Antediluvian

I chose both the title of this post and its beauty shot carefully.

Antediluvian. Before the Flood.

I wanted to remind myself that just a few weeks ago I had snapped a couple of shots of the flowers in our front garden because this truly has been the most beautiful spring I can remember. Abundant moisture over the winter (both snow and rain) meant that flowers were blooming with wild abandon. Roses, impatiens, irises, geraniums, day lilies, rhubarb, basil, box elders, mint, one gift marigold, and that pretty light-green sticker bush that I can never remember the name of were all jostling for space in the tiny space in front of our porch.

It was glorious, and this picture doesn't do it justice.

But then there is this, taken eight days ago from the porch just behind that garden:

And this, looking north instead of south:

Those are the same roses, the same box elders, the same irises after more than eight inches of rain in a 24-hour period.

Really, I'm not complaining. We are so very, very lucky.

There has been so much rain, and it has lasted so long, but we are still okay.

The full name of the House on the Corner is "The House on the Corner at the Bottom of the Hill and the Intersection of Two Drainage Streets." The flooded shots above were scary, as I waited to see if a downpour would push run-off from the hill and the two streets past the bottom step of the porch and into the house. (It has not, in our 31 years in this house.) But within hours the water had drained away, and left our yard damp and puddled but our house dry.

So many others in the middle section of the nation are not as lucky. We watch in horror the television footage of houses sliding into flooding rivers. We marvel that the interstate highway that passes near Small Town has been closed. Our grocery store conversations start "Is your basement okay?"

And even these are not the worst: When my text alert chimed at 1 a.m. and Boy#1 reported that they were safe after a killer tornado passed within a couple miles of their home in a neighboring state, we were thankful but horrified.

In the past few days we've finally seen the sun, after weeks of unremitting storms. We're Kansans, so we emerge pale and blinking and with our senses of humor intact.

Small Town fairgrounds, which had just begun to dry out after flooding a month ago, were inundated again and I'm sure city workers chuckled as they posted the notice:

They knew they'll be the ones cleaning the up-to-their-eaves buildings behind the sign that apologizes "Sorry. No Camping."

And yesterday, with the sun finally out, Husband decided to see if the surface pump that has kept our basement dry-ish could also drain the swamp in the front yard.

Two hours later things were looking better:

By the end of the day the left-over puddles had soaked into the saturated ground.

It's not a lawn, but it's progress.

Today we're watching the forecast again. The sun was out this morning but the forecast calls for rain to begin again at 1 p.m., and the weather guys have told us to get the cars into the garage--"storms, possibly severe" are probable in the late afternoon.

One of my favorite bloggers, who writes wisely and frankly at swistle.com, describes my mental state perfectly with her tagline: "I acknowledge my luckiness without giving up my claim to the suckiness."

We are so lucky. We are not under water, we are not cleaning up tornado debris. But I mourn my flowers, and I am so, so tired of having rain in the forecast every day.

I am ready to be postdiluvian.

Medical Overshare Monday: I'll Go First.

Guess what, guys? It's Medical Overshare Monday!

This may not be an actual thing (yet), but the knitting Facebook groups of which I'm a member have all kinds of acronyms--we post pictures of our WIPs (Works in Progress), which transition to FOF (Finished Object Fridays), and humblebrag about our SABLEs (Stash Aquisition Beyond Life Expectancy).

I'm inventing MOM because I have some O'ing of my own to do. As you might have guessed, it is closely related to the high-quality artwork I found to open today's post. Can you believe it was a free download?

For the past year or so I've been whining that my shoulder was feeling wonky. I think I've even mentioned in this space a couple of times that my right arm was beginning to be a more reliable weather predictor than Channel 10, but pretty much everything I do depends on my right arm so instead of seeking an actual professional opinion I self-diagnosed the shoulder crankiness as aging pains. I continued to carry in grocery bags four in each hand, and I made the transition from earning most of my money at a computer keyboard to earning most of my money at a piano keyboard. Just for fun I knit, and knit, and knit some more.

Finally last week I decided I was tired of waking up in the night wincing because I'd jostled my shoulder in my sleep, and went to see my doctor. He did a couple of things that made me say "ow" then booked me in for an MRI. The results were available in my in-box the next morning.

