. I SHOULD BE WINNING.</p><p>So here's what I've decided: I just know too darned many words. Check, for example, the screenshot from a recent day above. </p><p>That's my unsuccessful grid in the middle. I had correctly guessed three of the five letters correctly on the first try! Woohoo! This was going to be the day I got it in two tries!</p><p>But, spoiler alert, I did not. My whiney "Sometimes I hate this game" was that morning's loving declaration to my children.</p><p>The correct word was SHARD. Do you know how many words could be correct for those final two guesses? How about SHARK? And SHARP? And SHARE? Earlier in the game, before the H fell into place, how about SCARF? Or STARK? or SWARM?</p><p>So my rationalization of my ineptitude with this game is this: It's a word game, but it's also a game of luck, and I'm not very good at games of luck although I am a champion at overthinking. I do love having all the Boys and Lovely Girls checking in every day, though, so it's well worth being at the bottom of the Wordle pile.</p><p>When the Boys were young and of competitive sports-playing age we always sent them off to their games with the same instructions:</p><p>Play hard. Play fair. Have a good time. It's just a game.</p><p>We omitted the customary "Play to win." because we wanted them to be good sports and to enjoy the competition but to not spend much time thinking about winners and losers. (The dreaded QueenBee lack-of-speed gene did not work in their favor.)</p><p>Now it's my turn to remind myself. </p><p>Play hard. Play fair. Have a good time. Smile when you hear that chime.</p><p>It's just a game.</p><p><br /></p><p><i>*The New York Times recently bought rights to this game for a bazillion dollars, so odds are good it won't be free forever. </i></p>MomQueenBeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16502633396015922540noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397021564166196110.post-79350201912082241402021-12-28T12:24:00.000-06:002021-12-28T12:24:09.094-06:00It's a Most Wonderful Life<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjguoa1PJ8ywoVSe7xl5LSDp_AIZXNrf4C5ApNq0fjckymRqhzAdQnjJK4DJod6Rek0d-zXFVMCCXmV3ObnNzYum1g7hEEyI4gAYk4EaLUEd6HZiKH2zPrQy5CwDFJaIOc8u7CGxCSWTRiyaSgh-4j3OYNdEMnQrQREcbsQZOo9C7Fk9Q0NRPFZ4djDAg=s4032" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjguoa1PJ8ywoVSe7xl5LSDp_AIZXNrf4C5ApNq0fjckymRqhzAdQnjJK4DJod6Rek0d-zXFVMCCXmV3ObnNzYum1g7hEEyI4gAYk4EaLUEd6HZiKH2zPrQy5CwDFJaIOc8u7CGxCSWTRiyaSgh-4j3OYNdEMnQrQREcbsQZOo9C7Fk9Q0NRPFZ4djDAg=s400" width="400" /></a>I have dithered for the past quarter hour about which picture to use for the beauty shot of this post, the one that sums up the MomQueenBee Christmas.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I have a couple of hundred photos on my phone now that are dated within the past six days. Should I post the one of Santa and his Elf passing out stocking gifts? Or the Christmas morning group photo that is a tribute to plaid? Or the shot of the impromptu outdoor concert on Boxing Day featuring the possibly-unique instrumentation of clarinet, bassoon, trombone, and tuba?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The eventual winner, though, is one I hope will be an encouragement to all moms out there. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">You young mamas, in the throes of the constancy when you are never, ever off duty? It's for you.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">And you moms of toddlers, who are mobile but not rational? It's for you. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">And you mothers of teens, who many days are equal parts angst and body odor? It's for you. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">This picture is to let you know that the very, very best is yet to come. Those wrinkled, swollen-knuckled, wonky-nailed hands are mine. The perfect dimpled fingers clutching my middle finger belong to Baby Wonderful #2. I have arrived at the age when one of my dear ones says "Here--would you mind napping this kid while I shower?" and that moment is every bit as perfect as I had dreamed it would be. As you sit and rock someone else figures out the schedule and the next meal. Someone else brews the coffee and cleans up the mountains of dirty dishes. Someone else changes the diapers.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">This is the first year in three decades we've spent Christmas completely away from the House on the Corner. With sons in four states, our Small Town location is inconveniently distant to major airports, though, so the Boys decided we would descend on the #One family and Boy, Lovely Girl, and Baby Wonderful offered to be our hosts. Their sprawling colonial is big enough to accommodate the 10 oversized personalities that make up our clan, so we vaccinated, boosted, tested, and traveled. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Here's our Christmas by the numbers:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span> Months it had been since the entire family had been together: 15, and at that time the future arrival of the now-nine-month-old baby seen above was just being announced. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span><span> Family members who had not even met yet: Three. Between the pandemic and an unfortunately-timed case of daycare virus that coincided with Baby Wonderful #2's baptism, the cousins (and Lovely Girl#1) had never been face to face. </span><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span><span> </span>Days we were together: Six. </span><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span><span> Days we knew which day of the week it was: Zero. (Or was that just me?)</span><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span><span><span> Meals I cooked during those six days: Zero. </span><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span><span><span><span> Meals I ate that were better than anything I could cook: Pretty much every one of them.</span><br /></span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span><span><span><span><span> Time it took to open presents: Two days, because we stopped when we were tired the first day and babies don't care.</span></span></span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span> </span>Baby crankiness: On an age-appropriate basis, but so much less than I always remember from my own babies. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span> </span>Adult crankiness: None. Not one discernible bit. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Mothers of not-yet-adult siblings, take special note of that last measurement. If your shoulders are aching from carrying the emotional baggage of your offsprings' sibling squabbles, your special word of hope is "Adulthood." As in they will some day reach it, and with any luck, they'll be delightful humans who are thrilled to be around each other. Or maybe that is only true for six days at a time. Maybe living in four different states gives our own Boys the absent heart fondness responsible for our delightful Christmas, </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Whatever the reason, the unmitigated joy that was the this week was the perfect antidote to two years of uncertainty and fear during which the birth of the Babies Wonderful, just as the original Christmas baby, were a beacon of hope. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">How great my joy.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjBnfkvL7vXyPGcTL2xj2CqsMHjlKGOklTLdISPrUrGTtM4cvbwvsdOZapBjSC1aimGioXIFepdpxA47WDW-_hl_1msy5fBS1WZ-tQdaN3yrPm2oKe0-UuCfvARJvE66LDg3r-bcgnNyzm2bNjNMZofVA5p_98OoP9MCxFM_GRujbefoIUQVMYr7oRwKQ=s3564" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3564" data-original-width="2673" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjBnfkvL7vXyPGcTL2xj2CqsMHjlKGOklTLdISPrUrGTtM4cvbwvsdOZapBjSC1aimGioXIFepdpxA47WDW-_hl_1msy5fBS1WZ-tQdaN3yrPm2oKe0-UuCfvARJvE66LDg3r-bcgnNyzm2bNjNMZofVA5p_98OoP9MCxFM_GRujbefoIUQVMYr7oRwKQ=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="text-align: left;">(I can't leave you without a glimpse of the <br />Christmas morning Santa and his helper elf.)