Learning to Fly

"Move, little birdie," I uttered in vain as I drove the minivan carefully beside the baby bird who was perched in the middle of the road.

"Momma!" Daughter 1 cried out looking back at the birdie still in the middle of the road. "He's hurt!"

"I don't think so," I assured her. "He's just young as learning to fly."

"How do you know it's a he?" she argued.

"You just called it a he," I reminded her.

"Yeah, but, he might be hurt," she said still looking through the back window, rolling her eyes at my gender pronoun choice.

Despite my confidence that it was just a smallish bird who was on his first solo flight, I turned the van around.

"Are we going to get him?" she squealed as I pulled over beside the tiny winged thing who still had visible down on his body.

"No," I said. "We'll just help him get to the side."

We carefully approached the tiny thing and I snapped a picture. Daughter 1 giggled at the sight and then the birdie awkwardly took off flying into the wind. This is to say that he flapped his wings as if he were trying to power a small village and floated backward, finally landing with the tiniest of thuds in the still-green grass.

"Oh my gosh, Momma!" Daughter 1 continued her giggling. "You were right!" She sounded incredulous.

We darted to the spot in the grass to check on the little guy.

We determined after closer examination against the green lawn that he was probably a she. She was probably a cardinal. She was beautiful nonetheless. I named her Rosie the redbird. My camera clicked, Daughter 1 giggled, and Rosie took off again.

She flew longer and father and higher than before. Daughter 1 and I chased after her just in time for her to come chasing back at us, tweeting, as if she were saying, "Where are the brakes on this thing?" She battled the wind and twisted and turned before she landed in neighbor's decorative grass. Or weeds. Or garlic bed. Wherever.

We giggled some more, and she took off yet again, tweeting.

"I think she's telling us thanks for helping her learn to fly," Daughter 1 said as we walked back to the van, confident that the little bird wouldn't be sitting in the middle of the road any time soon.

"I think so too," I smiled.

"I still wish we could have taken her home," Daughter 1 sighed.

My mom, who was sitting in the van watching the shenanigans of her older daughter and oldest granddaughter said, "If you love something set it free..."

Because Daughter 1 is sorta a smart a$$ (no comments about genetics, y'all) interrupted her Nana and said, "Then I set my momma free."

"That's okay," I smiled, "I'll always come back to you."

Lessons From Shady Pines #526

A while back, my own momma moved from the rehab floor at our local hospital to a skilled nursing unit at a local nursing home. Her rehab is continuing at a very intense pace and she's making quite a bit of progress ... more progress than my sister and I initially imagined when she left the hospital after a month of physical and occupational therapy.

Remember The Golden Girls? Remember how Sophia--the oldest of the Golden Girls--would get a bit out of line and her daughter, Dorothy, would say, "Shady Pines, Ma!" as a threat to put Sophia into an old folks' home? I think that's how my mom feels ... like she's done something she shouldn't have and now this is her punishment. 

Even though she's making progress and recognizes the progress, the fact is that she's in a nursing home. This is the last place she ever wants or wanted to be. She's still picturing the sterile, white, personality-lacking nursing home of days of yore. The truth is that she's in a really nice facility with a super staff and it never smells like pee. But, because she doesn't want to be there and she has to be there, my sister and I and our families make every effort to visit with her whenever we can.

Through these visits, I've come to see some life lessons emerging through my interactions with the residents. These are lessons that speak loudly and clearly to me. They are begging me to write about them. So I am.

If You're Standing, You're Helping

With the help of my mom and a few others who are still mentally sharp, I've come to know some of the residents by name at Shady Pines. One of these is a former doctor in our small town. I remember he treated my dad for skin cancer when I was in first grade ... that's how old he is. He's wheel chair bound but can maneuver himself all over the facility with ease by walking his feet. When he's tired, he doubles over, places his head on his knees and sleeps. A lot of the time, he's in front of the television--directly in front of the television--and he's doubled over sawing logs.

When dinner time comes, the staff will gently wake him, if he's not racing around the facility, and help him to his table. Then, when they go to retrieve his food (he's on a special diet, so it can't just be left at his table), he'll whisk himself away yet again. The staff will help him back to his table yet again, and they'll leave him to his food. Then he'll wheel himself away yet again. This goes on for the entire dinner hour. Because of his aversion to eating or forgetfulness about what he's doing at the table, he must drink a special strawberry-flavored drink for nourishment and medication.

