Not at All Smokin' Hot. No Less Delighted.

 

One of my sassier friends (Hi, A!) was a bigwig at a convention I had been scheduled to attend when we found out that Boy#4 and his Lovely Girl had chosen that weekend for their wedding. I emailed her, and laughed at her reply: "My love to you. And happy blessings on the weddings and the *smoking hot* mother of the grooms." She reminded me after my last blog post that I had promised pictures of this presumed hot-itude.

Well. 

The problems with posting pictures of oneself is that this is absolutely the most blatant, most pathetic, most eye-rollingly cringey way to force people to pay compliments. 

This is not what I'm looking for, but I get it. Ever since I entered the possibly-someday-might-be-Mother-of-the-Groom realm, weddings have focused me like a laser on what the women in the front right pew of the church were wearing. Long dresses or tea length? Blingy or subdued? Hats or no hats? If you are, or may someday be, an MoG, you want to know the how's and why's of the dress code.

This is, after all, the sole responsibility of a MoG: You must show up clothed during the wedding. (I'm ignoring, of course, the other responsibilities delineated in "Wear beige and shut up," because as if.) 

Friends, I spent more hours in the six months between engagements and weddings fretting about what I would wear to those two weddings than I did deciding what I'd wear to my own wedding. (My mother's dress. Boom. Done.) Frankly, I spent more hours fretting about this than deciding who I'd marry at my own wedding, but that's a story for another day.

The first three months I worried about dress length. Then I worried about which color. Then I worried about relative gaudiness. I spent hour after hour Googling "Mother of the Groom Dress--Long" and completely borked my social media algorithms to the point that I never saw anything but shininess and cleavage on my FaceBook ads. (Rabbit trail: Are other Mothers of the Groom as interested in let-it-all-hang-out dresses as my ads were indicating we are? Because, huh. That day has passed for most of us, sisters.)

Anyway, in March Husband decided he'd had enough of hearing me bemoan my impending nudity at two church weddings. We were heading to a weekend with the grandsons (and their keepers) in the Big City and he suggested we stop at a mall on the way. I was not a fan, since I'm famously hard to fit off the rack, but whatever. I wasn't making any progress. 

People, I married a genius! We walked out of the mall with two dresses, one that was found for me by the same saleslady who found me my dream dress for the Boy#2/Lovely Girl#2 wedding five years ago, and a second dress that practically threw itself at me after I had tried on a variety of ill-suited (So. Many. Sequins.) and ill-fitting (So. Much. Cleavage.) options. 

But did I stop fretting? Of course not. The second dress, although I thought it was beautiful, was not really compatible with the color palate of the intended wedding, so I kept looking. I ordered dress after dress to hang on the doorway to the guest room, trying them on and sighing. 

Poor Husband learned to not give an opinion even when asked. 

(Flowered Dress)

Him: "What do I think? It definitely fits the idea of the wedding theme better than the first one. Would you be able to wear a shrug or something, since I know you're uncomfortable with bare arms? It's a real possibility. What do you think?

Me: "I HATE IT!" 

(Sequined Dress) 

Him: "What do I think? Well, I think you're beautiful no matter what you wear."

Me: "I HATE IT!"

(Chiffon Dress)

Him: "What do I think?.........How about going out for supper so you don't have to cook?"

Me: "Okay."

Not counting the dozen or so dresses I tried on in the mall, our mail carrier began to routinely drop off boxes from businesses that cater to mutton dressed as lamb. Finally, a random Amazon search was the surprise answer: The wrong-colored dress I loved at the mall was available in navy blue--and navy blue was the color of the men's tuxedoes! Woohooo! 

The Mother of the Groom at the final two Weddings of the Century was definitely not smokin' hot. Clothed and appropriate would be more suitable adjectives. But I loved both dresses, and was comfortable and celebratory for hours of hugs and dozens of pictures. Worrying about how I looked did not enter into my complete delight at the occasions.

Tepid and delighted are exactly what I wanted to be.

Perfectly Different, and Perfectly the Same

So how was June for you?

The residents and former residents of the House on the Corner had an unbeatably splendid June. Over the course of 15 days, the number of Lovely Girls who have committed themselves to our Boys doubled, leaving us to post the "Out of Stock" sign in the Unmarried Sons Market.

Scheduling two weddings and one international honeymoon over the span of three weekends would seem to be the height of insanity, but, oh Dear Reader(s), this was joy not just doubled--it was tripled and quadrupled and multiplied exponentially. 

When our final son was born, a well-meaning friend looked at the fourth of our big-headed, bald, bouncing boys and laughed. "You don't have babies, you have a series of clones," she told me. Post-partum me, who had known their diverse personalities with each kick, did not appreciate that assessment. I was more than a little miffed because I knew then what I know now:

They are the same, but they are different.

All of the Boys are funny and smart and kind. They are "competitive but not particularly athletic," as one rehearsal dinner toast described them. They are sensitive and discerning, and they do not suffer fools gladly. 