</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div>MomQueenBeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16502633396015922540noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397021564166196110.post-14566980112385157742021-08-31T11:42:00.000-05:002021-08-31T11:42:14.175-05:00My Assessment May Have Been Premature<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PzAsgRgSs78/YS5OxJ0ddzI/AAAAAAAARAU/l073web3HZoNnvTV8b3SVmcad3CY2YsKQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Zoo%2B%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1649" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PzAsgRgSs78/YS5OxJ0ddzI/AAAAAAAARAU/l073web3HZoNnvTV8b3SVmcad3CY2YsKQCLcBGAsYHQ/w323-h400/Zoo%2B%25282%2529.jpg" width="323" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I <i>know</i> there's a lion six inches from my butt. SHE HAS DIPPIN' DOTS!"</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>Back in the early days of blogs, I regularly read several that were so funny, so well-written, so poignant and admirable, that I looked for them every day as soon as I fired up my computer. For years they were part of my life to the point that I knew the names of these writers' children and the brand of mascara they preferred. </p><p>And then, suddenly, they were gone. </p><p>From one day to the next with no warning at all, one would disappear. Then another. Then another. And to this day, I don't know where they went. Did they run out of material? Did they get tired of the pressure of producing content? Did they simply grow out of needing the writing outlet? I didn't understand it.</p><p>Now I do. </p><p>The last post I wrote was three full months ago, and I had no intention of being gone so long. It just sort of...happened. </p><p>I am here, in fact, because in the wee dark hours of this morning I suddenly found myself wide awake and convinced that the internet had deleted my corner of the blathersphere because of lack of activity. All of my observations on the joy and absurdity that is my life were gone, gone, gone. </p><p>The 3 a.m. thoughts of a post-menopausal woman are always so rational. </p><p>It isn't as if I haven't been writing blog posts in my head--if I managed to build a mental modem between my brain and this address I would have had, well, more than zero posts since May. So I <i>knew</i> I was being irrational, but rather than just checking my phone and going back to sleep I laid awake and stewed for two more hours because that is a much more rational reaction. </p><p>Anyway, here I am! Back! And it appears that the title of my last post may have been just a tad premature. </p><p>Hahahahaha! Babies Wonderful, the world has not righted itself. </p><p>Because our half-hearted response to the original infection gave a new and stronger version of that infection the chance to sweep back in just as we decided we were done with it, we are now listening to Delta laugh heartily. </p><p>In spite of vaccines and science and whatnot, hospitals are still filled with pestilence and plague to the extent that a dear vaccinated friend experiencing a life-threatening gallbladder infection had to wait on one of those narrow emergency room beds for the better part of a day before a bed opened up and she could be admitted to the hospital. </p><p>We have watched as schools within sneezing distance of the House on the Corner open without masking even though <a href="https://www.cdc.gov/coronavirus/2019-ncov/variants/delta-variant.html">science</a>, and friends on Facebook have posted instructions for ivermectin dosages in spite of <a href="https://www.fda.gov/consumers/consumer-updates/why-you-should-not-use-ivermectin-treat-or-prevent-covid-19">SCIENCE</a>.</p><p>So, yes. I am a teensy bit bitter, and thank you for asking. But I am also so very thankful for all the good things that have happened in the non-posting months.</p><p>We are, fully vaccinated and masked, cautiously out and around for the most part. We've been able to be with each other in person as well as by Facetime. We eat in restaurants, sometimes, although we try to hit off-peak hours. We attend the church service that is least attended (hymn singers for social distancing!). </p><p>And we have been able to see the Babies Wonderful and their parents, and cuddle them (the babies, not the parents) and watch their progression from newborn to baby to full-blown chase-me-around-the-zoo toddlerhood. I had forgotten that toddlers see animals in practically every book in the nursery, but the misting machine! And the non-nutritional snacks! Those are new and amazing!</p><p>My life truly is wonderful, and I am doubly blessed that the biggest worry I have during my irrational early hour panic attacks is that I might be missing some words from my life. I am not among those who are missing people. </p><p>But I'm back now. I'll try not to disappear again. </p><p><br /></p>MomQueenBeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16502633396015922540noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397021564166196110.post-74991880879903837272021-05-17T09:53:00.000-05:002021-05-17T09:53:36.800-05:00Dear Babies Wonderful: The World MAY Be Righting Itself<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rBVuBBbDqNQ/YKJ1_vsq5TI/AAAAAAAAQBU/8dNTO1fyTCcEmitn0MQKPEcMstmIh9ZvgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Pandemic%2Brestaurant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rBVuBBbDqNQ/YKJ1_vsq5TI/AAAAAAAAQBU/8dNTO1fyTCcEmitn0MQKPEcMstmIh9ZvgCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/Pandemic%2Brestaurant.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p></p><p>Dear Babies Wonderful,</p><p>I've spent the past 10 minutes staring blankly at the computer screen, wondering what the title of this post should be. Not only has it been a loooooong break in posting (so sorry!) but I couldn't decide how to caption this scribble I thought might never be written. Should I categorize it under the World Turned Upside Down posts that have dominated the past year? Or should it be a Baby Wonderful episode?</p><p>I finally decided that honestly, it's both. By the time you're in grade school and the other kids are interviewing their grandparents about what it was like to live through the Great Pandemic of 2020 I may have forgotten <strike>everything, including my name</strike> a few details of this so I'm giving you permission to turn this in as your fourth grade history assignment. </p><p>See that picture up there? That's your handsome grandfather sitting across a restaurant table from me. He had taken me out for Mediterranean food to celebrate Mother's Day 2021. But you'll want to notice a few details that are a bit different from typical Facebook I'm-on-a-date updates. (Do kids still have Facebook? What do you mean the cool kids didn't even use Facebook in 2021? Huh.) </p><p>It was the first time we had eaten inside a restaurant in 15 months. </p><p>Notice that the tables around us are completely empty. That's because we were at this restaurant on a Friday afternoon at 4:00. Your grandfather suggested that maybe we should move our date up two days rather than patronize what he accurately described as "sneezed-on Mother's Day buffets." And maybe we should eat our falafel and hummus at the senior-est of senior citizen hours to avoid crowds.</p><p>He knows me so well. </p><p>He knew that I have spent the past year in the most prolonged state of fear I've ever experienced. I honestly did not think that all of my loved ones would survive the pandemic. It seemed so capricious--old people were dying from it, but so were young and healthy people. Hundreds in Small Town became ill, and many died, but even more were ill and didn't know it. </p><p>The worst part was knowing that even if we did every single thing we could do to stay healthy (and we did--we isolated, wore our masks when we had to be out, stopped going to any in-person gathering, Zoomed everything including coffee dates) it might not be enough. The virus could find us. </p><p>Now extrapolate that worry to the people we loved the most. Would you two precious wee ones be safe? Would your parents, your uncles? Your great-grandfather and your aunts and uncles and cousins? I discovered that worry compounds exponentially, not arithmetically.