It's MOM Already!

Marie Antoinette does not approve. 

So here's the takeaway wisdom from today's post:

Time flies when you're getting old.

It is MOM (Medical Overshare Monday) again, already. It seems only yesterday that I was regaling you with stories of my wonky shoulder, then heralding the miraculous healing powers of physical therapy (honestly, miraculous), and with a short break to talk about how wonderful my family is and how much fun grown-up children are, we're back to me, me, always me and my failing infrastructure.

If you check today's picture you'll notice that even Marie Antoinette looks disapproving at how much upkeep my corpus is needing, even though Marie's head pops off when you push the button on the back of her neck and she really shouldn't be all judgy-judgy about my meds. Up until a couple of years ago I was able to list my prescriptions on one line at the doctor's office (thyroid supplement and thank you, Mom, for that faulty gene) and my over-the-counters on one additional line (multivitamin).

Then came the discovery of clotting issues (that faulty gene was yours, Dad) and a lifetime prescription for blood thinners.

This week's addition to my ever-growing list of medicines came after a routine bone scan ordered following my annual check-up. I joked about it at breakfast, since the only risk factor I had for thinning bones was my status as a Woman of a Certain Age.

"No way this is a problem," I told Husband. "I'm a big-boned, overweight, dairy farmer's granddaughter with impeccable sin habits. No sir, I don't smoke and I don't chew and I don't kiss the boys who do, heh-heh-heh."

The universe picked up on that heh-heh-heh and the next morning the doctor's office called, because of course they did.

Osteoporosis, with a prescription for twice-daily calcium tables, once-weekly bone strengthener, and five-times-weekly 30-minute walks.

I asked if this was a severe case, and the medical assistant explained patiently that osteoporosis is a number on a scale, and once you pass that number you have it. It's like pregnancy--no such thing as being a little pregnant.

So to recap: In a short two years I have gone from being able to list all my medicines on one line to having a spreadsheet that enumerates not only the names of the medicines but also the times at which they should be taken (morning, evening, once/day, twice/day, once/week), plus the special instructions (remind pharmacy of coupon or be ready for sticker shock, take with water only and don't lie down for following 30 minutes, take with food, etc.).

As I was whining to my brother about this sad state of affairs, he reminded me that our dairy-farming grandmother lived to be 98, even with the osteoporosis she passed down to me.

"Aren't you glad you're alive now, when they're catching this really early and treating it aggressively?" he said.

Well, yes, there is that. I bet Marie Antoinette wishes there had been some way to remove that button from the back of her neck, and also to fix the arm that is held on with Scotch tape after I dropped her one day.

I'm thankful for the treatments, and that my faulty calcium usage was caught way early, but enough for now. I'm hoping the next Medical Overshare Monday is a long, long time in the future. 

What It's Like

Mothers of younger-than-adult children sometimes ask me what it's like to have all of my grown-up, out-of-the-house, earning-their-own-salaries children back in the nest for a few days. (No, they don't really ask that. I'm just saying they do because I imagine they are asking it in their minds.)

The picture above actually sums it up quite well: I asked the Boys to pose outside the Fancy Restaurant where we celebrated my retirement, and that's Boy#2 poking Boy#3 in the ribs and making him laugh, while Boy#4 grins at the camera, and Boy#1 is obviously waiting patiently for the chaos to subside. I am behind my phone saying "Oh, for heaven's SAKE! STOP THAT!"

So in short, in spite of those receding hairlines and professional certifications and graduate degrees, much of the time it's what it's always been: Like dealing with a pack of puppies in need of house training. But there are also other moments during the week of retirement festivities that remind me (again) how much fun it is to be the mother of grown-ups.

This week is the perfect time for any home projects that have been deferred for lack of manpower.  We're having professionals re-do our pathetic backyard, which is currently made up almost entirely of dirt and failure. The pros were going to charge $X.XX to replace two buried pipes between the downspouts and the driveway, though, so Husband decided to take advantage of all the muscle in the house to lower the cost estimate. Included in the photo above are two engineers, one of whom is an actual professional engineer who designs pipeline systems for a living but was thwarted in his argument that "I'm the manager--I don't have to dig." Ha! Not so fast, professional engineer, and grab a shovel. (When he found out how little the lawn folks would have charged to replace the pipe, the PE snorted that next time he would bring a crisp $100 bill to buy his way out of the job.)