Well.

The radiologist's report used the phrase "complete tear" several times, as well as the phrases "muscle atrophy" and "degenerative changes," and several other phrases that I won't bore you with but also sounded ominous. It appears that my arm is now attached to my body almost exclusively by thoughts and prayers, and as we've noted during the past few years, without some kind of action these are not always the most effective ways of dealing with concrete problems.

My doctor already had made me an appointment with a specialist, but May must be busy season for orthopedists because the earliest I could be seen is June 14. A piece of advice for you if you're in a similar situation: Dr. Google does not know the proper balance between "This may be manageable without much trauma" and "Get out the chainsaw, we're doing an emergency amputation."

Fortunately, my sons have shown excellent taste in marrying into families who are not only lovely and kind and have the most beautiful daughters, but also are brilliant in their own right, which is to say that Lovely Girl#2's father is an orthopedic surgeon who deals with this stuff every day.

Oh, yes, I did ask for help based solely on personal panic and from several states away the advice was excellent. With just a couple of texts the good doctor was able to talk me down off the ledge, and I'm now waiting patient-ly (that's a medical joke) until the actual appointment in a month. I'm hoping for a recommendation of physical therapy and some kind of miracle shots, but aware that I may end up on an operating table.

I'm trying hard not to pay any interest on a worry loan for which I might not need the actual capital, but also trying not to ignore ways I could make my life easier if the doctor here does recommend surgery.  Grocery delivery! Rolling luggage! Left-hand-heavy preludes! A stockpile of British procedurals for some posh-accent diversion!

In the meantime I have a pair of socks to finish in case I'm left-hand-only for a while.

Anyone else want to overshare?

Belated Mother's Day Observations

Boy#4 delivering flowers, and Boy#2 skeptical about whatever his brother is saying. 

The beauty shot that goes with today's observations will seem confusing at first glance. Stick with me, though, because it is emblematic of what I want to say about Sunday's celebration of motherhood. (I know, I know. I'm three days late, which also is emblematic of my motherhood style which began when I was a geriatric 32 and has always been behind the curve.)

Anyway, I almost skipped writing about Mother's Day even though this blog is just pretty much a series of blatherings on that subject. But I will plant my stake on one truth about being a mother:

No one knows how to do it.

Really.

I was sure I had motherhood all figured out when I was in my teens/20s and not yet a mother. I would be firm but fair. I would be my children's mother, not their friend. I would never be too tired to listen. I would teach them how to make pie crusts and read to them at every opportunity.

I had confidence in confidence alone, but it only took a few hours of actual motherhood to realize that I was unfit for the position. Boy#1 had been born precipitously (preeclampsia is a real thing) and I had sunk into exhaustion after midnight when the door of my hospital room swung open and in rolled a nurse with a sub-five-pound baby in an incubator.

"Time for his late-night supper!" the nurse said cheerily. I just gaped at her.

Honestly, it never occurred to me that after having done a full and strenuous day of work I would not be allowed to sleep through the night.

And that, my friends, should be the motto of motherhood, embroidered on sofa pillows in every home: Honestly, It Never Occurred to Me.

It never occurred to me that being firm but fair was a standard too high, until the day I heard myself callously telling a kid "Fair is where you take your pigs." (I didn't originate that phrase, but oh boy, did I appropriate it.)  It didn't occur to me that there are a lot of times when being a friend looks like a lot more fun than being a mother. It didn't occur to me how bone-tired I'd be during year after year of not-sleeping-through-the-night-yet babies, too tired for late-night discussions. It didn't occur to me that I make a lousy pie crust, so why would anyone want to learn that?

The only mothering vow I made that I kept was that I read to the Boys at every opportunity.

Still? I love being a mother. I loved the babies, and their pat-pat hands on my cheek. I loved the toddlers, who are the only age group who can properly wear overalls. And the school-agers, and even the teens (oh, the teens! Those tantalizing glimpses of solidity!). Honestly? Motherhood is equal parts roller-coaster emotions, cliff-hanging decisions, and boring slog, and no one knows how to do it.