One particular dinnertime, my mom was finished, and we had moved from the dining room to the living room. My mom was positioning herself so I could sit in a chair, and we could visit. Before I could sit, the good doctor wheeled himself to me and handed me his strawberry drink.

"Why don't you take a few more sips?" I asked, handing him the drink. He obliged and handed the drink right back before quickly zooming to the television set and falling asleep.

I took the drink back to the dietary workers. They smiled and went to retrieve the doctor once again. As I walked back to my waiting mom, Another resident asked for help with her apron. Another asked me to button his shirt. Another needed me to pick up her tissues and another wanted me to push her back to her room. The staff there is great; let's be clear about that. But, the residents need constant help and things like removing a bib and picking up tissues will be dealt with after things like cleaning a patient and ensuring medication is taken.

Besides that, I could help, so why wouldn't I? I don't imagine that any of the residents said, "I hope I lose the ability to help myself so that someone will have to do for me the tiniest of tasks." But, that's the situation they are in, whether they know it or not.

So, while I can, I will be helpful--not just at Shady Pines, but wherever I find myself.

God is not unjust; he will not forget your work and the love you have shown him as you have helped his people and continue to help them. Hebrews 6:10

The Tall Man and Neighbors

I have a friend who has taught her little girl that "the tall man" never stands alone. Just the other day, this little girl, stood all of her fingers straight up from her hand and said, "Heaver?" (which is toddler-speak for Heather), "The tall man never stands alone."

This monkey let his tall man stand alone.  SOURCE

I didn't ask my friend why she had to teach this lesson to her pre-schooler, I just chuckled and assured the tiny tike that the tall man, indeed, never stands alone. And for a four-year-old? This is a valuable lesson.

This week, though, my tall man--actually, my tall men--stood alone. A lot. Behind the closed doors of my mother's house. I not only let my tall men stand alone, I let them do a little dance as well, and I accompanied their dance with some fancy lyrics that would have Tipper Gore slapping an explicit sticker across my mouth.

The thing is that I rarely--RARELY--actually flip someone off. Rarely.  It basically has no meaning. It doesn't make anyone or anything better. If anything, the bird only serves to exasperate any situation in which it is flipped. But, I was frustrated and there wasn't much I could do but let my tall man stand alone. So, I did.

Earlier in the week, a neighbor of my mother's left a note for me and my sister. I'm not going to give you details, but the note was nice enough. A few days later--Thursday morning at 3:16, to be exact, she left another note. But, if you ask the neighbor, she'll tell you she only left one. The handwriting was the same; when you teach composition for twenty years, you are a handwriting expert. The neighbor, when I confronted her got the content of both notes confused, but she only admitted to one.

In the second note, she became harassing and abusive, and she admitted to trespassing on my mom's property at 3:16 a.m.! My sister found the second note, got mad, let her tall man stand by himself pointed in the general direction of my mom's house, and then she called me. I decided to call the police.

Even with my frozen shoulder, I'm confident I could take the neighbor. Plus, my mom has a few really sweet, very supportive neighbors who'd chip in and help me if needed. They'd even let their tall men stand alone on our behalf.  I wasn't scared of her, but I wanted it on record that she'd trespassed and that she'd threatened us. After school, I went to my mom's.

I called the cops and said I wanted to speak to an officer. Then I waited. I got mad at the neighbor and my tall man stood alone. I got mad that the police were taking so long, so I let my tall man stand alone some more. Then, I thought I locked my keys in the car. My tall man stood alone more.

Finally, I decided to confront the neighbor. I was firm but respectful. I was honest and called her bluff. She was not comfortable with my presence at her front door. My tall man did not stand alone but mercy! He wanted to! Then, as I was basically telling her she had broken the law in so many ways, the police came to my mom's house.

But, it wasn't just any police man. It was a former student.

When I became a teacher, I adopted the philosophy of investment. If I wanted a return from my students, I'd have to invest in them. I go to sporting events, concerts, birthday parties. I know about their families, their friends, their hobbies, their passions. And, in return, they perform for me in the classroom. What I didn't understand when I became a teacher, was that the return of my investment didn't end  when they walked out of my classroom on the last day of school.

So, when Brandon stood in my mom's driveway and gave me a big hug, I was not only grateful that I'd invested in him as a sixth and a ninth grader, but that my neighbor was seeing just how well loved I was by an officer of the law.

I explained the situation to Brandon; he explained the law to me. We chatted about his new baby and his family and he promised to drive by mom's house and keep an eye on it.

My tall man? He won't be standing alone any time soon--I've got right on my side ... and I invested wisely as a young teacher.