</p><p>I don't want to make this a long slog about how awful the pandemic was because while I recognize how scary it was, I also recognize how lucky we were to have the luxury of choosing isolation. So I will just say that when we ate in that restaurant, I may have had to choke back a tear or two as I realized that vaccinations and caution mean that the world that has been upside down for a solid year might be tilting toward its correct axis again. The weird epoch during which we found pulse oximeters in our Christmas stockings, and were grateful for them, may be coming to an end. </p><p>It doesn't mean the pandemic is over--hospitals in other parts of the nation and the world are still packed with desperately ill patients. In Small Town we are still seeing obituaries of people who have been taken by this horrid virus. We are still wearing our masks inside and in close quarters with persons we aren't sure have been vaccinated. We are not yet hugging indiscriminately.</p><p>But oh, my precious ones, you just can't imagine the joy of the steps we're making back toward normalcy. We are experiencing the upward bounce that began with vaccinations.</p><p>I am wearing lipstick again, and smiling at everyone I see. </p><p>God willing, right-side-up is just over the horizon. </p><p>Much love,</p><p>GrandmaQueenBee</p>MomQueenBeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16502633396015922540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397021564166196110.post-79230459351873323232021-04-12T10:16:00.001-05:002021-04-12T10:16:59.307-05:00Dear Baby Wonderful #2 <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HR7wnkVRZXE/YHRY4kzNjaI/AAAAAAAAPz0/qwptvCmFh_cHC4Z97bkM7eFdk0totcXHgCPcBGAsYHg/s2592/IMG_7910.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2592" data-original-width="1944" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HR7wnkVRZXE/YHRY4kzNjaI/AAAAAAAAPz0/qwptvCmFh_cHC4Z97bkM7eFdk0totcXHgCPcBGAsYHg/w300-h400/IMG_7910.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><p><br /></p>Dear Baby Wonderful #2,<p></p><p>You will not know for many years, decades even, the emotions of writing that opening sentence. And in many ways, I hope you never know, because my dear one, those emotions are wrapped up your arrival almost exactly one year after we started a year that was indescribably dark and fraught.</p><p>Your cousin had <a href="http://emptynestfeathers.blogspot.com/2020/03/you-will-be-born-in-spring.html" target="_blank">made his appearance</a> just one day before the pandemic was officially declared, and at the time I reminded God that this baby was symbol of hope. A year and a few weeks later, here you are, the other end of the rainbow. Quite sensibly you timed your birth so that you could shout "Hallelujah!" for vaccines, symbolizing a cautious return to (socially distanced, masked) meetings, and the possibility that Grandma and Grandpa could safely fly out to meet you. </p><p>We can't wait to meet you, a child so obviously one of our clan. </p><p>First, and most obviously, you are a boy. One of these days you'll undoubtedly gain a cousin who doesn't have the XY chromosome combination, and I'll be just as thrilled to meet her, but I have to be completely honest: I was secretly hoping you would be joining the guy brigade that is the House on the Corner. </p><p>And then, there is the sheer adorableness of your presence, as evidenced in today's pictures. Has there ever been a more moochy-moochy Shar-Pei of a baby? You were a well-nourished newborn, and at 9 lbs. 14.4 oz., pretty much the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gaston_(Beauty_and_the_Beast)" target="_blank">Gaston </a>of the nursery. In fact, one of the first things your delighted mom told us on the phone was "He's got rolls!" They are everywhere--creasing in your tiny thighs, your sweet upper arms, on your back. I don't want to harsh your buzz this early in your life, but while I am thrilled you take after your GrandmaQueenBee in this, these are much less adorable when you are on Social Security. You might want to try to avoid that better than I have. But on you? Flaunt 'em, Baby!</p><p>You've also made it clear that you have a mind of your own, as did all of the boys who have preceded you in the hive. The photographer who arrived for your newborn shoot was not able to coax you to open your beautiful eyes even once. The second she left, though, you woke up, looked around, and grinned. As Uncle Boy#1 pointed out, you are nobody's monkey. </p><p>Your Mom and Dad have been warriors. They rolled with the punches of pandemic childbearing, with Lovely Girl #2 attending prenatal scans and appointments by herself--only the patient could enter the hospital, so Boy#2 missed seeing your first stretches and yawns. There were no baby showers, no hugs from excited friends at church. </p><p>But what do those really matter now? You are here. They FaceTime often, so we recognize your prodigious startle reflex, and your amazing strength--you're able to hold up your head already, even though the replacing of said head on a shoulder is a less-controlled operation. (THUD!)</p><p>They adore you, and watching them in their new role as parents is perhaps the most miraculous transformation their own parents can see. </p><p>Next week Grandpa and I will be coming to meet you. Don't worry--we're fully vaccinated, have a full stash of masks and hand sanitizer, and will hand you back to your Mom or Dad the second you start to cry. They aren't leaving you, and even though most of the time we'll be halfway across the country, neither are we.</p><p>You're the other end of the rainbow.</p><p>Much love,</p><p>GrandmaQueenBee</p>MomQueenBeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16502633396015922540noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397021564166196110.post-23971685111724746142021-02-22T11:12:00.001-06:002021-02-22T11:12:26.990-06:00A World Turned Upside Down: This Is What Hope Looks Like<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_fJecwWaKds/YDPT7Fst4XI/AAAAAAAAPP4/PD0g1s-fgdcPRLHbDX_ESTuYkYkS6kSMACLcBGAsYHQ/s2016/Vaccinated.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_fJecwWaKds/YDPT7Fst4XI/AAAAAAAAPP4/PD0g1s-fgdcPRLHbDX_ESTuYkYkS6kSMACLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/Vaccinated.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The folder next to my head is appropriately named.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />I sat down this morning to write about the latest pandemic development and realized I had no picture to go with the post. Rather than take a selfie of my current post-workout self I stuck my celebratory sticker right next to a face on my monitor's screensaver. It seems appropriate that the picture is part of a family portrait taken in a moment when I was happy clear down to my bones, just as I was 10 days ago when a nurse jabbed my left arm.</p><p>I got my Covid-19 vaccine. </p><p>As it turns out, it is possible to put a timeline on hope, and my clock started ticking at 10:17 a.m. Wednesday, February 10. That's when I masked up and left the house to line up with teachers, aides, and staff in the school district where I accompany the middle school choir. Three weeks from that moment I will get the second shot, then I will wait another two weeks before I begin to cautiously emerge from isolation. </p><p>That second shot will come exactly one year after Baby Wonderful was born, the day we were able to hold and cuddle our hours-old dear one. The next day, as we were on the road back to the House on the Corner, the president addressed the nation concerning a crisis that already was spreading. In the hazy Is-This-True-or-Not world of a year ago, it was hard know how seriously to take his announcement, but then we heard that March Madness had been cancelled.</p><p>I turned to Husband: "This could be really bad." </p><p>It has been.