We're friends with a family who had four children just older than ours, and that mom? She had it all put together. Her kids were kind, smart, and well-mannered at just about the time ours were going through their untamed hellion stages. A friend asked Sharon how she had been such a good mom, and she just laughed.

"You do the best you can every day, forgive yourself, then get up the next day and do it again."

That became my motherhood mantra, and I thought back on it Sunday. We'd spend Saturday car shopping with Boy#4, and he arrived with a gorgeous arrangement of spring flowers from all of his siblings. Then Sunday night we had what has become our Mother's Day/Father's Day/birthday tradition--a raucous Google Chat with the Boys trash-talking over each other and showing off the dog's latest trick and generally behaving as if they were at home around the table instead of in four different states.

I'm the luckiest mother in the word. We didn't know how to do it, but somehow Husband and I have children who are kind, smart, well-mannered, and obviously like us and each other. That this could be the outcome of such a terrifyingly uncharted journey?

Honestly, it never occurred to me.

At Least We Had Dessert

How much lemon tart can two people eat in three days? Apparently, this much.

This has been quite the week in Small Town.

It is early May, so there have been all manner of concerts and recitals as music instruction wraps up for the year. I've piano-ed until my wonky shoulder has begged for mercy.

It's the end of school, so the school board president (Husband) has attended receptions and congratulated retiring teachers and staff, clapped his hands sore for outstanding graduates, ooh-ed and aah-ed at dozens of final project displays, and marveled at the good work done by the folks in our public schools.

On top of this, I was scheduled to have club at the House on the Corner on Tuesday night. (Does anyone under the age of Way Too Old still use that phrase, "having club"? I'm guessing it's a quaint hold-over that we Baby Boomers learned from our mothers, signifying frantic cleaning and experimenting with fancy recipes.)

Anyway, that day I wasn't paying much attention to the forecast. All of my attention was on making sure there were enough chairs and that our immunity improvement system (a.k.a. accumulated dust) wasn't too noticeable.

Guests were to start arriving at 6:30, and with one hour to spare I looked around and lo, it was good. I had done all I could to make it look as if really high-class people live in the House on the Corner--fresh flowers! Napkins artfully fanned! Carefully casual arrangements of family photos! TWO lemon tarts chilling!

And then my text alert started to chime.

"Are you watching the forecast? Should we cancel?"

"Have you been watching the weather? It looks like it might get nasty."

Do you know what can be really irritating when you have spent all day trying to make it look as if you are something you really aren't, such as tasteful and put-together? Having that facade be unseen, that's what.

But the skies were darkening and getting that green-ish cast all of us Kansans recognize. I knew cancelling was the right thing to do, but...TWO lemon tarts! I was more than a little chippy as I made the calls telling my friends to stay home out of the weather, and that we'd meet a week later. "But come tomorrow afternoon for a coffee break and dessert," I told them.

My friend who calls me on my baloney texted me to remind me that this was the right call, even if I was being petty and pouty about it. She was right, of course, especially when we woke up the next morning to find that the forecast of rain had actually been understated--the system dumped nine inches just up the road from us, and flooding closed highways all around. It was so bad, in fact, that the coffee break had to be cancelled because my usual 20-minute commute home from work turned into six times that length as I spent nearly an hour trying to get across the only open bridge coming into Small Town from the south.

So it's been another learning experience. The lesson, obviously, is that I shouldn't complain about having a clean house and fresh flowers, even if I don't have guests to enjoy that false picture of daily life with me. Husband and I can come home from our May events and wait for the dust to re-accumulate, and while we do it, we can have a slice of lemon tart.

But we may have to pick up the pace of the forks. There's still a whole tart chilling.

It's My Bag(s)

You guys! I was going to start out this post with a disclaimer about our kitchen linoleum. (It's from the "So Old We're Calling It Retro" line of floor coverings.)

BUT! Meghan had her baby!

Do not call me out on overuse of exclamation points. Just do not. Because this is SO EXCITING! I happen to be a person who thinks the British royal family is all kinds of fascinating, and I prefer to ignore the moments when they are stupid or thoughtless or wear silly hats. I do not go to the extreme of forgiving of  actual Nazi sympathizers (looking at you, Edward VIII), but how can you not love Queen Elizabeth, especially if you have watched The Crown? And how can you not love royal babies?!