Fleetwood Mac, Misti and Checking Out

Recently, my chick Misti and I had the privilege of speaking to a state-wide group of over one hundred moms. We were billed as--get this--the entertainment. We did not disappoint. Misti spoke very eloquently from her notes about Listen To Your Mother (you're coming, right?). I rambled in a nonsensical manner about peeing in the shower and painting with poop. But, ya know what? This shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone.

But, before we entertained the moms, Misti and I were treated to a lovely lunch. We were seated at a table with six of this organization's past state-presidents. We were seated at the fancy table, y'all.

Misti had a draining week; I was having a draining week month; it was good to take a break with Misti, eat our lunches and just be for a moment.

So, we be'ed. We chatted about our weeks, our loves, our show, our lives. Then, the conversation turned to Fleetwood Mac. They're going on tour this year, friends. (My birthday's in June--hint, hint.) Misti and I both posted the link to their tour on Facebook and updated our statuses to reveal that this news made us get good bumpy and pee our pants at the same time. So, as we sat at the table of dignitaries, we got caught up in imagining the awesomeness that will be the Fleetwood Mac concert.

It was at the point in our imaginings where Misti was simulating how she'd be ugly-crying through "Landslide," and I was pretending to holler out "Sing it again, Stevie!" that the past president on my right touched my arm and brought me back to reality.

"Do you two know each other?" she asked us.

Not true to either my form or Misti's, we answered honestly. "Yes."

It's good to check out every once in a while. It's good to pretend that you are at a Fleetwood Mac concert where Stevie Nicks is singing "Landslide" just to you while Lindsey Buckingham winks and then licks his lips while looking straight at you. (I don't care how old he is. He's one sexy man. Seriously, listen to this and tell me you don't lose your breath.)

It's good to check out with a great friend who not only lets you lose yourself in a moment, but follows right along with you so you don't get too lost.

But, the next time Misti and I lose ourselves in a moment, and we're so caught up in laughter and tears and playing pretend, and someone asks us if we know each other, we've got our answers ready ...

We missed Julie at our pretend Fleetwood Mac concert.

"Nope. Just met her over the dumpster out back."

"We're married to the same man."

"We did time together in the big house."

"Nope, but we shared a room at the Holiday Inn Express last night."

"We met on our home planet."

"We worked the pole together last night."

"We once toured with Fleetwood Mac."

My Life As Shaved Turkey Breast

When I eat a sandwich, I eat the crust area and outter edges  first. I'm a lazy sandwich maker, I don't spread the mayo to the edges and I just squirt the mustard in a circle. Sometimes in a smiley face if I'm feeling particularly saucy. So, I eat the edges first because they are the less. They are the least good part of a sandwich. And, my method pays off when I pop that last bite in my mouth. The last bite that has the mound of turkey and mayo and smeared mustard, lettuce and onion and possibly pickle. It's so much better than the edge.

Source

Lately, my friends, I've been on the edge. Truly.

Today, a friend of mine said, "I don't know how you're doing it all."

I looked her right in the eye and said, "I don't either."

We are in the throws of softball. I wanna be there to watch every yellow ball that sails into Daughter 2's glove or from her hand or off her bat. But, I can't.

Golf. My goodness. I found out today that Daughter 1 has a golf-team nickname: Scary Spice. I've never once seen her play. I'd love to watch her tee off from every box. But, I can't.

My mom just moved today into a skilled nursing facility. I know she's nervous about what her future holds. Me, too, Mom; me, too. I want to reassure her--and I do. I want to help her. But, I can't.

Tomorrow, we'll pick one kid up from a sleepover, visit one displaced Mom and Nana, watch one kid play softball and somewhere in the in between times, I'll try to find my way to being the middle of the sandwich--full of all the flavor and all the tastes, where the shaved turkey breast is stacked highest.

Right now? Right now, though, I'm the edge. I'm looking for the balance and fullness and fairness of the middle bite.

Sandwich generation, indeed.

"It's been one week ..."

(Are you singing Bare Naked Ladies now? Catchy little tune, isn't it?)

Last week at this time, my sister called me and said our mom had a stroke. My sister had heard it on the emergency scanner as our 75-year-old momma had called the ambulance herself. She couldn't get her thumb coordinated enough to call my sister or me, so she called 9-1-1. Good momma.