Also, they are different. Our Boys include extroverts and introverts. Thick-skinned and emotions-on-the-sleeve. Decisive and deliberative. 

But they have one indisputable trait in common: They all have chosen and been chosen by extraordinary women. All four have married women who resemble each other in the best of ways--funny and smart and kind, hard-working and beautiful, competitive and discerning. They're just the same except in the many ways they are different--extroverts and introverts, quiet and more exuberant, night owls and early birds. 

The two June weddings mirrored those same-but-different couples. Both ceremonies were set in historic stone churches with late-afternoon sunlight streaming through stained glass windows. Both couples chose traditional vows and held each other's hands as they promised to love, comfort, honor and keep each other in sickness and in health. At my request, both couples made my mother's favorite hymn part of their ceremony. 

The two events, though, were reflections of each of the couples. One was a Texas-sized celebration with a glow-stick-lit banger of a dance. The other was small, intimate, and all but a handful of the guests were related to the couple. That reception featured a jazz trio and a trivia game. 

They were, in other words, personal and perfect. 

At the final rehearsal dinner the three already-wed Lovely Girls chose seats next to each other. That didn't surprise me; I am humbled and grateful that they genuinely like each other so much. I was moved to tears, though, when each, in turn, welcomed their new sister-in-law on the eve of her wedding.

They know that marrying into our clan is not for the faint of heart, that four Boys can be, well, clannish.

But just look at the pictures at top of this post. Make note of the wide smiles, and the beauty of the day, and take particular note of the joy in those faces looked at each other. Their delight lit up the rooms. It was the same at the weddings of the first two Boys.

Our Boys love and are loved by loveliest of Lovely Girls. That's the only sameness that matters.

Chiefs Victory Celebration

 

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 bottle sabers to open what I am quite sure were celebratory bottles of 7-Up. 

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.

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.

"(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."

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. 

"Then they watched fireworks out the window."

Thank You. Amen.

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.

Let this child be healthy. Let this child be happy. Let this child be kind. Let this child be loved.

Let this child find someone with whom a life can be shared fully and joyfully. Please.

Allow me to introduce Lovely Girl #3, the answer to decades of this mother's prayers. 

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. 

I had prayed so hard for this moment.

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. 

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. 

But there was still one hurdle 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?

I shouldn't have worried. She may not be as noisy as many  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. 

And she loves my son.

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. 

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. 

I had been praying for her since he was born. 

Thank You. Amen.

Welcome to Where You Already Belonged

 

Boy#4, Husband, and my Younger Younger Brother have incessantly whined about occasionally pointed out an injustice of life: Their presence in the world is not nearly as documented as those of their older siblings. 

They may have a point.

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. 

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:

This is Lovely Girl#4!*

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.

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.

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.

But, oh, she was worth the wait. 

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. 

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. 

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."

Every phone call or visit home we speculated whether this would be the occasion for some kind of announcement. Spoiler: It never was.

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. 

Husband was the one who summed up our feelings when he texted her later though.

"It's great you're becoming part of our family, realizing you really are already."

Welcome, Lovely Girl#4.  We've been waiting for you. 

*I know--she's the third Lovely Girl to join the family, but she is partnered to Boy#4 so she becomes #4.

The Fall

 

My father had been angry with me when I left the farm the last time. 

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.

But aging, even for someone who is as amazing as my 96-year-old father, is inescapable. 

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. 

"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.

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.

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. 

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. 

"I love you, too," he said. "I'll get over it." 

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. 

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.

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. 

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.

We are in a different season.

Who? Me?

 

I have spelled my name out approximately eight gazillion ninety-eleven tantillion times in my life. 

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.

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. 

"See you soon, Betty Davies!" it gushed. "Your reservation for Mar-11-2023 has been confirmed!" 

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. 

So Husband, who was (shockingly) working on a tax return in the next room, heard my shriek:

"Oh, no! My credit card has been hacked!" 

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.

"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." 

Even though I had passed that exceedingly low test of tech savviness (no link clicking for me), I wasn't reassured.

So Husband put his phone on speaker and called the hotel number.

"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.

"Yes, we have that reservation, and it looks like...you're already checked in?"

That's when I shrieked the second time. 

"NO! I'm not checked in! That's me, and I'm in Kansas, and I'm not in a hotel in Mississippi!" 

The poor clerk was non-plussed. 

"But you used your credit card and checked in. And the room is paid for. And you're here." 

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?

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.

"Well," she speculated, "maybe there's just someone else out there named Betty Davies." 

I corrected her firmly.

"There's only one MomQueenBee, and that Bee is in Kansas in her nightgown at this very moment."

Bless her, the clerk told us she'd check into the issue and call us back.

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. 

"I checked her ID," she told Husband, "and it definitely matches the credit card."

Well, I'll be darned. The next morning Husband handed me a stack of papers printed out from one of those internet people searchers. 

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.

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: 

I am absolutely unique, just like everybody else.