</p><p>It hasn't just been the constant, low-level worry about whether my children, my father, my beloved siblings and their families, were still healthy. It's also been actively avoiding other people when my Before way of life was built around being with other people. </p><p>Picking up groceries rather than doing my own shopping. Moving my women's group and Bible study meetings to Zoom. Not eating in a restaurant during this entire year. Going back to work at the piano for a few months but realizing that the worry a child would unwittingly infect me was too draining, and taking a leave from that job. Attending church remotely, even after the church re-opened. Teaching piano via Google Meet. Not singing Christmas carols.</p><p>Getting to know my grandson by FaceTime and hoping he would recognize my voice when I finally hold him again.</p><p>This was not the way I had planned to be a grandmother. </p><p>But then, last night Boy#1 texted us with a question: "Hey, when are you all supposed to get your second Covid shots? We're planning for Baby Wonderful's birthday party." </p><p>We've reached the point where we can begin planning, albeit cautiously, and knowing this gathering is even a possibility is such a hopeful sign. </p><p>Don't think that after a year in which Husband was literally the only other human being I saw for weeks at a time we will immediately go back to our Before behaviors. We'll continue to mask and distance and we'll limit our contacts to friends and family we know are similarly cautious and vaccinated. We'll avoid crowds and handshakes, and it may be years before I am not angry with non-maskers whose disdain for science and disregard of others has been so cavalier. (Your excuses are meeting my upraised open palm.)</p><p>The end of this is not even on the horizon yet, but we are vaccinated. </p><p>We have hope.</p>MomQueenBeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16502633396015922540noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397021564166196110.post-77840190882816593412021-02-08T13:02:00.001-06:002021-02-08T13:02:30.857-06:00One Is More Than Enough<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i_ONQpMnyJc/YCF8OLT_RPI/AAAAAAAAPMw/5UYugxSYD8QTOgkLv_pUVYOGXUZfNWkjwCLcBGAsYHQ/s596/Mouse.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="596" data-original-width="540" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i_ONQpMnyJc/YCF8OLT_RPI/AAAAAAAAPMw/5UYugxSYD8QTOgkLv_pUVYOGXUZfNWkjwCLcBGAsYHQ/w363-h400/Mouse.png" width="363" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Before I start today's actual story, I have two prefaces. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The first is this: I am incurably squeamish about small critters. Even though I am the mother of four sons, I do not enjoy bugs, or snakes, or things that skitter. I did my best to cover this personality failing when the Boys were little. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Oh, look! It's a cute little frog!" I would exclaim in a voice that was too high and a tone that was too quavery. Then I would grit my teeth and accept the frog onto my own palm for what I considered a reasonable amount of time before returning it to nature and fleeing inside to soak my hands in boiling water. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I am also physically incapable of killing anything that might contain instestinal goo. Just the thought of that ooziness triggers my gag reflex. Step on a cricket? Nope, not happening. Clap a fly to death between my bare hands? I have tried, honestly tried, but without fail the clap veers off to miss the fly by a measurable distance. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So that is the first preface to this story, and here is the second: Even though the House on the Corner is nearly a century old, in the 34 years we have sheltered within its walls I have never seen a mouse sheltering inside with us. Oh, I thought I did once, and even <a href="http://emptynestfeathers.blogspot.com/2015/09/overreact-me.html" target="_blank">blogged it</a> with what turned out to be the exact same clipart I am using today, but the "mouse" turned out to be rampant dust bunnies. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">That's why I was more than a little shocked last week when, as I sat in the recliner working on my latest knitting project and streaming an old "Columbo" episode, an honest-to-gosh mouse sauntered into the television room between me and Peter Falk. Believe me, the murder victim was much less surprised than I was. My room exit rate was in hyperspeed gear.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I texted Husband.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RMmsdCfRNGg/YCGB7ILni_I/AAAAAAAAPNA/gl-nyX-yAxkXgelABvgvWCrdEFfQ3XOKgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1987/Mouse%2Bmessage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1987" data-original-width="1125" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RMmsdCfRNGg/YCGB7ILni_I/AAAAAAAAPNA/gl-nyX-yAxkXgelABvgvWCrdEFfQ3XOKgCLcBGAsYHQ/w226-h400/Mouse%2Bmessage.jpg" width="226" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It's like he's never met me before. But God bless him, I married a good man. Within minutes, even in the full throes of tax season, he had locked the office door and was on his way home. Meanwhile, figuring the mouse would be occupied for at least half an hour before Columbo figured out that the baseball manager had clocked the star pitcher with a big chunk of ice and shoved him in the swimming pool (sorry, spoiler alert), I had moved to the kitchen.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And it was there, five minutes later, that I glanced down and strolling through the kitchen door was THE MOUSE! It stopped in the middle of the floor, not three feet away, and took a break.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I know! It's like it knew I am incapable of killing small critters and was taunting me. It's a classic mouse move. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Sadly, even though I was literally surrounded by sharp weapons, there was no way I was going to impale it with one of my good kitchen knives (see also: intestinal goo) so my mind raced to a more humane method of disposal. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Moving slowly, one inch at a time, I reached into the cupboard and pulled out a large plastic cup, the kind that holds overpriced Diet Pepsi at football games. The mouse was still sitting there.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I inched toward it, moving at the speed of a sundial. No rodent movement. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Finally, fully expecting the mouse to dash off at the final moment, I slammed the cup over it. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It did not dash off. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Instead, my critter-avoidance instinct kicked in and instead of slamming the cup <i>over </i>the mouse I managed to slam the cup <i>onto </i>the mouse. If you drew a dotted line from its twitchy little nose to the base of its repulsive tail, that's where the edge of the cup smacked down.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMG!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There I was, bent double and as trapped by the mouse as it was by that heroic plastic cup. I couldn't pick up the cup, because I wasn't absolutely sure the mouse was dead and I saw that episode of <i>The Crown</i> where the injured elk just wandered around in the queen's forest for days and days. No way was I letting an injured mouse loose. But I also could not bring myself to exert more pressure on the cup for a definite demise. Nope, nope, nope. Not in a million years. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And at that moment, I heard a key in the back door. Friends, Sleeping Beauty was not nearly as happy to see her Prince pucker up as I was to hear that door open. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"A little help here?" I croaked from from my bent-double position behind the island. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Husband, who actually does know me very well, took charge at that point and held on to the cup while I fetched a pair of pliers so that he could grip that disgusting tail, remove the cup, and discover that Mickey was indeed dead as a doornail. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Later, after he had gleefully sent pictures of the (completely flattened) rodent to the Boys and crowed about what a mighty hunter their mother was, he went back out to the hardware store and came home with six each of three different kinds of traps. Then he Googled the best place to set them (everywhere) and so thoroughly carpeted the ground floor with anti-mouse protection that we may never find every trap.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In the three days since, the traps have seen no activity. I'm hoping this means we're started on the next 34-year mouse-free streak. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But if we do find anything in the traps, be watching the real estate ads. One episode of intestinal goo is more than enough.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><p></p>MomQueenBeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16502633396015922540noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397021564166196110.post-25097877723703533352021-02-01T10:40:00.000-06:002021-02-01T10:40:09.802-06:00A World Turned Upside Down: The Pandemic Check List<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AtihpyaT9CA/YBghRvB5ZYI/AAAAAAAAPLU/Bl-TQvD16pk0qeMfuVpO6w7Pd-em3-zWQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Brioche.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AtihpyaT9CA/YBghRvB5ZYI/AAAAAAAAPLU/Bl-TQvD16pk0qeMfuVpO6w7Pd-em3-zWQCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/Brioche.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brioche!</td></tr></tbody></table><br />So we can all agree that this pandemic has gone on waaaaay longer than we would have preferred, right? We are tired of the masks and take-out restaurant food, and there is a real danger that Netflix may run out of content before we rise to the top of the vaccination wait list. (Not that I'm complaining, but as I have mentioned before, I have four tickets in the let's-kill-grandma lottery and am still a couple of months away from the jab, based on the priority list and the rate doses are arriving in the county.)</p><p>I have now moved from "Let's Be Smart About This" to "I AM NOT GOING TO WASTE ALL THOSE MONTHS OF HUGLESSNESS" on my scale of isolation. I no longer go into stores, even masked, and Husband is pretty much the only face I see outside of Zoom calls. (Just an aside: I've concluded hell must be an eternal Zoom meeting made up only of senior citizens. Honestly, I could not have made it through this without seeing the gorgeous faces of my friends, but trying to walk a newbie through the subtleties of the mute button is...challenging.)</p><p>The up side of all this isolation is that I am working down my pandemic check list with surprising efficiency. I'm assuming you all have lists that you wrote out in a panic last March when everything was cancelled and the end was not even over the horizon, much less in sight? </p><p>What were we going to do with al those empty hours stretching out inside the four walls of the house? </p><p>I know, I know. I am so lucky that this appeared to be a problem. Parents of children who have not yet flown the list, I cannot express the depths of my admiration for you. I could not have handled this 20 years ago, when the Boys were all sulky teenagers under our roof. I could not have handled it 15 years ago when the college kids would have been sent home to suck up the WiFi and my sanity. </p><p>But solitude does have a way of allowing one's mind to be super-productive and active in a dire, non-productive way. What would I do to keep myself on dwelling on the constant, low-grade drumbeat of doom that was present in March of 2020? </p><p>I made a list. </p><p>On that list were things I've wanted to do or learn but never "had the time" for. The irony quotes are, obviously, to indicate that I know very well that we have the time for what we make the time for, and it's all about choices, and blah-blah-blah. But I hadn't done these things, okay? And I wanted to, okay? </p><p>On my list were some items I've already bragged about here. There's the <a href="http://emptynestfeathers.blogspot.com/search?q=sourdough">sourdough </a>starter, for example, which was so delightful and yummy that two weeks ago it was flushed down the garbage disposal because ye gods, so much bread. Some day I will have to wear clothes again. There are the aforementioned Zoom calls which had intimidated me but which now are my primary means of communication with the outside world. </p><p>For years I've wanted to learn to do brioche knitting. I'm a fair-to-middlin' knitter and have loved this stitch since the first time I saw its intricate patterns (on both sides!), but in spite of YouTube tutorials and even the purchase of a book, I could not figure it out. This week, thanks to a stocking-stuffer video class from Husband, I have learned to brioche. Hooray! Hats and fingerless mitts for everyone!</p><p>But perhaps the list item that delights me most right now has me setting the alarm clock for 7 a.m.: I'm taking an online Zumba class. </p><p>I know! Me, the worst dancer in the world. Me, the person least likely to move out of the recliner. Me, the person whose lack of coordination is legendary. </p><p>Three times a week I push back the coffee table and tune into a Silver Sneakers Zoom session led by Damaris in Miami. She is a Li'l Dumpling-shaped dynamo in Spandex, and she has all of us old people doing cha-cha and meringue and the twist, sporadically yelling "Hey!" and making heart-shapes with our hands as we pump our fists. I am so bad at it, and it is so much fun that I don't even care that I'm bad at it. By the end of the 45 minutes I am sweating profusely and have achieved a self-righteous glow that will last all day. </p><p>So maybe that's the best thing to come of my list--I'm enjoying trying things I'm really bad at. I have enjoyed but am not bragging about my bread baking or my knitting. I knew I could do those things fairly well already. The Zumba class? That was light years out of my comfort zone, and here I am, loving it.</p><p>I'm not looking forward nearly as much to the next item on the list. Maybe adding random "Hey!" and hand hearts to attic cleaning would help? I can't wait to see if Husband agrees.</p><p><br /></p>MomQueenBeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16502633396015922540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397021564166196110.post-82034745678312097132021-01-20T09:37:00.000-06:002021-01-20T09:37:00.448-06:00Why I'm Feeling This Way<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Si1Wmo4Yj5M/YAhJaKmRzRI/AAAAAAAAPJM/eHPoCMTtTgk0NvBtag-X5WH_d-p1hdxnACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Pearls.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Si1Wmo4Yj5M/YAhJaKmRzRI/AAAAAAAAPJM/eHPoCMTtTgk0NvBtag-X5WH_d-p1hdxnACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Pearls.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>When I was younger I slept deeply no matter what position I was in. </p><p>I could sleep on my back, or on my stomach, or with my head propped up on the too-high arm of a sofa when I fell asleep during a television movie. After a few minutes or a few hours or even an entire night (barring nursing sessions and child nightmares) I would wake up, stretch, and walk back into my life. </p><p>As I have gotten older, I have discovered that aging bones and tendons mean that too much time in one position leave me ossified rather than refreshed. If I sleep on my back all night, for example, I can barely stretch my creaking skeleton back into usable form. I roll my creaky shoulders and achy feet like a ballet dancer just to walk down the hall to the bathroom.</p><p>So instead of sleeping like a log, I sleep like a rotisserie chicken: left side, stomach, right side, back, left side, stomach...and so on for the hours I'm in bed. Sleep has become lighter and more easily interrupted.</p><p>You may think that I'm complaining, but I honestly I am not. In fact, I would say that having to change positions during the night is a delightful benefit of old-ish age. </p><p>When I wake up in the night and realize I am curled into a fetal left side heap of tightened knees and sleep-needled hands, I make a quarter turn and stretch completely out, toes over the end of the bed and fingers curled around the top of my pillow.</p><p>It is the most delicious feeling, knowing I will rest easy and stretched between cool sheets. The pain in my hips that woke me is almost magically relieved and I flex my feet and smile just because I can. It is a fresh start during a night that has become intolerably painful. </p><p>This morning, as I put on my pearls and lit a candle for the unity of our nation, I tentatively flexed my feet. </p><p>All of my muscles suddenly relaxed and I smiled.</p>MomQueenBeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16502633396015922540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397021564166196110.post-73888006352410854072020-12-23T11:57:00.002-06:002020-12-23T11:57:54.328-06:00A World Turned Upside Down: A Thrill of Hope<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5NzzrcI6o-U/X-N77WwnRGI/AAAAAAAAO4g/pCEoq9LrC3wOPQy_CI6J_UCM_-Tfauu_gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/2020%2BChristmas.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5NzzrcI6o-U/X-N77WwnRGI/AAAAAAAAO4g/pCEoq9LrC3wOPQy_CI6J_UCM_-Tfauu_gCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/2020%2BChristmas.JPG" /></a></div>