We have quite a history of strokes in our family. My daddy had his first heart-attack when I was just 7 years old. I know that a heart-attack is different than a stroke, but often times they go hand-in-hand, as was the case with my daddy, who after 24 years of poor health, an additional heart attack and two (possibly three) strokes, died after a massive heart attack followed by a massive stroke (or vice versa). My dad doesn't actually remember having any of his strokes. My mom, however, had the wherewithal to know that she was actually having a stroke at that moment. That's what's so weird about strokes. Like snowflakes, no two are alike. And, while heart attacks are not "easy" I know that strokes are game-changers. Your life should change when you have a heart attack. Your life MUST change when you have a stroke. Must.

My mom never lost her speech and her cognition was probably better than it had been in years. (I'm only kinda kidding about that. Her neurologist was amazed--AMAZED--that she was awake, coherent and speaking. Her right side, however, is paralyzed. This warranted her team of doctors to say she had to go to rehab. She did not say  no, no, no, though.

(Are you now singing Amy Winehouse? She should have listened to them, huh?)

And here we are a week later. My mom in rehab, plugging away trying to awaken her body enough to cooperate with her mind again.

During rehab hours, which is from sun-up until 4:30, she does rehab. When my dad was doing rehab, visitors weren't allowed. Now, they are allowed, but I get the distinct feeling that they aren't encouraged. And I'm okay with that. I think she'll work harder if she doesn't see me or my sister or her granddaughters or her sons-in-law looking at her with sympathy on their faces. I think she'll concentrate more on getting her body to do what it was made to do if she had tough therapists who are making her do it.

So, where's that leave us?

I'm back at school. The Daughters are back at school. Brian's back at school. My sister is taking care of my mom's bsuiness--whatever needs to be paid, signed, unsigned, whatever. Daughter 1 is having her first golf tournament on Wednesday; Daughter 2 is in the midst of softball. In the off-times, we work on cleaning up my mom's house. Life is moving on and just as busy as it ever was.

I think that's what bothers me the most. I've always--always--be able to do it all. Always. And I like being able to do it all. I'm finding now, though, that it's incredible hard ... I'd go with impossible, but I don't like that word one bit. My time is literally limited with my own momma. I can see her after 4:30. I guess I could move into her room with her and stay the night, but I know that none of us wants that.

So, one week after my own momma called her own ambulance, I sit once again at the computer and contemplate the ways in which all of our lives have changed and wonder about the best way to to what I have to do. It's good to sit down every once in a while and reevaluate those things you do in your life: Are they important still? Is this working? What can be done differently? Has your time with this come to an end? I just wish it hadn't been a stroke that forced my reevaluation at this time.

This is obviously a different post than I normally right, huh? I'm not sure I'll hit publish. If I do, and you're reading this, you know that I'm seeking your prayers and thoughts for my entire family as we learn to play this new hand.  

$25 Thrift Store Challenge

I love thrift stores--particularly, I love Goodwill. I know they have some practices that are not always in the best interests of everyone (I feel your pain, Africa), but I do love a good Goodwill store. (Say that three times fast.)

The Daughters? They love Goodwill as well. Mostly they love to go in to Goodwill and beg me to buy them every single stuffed animal on the twenty-five cent stuffed animal shelf.

"But momma, he needs a home."

So, when Oklahoma Women Bloggers (those are some good women, y'all) issued a $25 Thrift Store Challenge, I was on it like a tag-poppin' rapper.

I, however, put a twist on it. (Did you expect anything less?) I told The Daughters that they each had $25 to spend. They could not buy $25 worth of stuffed animals. They could not even buy twenty-five cents' worth of stuffed animals. They would, instead, buy one school-appropriate outfit and anything else they wanted as long as they didn't go over $25. They were so excited.

Since my own momma's birthday party was coming up, I decided my shopping would involve decorations or party supplies.

Upon entering the store on that very, very rainy day, Daughter 2's shoe immediately broke. She threw her shoes in the trash (No, I'm not kidding!), and went the rest of our shopping extravaganza barefooted (Yes, she did!) and no one even noticed--she fit right in.

She knew exactly what she wanted: Whatever was on the mannequin. So, while Daughter 1 carefully flipped through every single pair of jeans in her size, I undressed mannequins for Daughter 2.

With her arms loaded down with clothes that would make her look like a model, Daughter 2 entered the dressing room, where she erroneously assumed we couldn't hear her belting out a medley of Macklemore's "Thrift Stop," Bridgit Mendler's "Blonde," and Chris Thomlinson's "Awakening." It was like a very schzophrenic Vegas show.