Whether you're a child or an adult, being together on the Fourth of July means you get sparklers and spark-pooping chickens and the like, even if you're of an age to overrule your mother's fear of the more robust fireworks. 

Midway through the week is the perfect time to take a generational break and give the young'uns some time to reflect on the crazy that their parents have become. A river float trip is just the right venue, as long as you send an occasional photo as proof of life. This also is an excellent time to do the idiot things your mother would find, well, idiotic. ("How about we jump off this fallen log into the rain-swollen river?" "GREAT idea!") Do not tell your mother about this until later.

This kind of celebration  is the best time for complete abandonment of any dietary restrictions, and when Lovely Girl#1 says she has bought way too many cookies, you must prove her wrong, especially if they are MomQueenBee themed! You'll notice that I am in danger of becoming that overly-thematically-appropriate crazy lady, what with my bee cookie and my bee shirt. Have I mentioned I have a beehive dress? I also have a beehive dress.

But maybe the best part of the week is when everyone is lined up in the same church pew, filling it a little more snugly than when they were toddlers but now able to listen more. The dress code appears to be blue, and I know I shouldn't have been taking a picture during church but I couldn't help myself.

Mothers of younger kids, hang in there during the sleepless nights and need for constant vigilance and refusal to eat any foods that aren't white. Much as we miss them when they're not around, having grown-up, out-of-the-house, earning-their-own-salaries children back in the nest is simply the best stage of all.

My Best Work

We're fancy.

When the Boys found out that my final, I-really-mean-it-this-time, no-I'm-not-kidding last day of work at Small College would be June 30, they asked what I wanted to do to mark the occasion. As I've mentioned here ad nauseum, it's a retirement after 30 years but one that has occurred with more of a whimper than a bang. So did I want a party, they asked? A trip? A gift card for the yarn store?

What I want, I told them, was to have everyone home for the weekend. The geographical vicissitudes that accompany employment these days have meant that the four Boys and two Lovely Girls now live in four different states, so full-family get-togethers are few and literally far between. We were last together at the Wedding of the Century Part Deux, and the last time Boy#2 was home was 18 months ago. (To my horror, he reminded me he'd never even seen the Taj MaJohn.)

So they came home.

We were missing Lovely Girl#2, since the transitional days surrounding July 1 are the absolute worst for resident doctors, but by Saturday evening everyone else had gathered. Then we were together for an entire week, split between the House on the Corner and the adjoining-state home of Boy#1 and Lovely Girl#1.

That first night they took Husband and me out to eat at a place far fancier than their childhood experiences would warrant. (A rabbit trail about fanciness: During the years when vacation meant pulling the pop-up to a lake, our camper was stranded in rising waters after a torrential downpour. There was no fast-food option near by so we went into the local truck stop for breakfast pancakes. The Boys were wide-eyed at its opulence, which today would provoke scathing Yelp comments but was a step up from McDonald's. "Do we get to keep the silverware?" one asked in amazement. At that point we realized we needed to raise our fanciness aspirations.)

Anyway, after we had stuffed ourselves with steak and asparagus and appetizers filled with upscale cheeses, Boy#1 reminded us of the event we were marking. My full-time employment at Small College started when Boy#4 was in pre-school, so our family had grown up while I was working there.

"We've had a lot of good times at SC," he said. "Let's talk about some of them."

The lump in my throat started growing while they reminisced about riding their bikes to the college and lobbing pebbles at my second-story window so that I could toss down Hershey's Kisses from my candy bowl. Or when they were ballboys at football games and learned a whole new vocabulary. Or the piano lessons they had with the head of the performing arts division, and how kind and encouraging he was.

And then it was my turn. So I talked about the man who hired me, and the man who was my boss for 17 years, and how they had believed in my abilities and encouraged me, trusting my professionalism even as I was learning from them how to lead and manage. I remembered the excitement when our department won the sweepstakes award of the professional organization for academic communications, in competition with universities dozens of times our size. I remembered the day spent with Helen Thomas, one of my journalistic idols who was a Commencement speaker. (She called me her Scout leader, and hand-wrote her address and phone number on a scrap of paper--"If you're ever in Washington, call me," she said.)

By then I was having trouble talking around that throat lump.

"But of all those things I did at the college," I managed to speak-sob, "I realize as I look around the table what my best work actually was. You all are my very best work."

It was corny and tear-stained but I'm okay with that valedictory on my career.

It was true.