<i>O Holy Night</i> has never been my favorite Christmas song. <div><br /></div><div>Oh, it's beautiful if it's done absolutely perfectly. The hushed opening crescendo-ing up and up until it bursts into splendor--magnificent! But the chances it will be done perfectly are slim. Most singers can reach the opening notes, a few good sopranos can reach the mid-part of the song when we FALL on our KNEES to HEAR the angel VOICES. Rare, though, is the belter who can confidently reach the E-natural of the NIIIIIIGHT, and even fewer can reach the G-natural of the NIIIIIIIIIIIIGT DIVINE, before shushing back down to the night when He was born. </div><div><br /></div><div>I've accompanied this song maybe a thousand times in my life, and every single time I've sympathetically dreaded that G natural. </div><div><br /></div><div>This year, though, I have this song on mental repeat. I sing it to myself on my morning walk, delusionally confident no one is seeing me in my ratty work-out clothes. I hum it as I wash the pans in which I've baked peppernuts and combined cereals for party mix. I mouth the words in the shower, and as I wrap presents. </div><div><br /></div><div>They are my end-of-year anthem for 2020, because dear ones, we are going to make it. Even as the noose of numbers tighten around us, and friends and loved ones test positive, I feel it: </div><div><br /></div><div>A thrill of hope. </div><div><br /></div><div>Did you sob as you saw the first health worker being vaccinated? I did. And I sobbed again when my Lovely Girl #2, a frontline doctor with high-risk health issues, posted the picture of her own arm being jabbed. Every vaccination picture of those health workers, who must be so tired and so sad, made me cry.</div><div><br /></div><div>A thrill of hope.</div><div><br /></div><div>When the first of my immediate family let us know he had tested positive in spite of scrupulous precautions, but then emerged with only manageable symptoms, I began to unclench my jaw </div><div><br /></div><div>A thrill of hope.</div><div><br /></div><div>When the political signs all but disappeared in Small Town and I began to think we may survive with our democracy threatened but not destroyed. </div><div><br /></div><div>A thrill of hope. </div><div><br /></div><div>It doesn't mean we are somehow back to the Before, of course. We have so very much work still to do, to keep ourselves and others safe and to move forward to a more communicative, more-inclusive us on the heels of so much division. </div><div><br /></div><div>We will never forget the ones who did not make it through the pandemic, and the scars on our businesses, our schools, our psyches, and our confidence will never disappear although they will inevitably fade. </div><div><br /></div><div>But it's there, that thrill of hope, and we can hit the high G with confidence.</div><div><br /></div><div>A weary world rejoices.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>MomQueenBeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16502633396015922540noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397021564166196110.post-65954332440030814542020-11-26T09:51:00.003-06:002020-11-26T09:51:34.046-06:00We Gather Together, Apart<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eJfttVy7-JM/X7_Edqg9oXI/AAAAAAAAOkw/PbE58YuMpDAuf0nnWAkozWKf8Vc8lS3dACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Thanksgiving%2Bpie.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eJfttVy7-JM/X7_Edqg9oXI/AAAAAAAAOkw/PbE58YuMpDAuf0nnWAkozWKf8Vc8lS3dACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Thanksgiving%2Bpie.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One Thanksgiving pie<br /></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>In any other year, the very thought that I would sit down at 9 o'clock on Thanksgiving morning to write a blog post would send me into peals of hysteria-edged laughter. </p><p>Thanksgiving is my favorite day of the year, as I've noted in this space every single year. I love the season, I love the food, I love the lack of commercialization as vendors leap over this holiday to get to Christmas. And most of all, I love that for as long as I can remember, my extended family has gathered to celebrate the day. </p><p>For the better part of three decades that gathering took place at the House on the Corner as my parents, all my siblings and their families, and any other un-familied friends I could gather in would pack the house for hugs and laughs and turkey and all the pie we could eat. When the expanding family outgrew the house we moved the celebration to a college meeting room, then to a church fellowship hall. We began alternating hosting duties with Much Older Sister in a different part of the state, and last year there were dozens and dozens of best-beloveds hugging and squealing and passing around new babies.</p><p>The event was not without its glitches--one year my mixer gave up the ghost before the potatoes were mashed, and another year the turkeys weren't cooked through at the appointed eating time--but it didn't ruin the day for even a second. </p><p>We were together, and that's all that mattered. </p><p>This year is, well, this year. </p><p>Husband and I will sit down to turkey in our dining room table with only two Boys, both of whom quarantined and tested before they started home. The other two Boys are with their own nuclear families in their own homes. My siblings are likewise siloed with their immediate family members, and my youngest brother is cooking a full dinner for Dad and his wife. </p><p>There is one turkey, not six. One pie rather than 13. Quantities scaled down from 60 servings to four, plus leftovers.</p><p>It could not be more different from the Thanksgiving I hold in my heart. I should have been up at 5:30 to sauté the onions and celery for the dressing, mentally checking off when the sweet potatoes needed to come out of the oven and when the green bean casserole needed to go in.</p><p>I'm sad, of course, that I won't see my Dad, or be with Baby Wonderful for his first major holiday. I'll miss the almost tactile swell of love that gusts in with the arrival of each family.</p><p>But, oh, you cannot imagine the gratitude with which I am counting my blessings. Maybe it takes a year like this, when we're all so close to the precipice, to be able to articulate the causes of our joy.</p><p>The family, today all safely tucked in their own homes. We cannot take tomorrow for granted, but today...