Daughter 1, upon finding what she was looking for, took to the dressing room with one pair of jeans, one shirt and one dress. She left the dressing room five minutes later and declared she had finished shopping. She shops like her momma.

Since Daughter 2 was still trying things on, we retreated to their housewares department where I picked up three candy bowls, two serving plates and a vase for my own momma's birthday part. I conversed with another shopper who complained about parents allowing their kids to sing and be obnoxious like that while out in public. I nodded my head and said, "I know it!" a lot.

Forty-five minutes and a strange vocal rendition of "The Star Spangled Banner" which morphed into Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" later, Daughter 2 emerged victorious with a leopard print dress, a shirt, a jean jacket and a skirt.

The Daughters each picked out a necklace that would be perfect for their new outfits and then we checked out. I figured we had gone over the $50 limit--especially with my party purchases, but I was pleasantly surprised to find several items half price. We made it out only owing $49.29.

Here are our steals:

Jacket, blouse, skirt and necklace.
She wore it all for picture day.
I'm hoping we got that crazy smile for picture day, too.

Leopard print dress.
Those shoes. Um ... she didn't buy those.
Ahem ... not sure where those came from [blushing]

Jeans, top and necklace.
She was so over pics by this point, I wasn't going to beg for more.

Gasp! A dress! RIGHT?!?!  And she wore it! 

Two plates and two serving bowls--I spray painted the blue plate.
I may be addicted to spray paint.

The vase.
The jars were provided by The Domestic Artiste--she's got my back.

What was your last great shopping steal?

When The Older Generation Tries To Take Selfies

On Saturday, we had a shindig for my momma's big birthday. Almost all of her extended family family was there. We had a lot of old friends show up--and I'm not saying old because they are. And she had a great couple of hours visiting with people she went to school with, family we don't see nearly enough and friends who just love to share in our every day life. It was a wonderful day all around.

My Aunt Kay drove up on Friday from Dallas. She and my mom and their friend Connie had a hotel room and apparently stayed up all night drinking cigarettes and smoking cheap booze while singing their high school fight song and alma mater until they passed out. Or something like that.

My Aunt Kay and Connie are quite a bit younger than my own momma. In fact, my grandmother thought she had a tumor in her belly and had an x-ray done just two months before my Aunt Kay was born. It was at that time that she found out she was pregnant yet again ... just ten short years after her last pregnancy.

As we waited for the party to really get started, my Aunt Kay and my own momma decided to take a couple of selfies. My own momma is still learning how to work her phone so my Aunt Kay said she'd take the selfie and then send it to my own momma. Not that my own momma would be able to retrieve it.

Notice that my Aunt Kay is not looking at the camera but at me.
It's because she could see me better than the camera.

My sister and I giggled at them trying to take the selfie because, from where we were standing, it didn't appear that they were doing much picture taking. 

Finally, my aunt just asked me to take the picture.

"I can't get close enough," she said as if she were a twelve-year-old looking to update her Facebook profile pic, "without putting on my glasses."

And ... that's the real reason why you don't see many selfies of people over 45.

Creating A Monster

My own momma needed a new phone. Her phone was a little over two years old and was a flip phone. A flip phone, y'all. She could call on it only--can you imagine? A phone that you could only use to place a call? She could have texted, but having to hit the 3-button twice to get an E was a little more technologically advanced than my own momma could handle. That and she used to sign up to get her horoscope online and that would charge her phone a gazillion dollars a month, so my sister and I had the texting package turned completely off. My own momma thought that was just one step away from the old folks' home ... but it was for her own good. Don't call human services. Yet.

 My Own Momma's toilet water? Not so recycled...
Source

Well, Friday night, my own momma dropped her circa 2002 flip phone down the commode. Down the crapper. She was literally up ... or down ... sh!t creek. She knew what to do because she reads Facebook religiously, and she fished that phone out and stuck it in her rice container. (Note: Do not eat the rice at my own momma's house.) The rice didn't work. So, she came to us.

She knew better than to go to my sister with this problem. My sister would have put her in the home or would have gotten her a firefly phone with dialing out privileges to only a very few people--my sister not included. So, she came to us.

Brian is very skilled in dealing with a certain phone company whose initials are AT&T; I know what my own momma would and wouldn't like in a phone (basically, she wanted to text, to call, to check the weather and listen to any police scanner in the world); My Own Momma just wanted a phone that hadn't been in the toilet. So, we set out to our local store.