And there is a new one! Oh, I know that Harry has been something of a pill in the past (see also: wearing of Nazi uniforms as costumes), but he said just exactly the right things in just exactly the right tone of amazement and delight when he announced the birth.

But I digress. A few weeks ago I was looking at the distinctly un-royal corner of the kitchen where I dump carefully store my work gear. As a full-fledged member of the gig economy I have found that I not only wear a lot of hats, I carry a lot of bags.

Most of them are full of music: There's my accompanying-the-high-school-band-soloists bag, and my accompanying-the-college-music-majors bag, as well as my playing-for-funerals-and-church-services bag.

Some are what I call busy bags, because I whine and demand attention when I'm bored. These include the grand jury bag (which holds a knitting project and my special grand jury coffee cup), and the big bag that holds middle school choir music, my laptop (for freelance projects and blogging), and my lunch.

And there are the specialized bags, which in this picture include the bag of order forms and delivery cards for my women's group's annual flower sales.

Spring happens to be busy season for all of these gigs, but as they wrap up and we head into summer the bags also take a summer break. In the past two weeks we've had state music contest (yay, for all the participants and congratulations to I rating recipients!), college juries (reminding me why I was not a music major), the April grand jury session, and the delivery of thousands of plants. Those bags have been emptied and put back into storage. In a couple of days we'll have the final middle school concert of the year and summer break will be officially underway, so that bag can be on hiatus as well.

Wrapping up all of these responsibilities feels good, even as I know I'll miss them because did I mention I'm really enjoying all the gigs I have right now?

But if I had all my bandwidth on actual productivity, I wouldn't have had time this morning to shriek out loud at the IT'S A BOY! news or to obsess over possible names. (I'm on Team Philip; one of the Boys is named after his two grandfathers so I have a special place in my heart for this possibility.)

Congratulations, Sussexes. May all your bags hold diapers.

What I Would Have Said

A week ago today I received an award from the Small College where I've spent most of my professional career. The college recognizes five-year increments of service, and I had already collected my marble pen set, the college seal bookends, and the engraved salad bowl. This year I have been working there for three decades, which apparently is the crystal vase commemoration year.

I was conflicted about whether to attend the ceremony or not. Three years ago, I was told that while I would still be employed at the college, my employment was being drastically changed. It was unexpected and, frankly, unwelcome news.

So the thought of attending a ceremony to celebrate (woohoo!) 30 years was...fraught. The Boys, who have been my anger surrogates as I worked through All The Feelings associated with the end of my professional career, had all kinds of unprintable suggestions. But Husband had the best advice:

"You've done good work, and you only have one shot at this. You don't want to regret not showing up." And then he added a clincher: "And don't forget that they usually ask the 30-year recipients to make some comments."

Well. I was the only 30-year recipient, and since the organizers may have been unsure about what I would actually use my microphone opportunity to say, they skipped the comments moment. Fortunately, I have a blog! My own microphone!

Here's what I would have said:

"First I'd like to thank my husband for encouraging me to attend this ceremony. Between us we have one degree and 40 years of service to this institution, and it's been a huge part of our life together. But I'm also deeply grateful to the people who are here today, and to those who have moved on but were here during my time at Small College, who have been creative with me, and laughed with me, and supported me, and given me a chance to do what I believe I was called to do. Most of all, I want to thank all those who have been kind to me and have shown themselves to be brave and compassionate because Small College, like Soylent Green, is people."

The day I carried the final box out of my office across the street and set up my work computer at home, I added a screen saver that said "Give It a Year." I knew that most big transitions, whether positive or negative, take some time to shake out and that I shouldn't judge my altered life until I'd walked in the new shoes for a while. For some reason, though, the computer was glitchy and the screen saver never kicked on. No amount of re-setting settings or fiddling with toggles prompted it to play, and eventually I forgot that I had added this reminder.

Last week, in an eerie coincidence, the screen saver sprang to life. By then I'd given my new reality a year--three, in fact--and had pretty much worked through the blisters and calluses. I had told a friend in equal parts delight and relief that I am loving everything I do now, and so grateful for the life I'm living.

It's time for a new screen saver.