</p><p>The friends from every age of my life, who this year have been so precious in the reconnections and checking-ins. </p><p>The technology, without which we would not have seen or heard our dear ones. </p><p>The new tone of hope in our national discussions, a time in which our elected leaders are urging us to be kind and think of each other. </p><p>The selfless, beyond-exhausted service of our health workers, our teachers, and especially our minimum-wage store clerks and farm workers. </p><p>Every single person I see wearing a mask and acknowledging wordlessly that we are in this struggle together. </p><p>I could fill the internet with the my list of blessings, even in 2020. All of those who last year I assumed I would see today are counting their own blessings around their own small tables. </p><p>And next year, God willing, rather than gathering apart we will once again gather together. </p>MomQueenBeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16502633396015922540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397021564166196110.post-65858787097180761352020-11-16T12:21:00.002-06:002020-11-16T12:21:32.305-06:00World Turned Upside Down: That Was Unexpected<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8FdDJUf90sQ/X7K5yE2ZvZI/AAAAAAAAOiM/vWK3sTBTQdEVmUWhaQUj6a-kvcC65PJPQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Grocery%2BPick-up.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8FdDJUf90sQ/X7K5yE2ZvZI/AAAAAAAAOiM/vWK3sTBTQdEVmUWhaQUj6a-kvcC65PJPQCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/Grocery%2BPick-up.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><p>Well, no one can say the current epoch has been without surprises. </p><p>I mean, there are some bombshells that are less surprising to many of us than they have been to others. Your county has been systematically ignoring the mask mandate and you've been posting pictures of your birthday parties and family reunions on Facebook, and now you are shocked (SHOCKED, I tell you!) that schools are going from in-person to remote as far as the eye can see? Huh. You believe your cousin's chiropractor's dog-walker's claim that this is no worse than a cold, then are flabbergasted that your knee replacement is going to have to wait because there are <a href="https://www.kcur.org/news/2020-11-16/kansas-hospitals-seek-help-from-nearby-states-but-the-whole-midwest-is-struggling-with-a-covid-surge?fbclid=IwAR2xLNo4ZuKGEFLtalAwEjSzW-uBBJUd1vdBvhEIlJ7VIfBtghbz2tk6jBA" target="_blank">no hospital beds even for heart attack and stroke victims</a>? Science is shaking its head at your amazement.</p><p>But once in a while there is a moment of true surprise during this pandemic. </p><p>Last Saturday, for example, was grocery pick-up day. That was not a surprise. I've been picking up groceries since the second wave began (or rather, the latest punch of the first wave) and folks, if there's one wonderful thing that has come out of this malarkey it is grocery pick-up. </p><p>I loooooove it. </p><p>No masking up and holding my breath as I try to reach around the unmasked guy who is not only breathing on all the Honeycrisps but is also touching each one before putting it in his cart. No seeing how many people are spewing death out of their faceholes because they do not know how to properly cover their noses. </p><p>No, curbside pick-up means I place my order online, avoiding the kind of impulse purchases that have led to a bottle of clam juice languishing in my pantry for three years. (Why even?) Then I drive to the store during my pre-appointed pick-up time and someone brings the bags right out to my already-opened trunk. </p><p>It's like having magic elves a computer click away. </p><p>Sadly, Small Town does not have curbside pick-up, so the magic elves live a 35 minute drive away, but that hasn't been a problem because even the round-trip is faster the amount of time I would normally spend doing my grocery shopping, and the lack of clam-juice purchases more than compensates for the gas expense. </p><p>Saturday's shopping trip was not the well-oiled experience I've previously had, though. Husband and I pulled into the pick-up zone well into our scheduled one-hour slot only to get a phone call from the store. "We're running really late, and it's going to be at least an hour before your groceries are ready. Could you go run your other errands or something?"</p><p>Husband will tell you that I did not react well to this. In my defense, I had not had my morning coffee yet, but I also will point out that killing time in someone else's town is no longer the grand adventure it was seven months ago. Yes, there's a yarn shop next door but am I going in? Not likely. </p><p>So we drove around for 10 minutes while I fumed and pouted, then we parked back in our spot and I fumed and pouted for another 55 minutes while pointing out that there were only three spots occupied in the 10-car delivery area, and that I could have done the dadgummed shopping myself in less time, and what's the point of life anyway? </p><p>I was a glorious, sunshine-filled companion for a full hour. Then the attendant brought out the bags of groceries, handed me my receipt and hot-footed it back into the store before I could look at the receipt and realize that a full third of my order had not been fulfilled because it was out of stock. At that point Husband suggested maybe we could drive through the Sonic for some coffee--"That might make you feel better?"</p><p>Finally we got home, Husband went back to the office to finish a project, and I started carrying in the bags. </p><p>There, at the bottom of the piles of plastic bags, was a surprise. </p><p>Instead of the six bags of frozen Brussels sprouts I had ordered was a cold 12-pack of Smirnoff Seltzer. </p><p>Someone else's day had just been completely ruined, but mine was made. In my follow-up evaluation to the company I pointed out that it would have been nice if the surprise had been some form of chocolate, since the QueenBee family adheres to the "lips that touch alcohol will never touch mine" maxim but we do love our chocolate. Still, it was a lovely thought.</p><p>Surprise! And condolences to the recipient of the Brussels sprouts. I hope you love them as much as I would have.</p><p></p>MomQueenBeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16502633396015922540noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397021564166196110.post-26896823151031232182020-11-03T10:18:00.002-06:002020-11-03T10:18:40.298-06:00I'm Choosing Hope<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HHrDMW_Jv4E/X6GCcd2NVTI/AAAAAAAAOg0/r1zu8Ybg7mc_RB2RGAxzaCkoUkfYBHjDQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/I%2BVoted%2B2020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HHrDMW_Jv4E/X6GCcd2NVTI/AAAAAAAAOg0/r1zu8Ybg7mc_RB2RGAxzaCkoUkfYBHjDQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/I%2BVoted%2B2020.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>The pearls are for RBG.</p><p>The button is for smart, hardworking, windmill-tilting women.</p><p>The "I Voted" sticker is saved from when I voted in advance. </p><p>The hope is for all of us.</p><p><br /></p>MomQueenBeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16502633396015922540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397021564166196110.post-73295134301297247552020-10-28T13:28:00.000-05:002020-10-28T13:28:26.110-05:00Dear Baby Wonderful: The World Is Still Upside Down, But Toes<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7tzXe64GR5M/X5mgr4BLX0I/AAAAAAAAOfI/_ofTRYlrFjsrniulXdColplzf2q0CkvpQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1106/Baby%2BToes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1106" data-original-width="830" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7tzXe64GR5M/X5mgr4BLX0I/AAAAAAAAOfI/_ofTRYlrFjsrniulXdColplzf2q0CkvpQCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/Baby%2BToes.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Toes!<br /></td></tr></tbody></table>Dear Baby Wonderful,</p><p>Well, well, well. I was truly hoping that if I closed my eyes tight and didn't blog during this weird, unexpected time that someday we would be able to gloss over the jaw-dropping weirdness of the months since you were born. We've had the pandemic, of course, and that has divided the world into Maskers and <strike>Idiots</strike> Non-Maskers. And we've had the presidential election, of course, and that has divided the nation into Red and Blue. We've had the two-day October ice storm that has divided absolutely no one because we can all agree that THIS IS INSANITY. </p><p>So, business as usual for 2020. </p><p>But over the weekend I was able once again to access the panacea that puts all of the 2020 madness into perspective, the healing balm that is the best medicine for what ails me. What ails me specifically is the ever-present low-grade rumble of fear that alternates with frequent spikes of terror, and the balm to this terror is baby toes.</p><p>Last weekend, when your mom and dad needed to focus on someone other than you (I know! How dare they!) I got to spend two days in Baby Nirvana. </p><p>Okay, okay, it had only been two weeks since I had seen you. There's currently a self-indulgent, tone-deaf meme circulating that is based on a tweet by a person who's famous for being famous. <span style="font-family: inherit;">"<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">After 2 weeks of multiple health screens and asking everyone to quarantine, I surprised my closest inner circle with a trip to a private island where we could pretend things were normal just for a brief moment in time," she wrote.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Well. If that doesn't put into perspective the rift between the haves and have-nots, I don't know what does, b</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #14171a; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">ut it turns out our family is among the haves and our private island was the House on the Corner. Two weeks ago, properly tested and quarantined, all of your immediate family of loved ones gathered for the first time since last Christmas. So many uncles! So much passing-around-of-the-baby! It was as if the universe had suddenly dropped into proper alignment for the first time in seven months. I spent the weekend nibbling your neck and patty-caking your feet together. And bouncing. Heavenly days, how you love to bounce. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #14171a; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was still in the happiness hangover from that weekend when, last Friday, I was called to Granny-Nanny once more. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #14171a;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">You had changed, just in those two weeks. You are not yet ready to crawl, but your rolling game is stellar and has become a way to get from Point A to Point B. You still like to be held on my lap in a position that gives you an upside-down view of the world, but now you very nearly have the six-pack abs to pull back up into a sitting position. And you are more and more able to communicate exactly what you want: It makes me laugh when you're done with sitting on the floor, thank you very much, and stiffen your arms and growl. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #14171a;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Perhaps my next-to-favorite moment is when we tussle over who should eat those delectable baby toes. I nibble on them and you laugh, then you grab them back and stuff them into your own mouth. </span></span></p><p>You have the reputation of being a terrible napper, though, so the very best time is when you've fallen asleep as I hold you and I know that there's no reason I need to put you in the crib. Then, with my iPad playing <i>The Great British Baking Show </i>on mute beside us, we rock and snooze and I know I'm living my very best life. </p><p>This dreadful year has nearly ruined my faith in a large swath of my fellow human beings, and we still have a couple months to go before we can tear that page off the calendar and burn it ceremonially. But if the Pandora's Box that has been 2020 has included pandemic, politics, and pandemonium as its defining features, it's also included you. </p><p>Baby toes always win.</p><p><br /></p><p>Much love,</p><p>Grandma QueenBee</p>MomQueenBeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16502633396015922540noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2397021564166196110.post-72424901102282185142020-08-17T11:14:00.000-05:002020-08-17T11:15:25.465-05:00World Turned Upside Down: Wake Up and Smell the Toothpaste<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u0URLPb186Q/XzqccLP-plI/AAAAAAAANlE/WG0zNiJTgBMhG4dXxmzSSfopU-EeubefACLcBGAsYHQ/s917/Masked%2Bsisters%2Bcropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="688" data-original-width="917" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-u0URLPb186Q/XzqccLP-plI/AAAAAAAANlE/WG0zNiJTgBMhG4dXxmzSSfopU-EeubefACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Masked%2Bsisters%2Bcropped.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pandemic sister selfie<br /></td></tr></tbody></table></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span>This is my morning routine: I wake up, get out of bed, stumble to the bathroom, sniff my toothpaste, </span>ask Google to play the news while I brush my teeth ...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span>Yes, in another of those I-never-thought-I'd-be-doing-this moments, taking the cap off my toothpaste and inhaling deeply has become a part of the first moments of every day, and appreciating the heady aroma of Sensodyne Extra-Whitening is always followed by a single thought--"Oh, thank God. I still have my sense of smell."</span><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span><span>Life in a pandemic means that self-assessment for symptoms is never-ending. Is that tickle in my throat a seasonal allergy or Covid? Am I feeling tuckered out because I just helped a Boy move ten gazillion boxes into his new digs or because that guy who walked way too close to me in the grocery story yesterday should have worn his mask UP OVER HIS NOSE?</span><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span><span>(I apologize for the all-caps last phrase, but geeminy. If you have on a mask but are still expelling your aerosols through that enormous uncovered honker, I will not give you an wink of responsible solidarity but will mutter curses at you under my breath. Sheesh.)</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span><span>Anyway, I have never appreciated smells more, because loss of smell and taste seem to be the most definitive of the Covid symptoms. Fever? Not good, but could be a lot of things. Sore throat? Ditto, and dittos also to runny nose, gastrointestinal symptoms, and nearly all the additional multitude of Very Bad (Or Perfectly Fine) Signs. The exceptions are the absence of taste or smell. If you notice these you should hie thee to the closest testing station.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span><span>The upside of having these two distinguishing symptoms is that I am really, really appreciating those senses these days. It's ironic, honestly, that they were often the senses I most wanted to damp down. If you've ever had a rotten potato in the spud bin, you know what I'm talking about. Now? Hey, that mushy potato smells TERRIBLE! Yay! And the skunks who live on the hill seem to have visited a neighbor's dog! Hooray!</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span><span>The Boy who was moving will now be at home in the city that is home to Much Younger Sister and practically within spittin' distance of the home of Much Older Sister. MOS welcomed Boy to their neck of the woods by bringing over the most most wonderful breakfast last week on unpacking day. </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span><span>We sat outside in lawn chairs, well-distanced, and balanced our plates on our laps as we removed our masks to dig in to breakfast casserole, the most decadent coffeecake ever concocted, and steaming cups of coffee. In the Before days I would have appreciated the food and the company but on that day? Every bite tantalized my nose before it went into my mouth, then the sweet-salty-savory-bitter reminded me that I was alive and well.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And truly, isn't this a gift during an awful time? The reassurance that we're still among the uninfected is savory and delicious and we are able to hold our breath and take a quick selfie with ones we love before we social distance again. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Even with the skunks and rotten potatoes, I'll take it with gratitude.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><p></p>MomQueenBeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16502633396015922540noreply@blogger.com3