Long story short--too late, I know--and three phone stores later, my own momma had a new phone, a texting plan and a data plan, all for just a few dollars more than she was paying for her one-trick pony, um, phone. She also had a pretty purple cover, a screen guard, an extra memory card, and a stylus. What more could an almost-75-year-old woman want in a phone?

The first order of business was to text my sister and let her know that she was moving up in the world. After about seven minutes, give or take a half hour, we figured out how to text, and we discovered that it had a talk-to-text option. That, my friends, is that route that led to my own momma's very first text to my sister:

My own momma: So, just press this microphone button?

Me: Yes.

My own momma: And it will go straight to your sister and no one else?

Me: After we press the send button, yes.

My own momma: Okay. Here we go [presses microphone button]

And this, my friends, is the complete text of my own momma's very first text message:

Guess what I'm doing. Guess what I've got. Oh wow! It's typing as I'm speaking. Why did it say as I'm  spackling? Heather. It's not saying what I am saying. Oh wait. Now it is. Did I send it? It says Guess what I'm doing. Guess what I've got. Oh wow! It's typing as I'm spackling. It says guess what I'm doing. Guess what I've got. Now it's just going crazy. Why did it say I'm spackling. It's still wrong. Wait. Now it's just on an endless loop typing the same thing over and over. Oh wait. Now it typed what I said. Oh my goodness. Did I send it yet? It typed did I send it yet. It typed did I send it yet again. I don't think it's working right. No, I don't think it's working right. It's not sending it. Why are you laughing? I can't understand you, Heather. What do I do to send it? Press send? Do I need to press pause? What does pause do? Does it pause my text message? So, just press send. Where's send? But will it send this whole thing? I just want a text that says guess what I got. I got a new phone. Call me. Oh wait. It did type that. It's right there. This phone is a smart phone. How wonderful. Well, tell me where the send button is and then show me how to use the scanner. [presses pause button then send]

My sister's not speaking to me any more.

Stuck In The Middle

There are lots of thoughts and comments and views on the Sandwich Generation--you know, those of us who have aging parents who require our attention and children still at home who require our attention. We're stuck in the middle. One the one hand, it's a pleasant place to be with three generations able to be close enough to learn from each other and know each other's stories. On the other hand, there's not enough sangria in the world.

Conversation of the Week

My own momma and I, leaving the theater after seeing Les Miserables.

Tossing The Brownies

My aunt threatened to spank me yesterday. Oh yes she did. What? You're lost? Let me start from the beginning.

This weekend, we celebrated Christmas with my own momma's family. She has two brothers and one sister. They each have two children. Each of those children has a significant other except for one. Each of those children also has two children except for two of them who have three children each and one who has four children. Oh for heaven's sake. What am I doing here? Writing a math problem?! Well, math was my friend this weekend. But, the point is when we all get together, we have a lot of people. And if each family brings two dishes to our Christmas potluck, we have a lot of food.

An explanation

My momma complains that every time someone points a camera in my direction, I make a face.  She's right.  Long after I'm gone, my great, great grandchildren will see the pictures of me with my eyes crossed and my tongue out and my lip snarled and will think what a hoot I must have been.  Or they'll think that I was not right in the head and they'll pray that the affliction from which great, great grandmomma suffered was not hereditary. Either way, I will be remembered.

I try to take better pictures for my momma.  But I really feel like it's not in my genetic make-up to take a nice picture.  

This weekend, I actually acquired photographic proof that I am just not made to take a serious picture.

My uncle John married his blushing bride 50 years ago.  All of the family gathered to celebrate their bedded wiss wedded bliss at their home church.  As my aunt Liz was making her way around the room greeting those who came to wish her well, she came upon two of her sisters-in-law:  my own momma and my fabulous Aunt Kay.  

Aunt Liz's older son, Larry said, "That's a great pic right there."  He pulled out his camera, as did I and my cousin Courtney, Aunt Kay's daughter.  

"Say cheese," one of us called out and this was picture we got:

Aunt Kay, on the left, strikes some kind of pose that Madonna wouldn't even sing about.  Aunt Liz, in the center, apparently thought that was the best time to start a conversation with someone who's not in the picture.  And my own momma, on the right, smiles while still wearing her sunglasses, circa 1986, because she thinks they make her "look like Raquel Welch."

Raquel Welch = My Own Momma.
Uh-huh.
Source

Seriously,  doesn't make this seem so bad.

Now we know that I come by it honestly.

Conversation of the Week

My own momma, my sister and My 2-year-old Niece  were over keeping me company after my life-changing surgery last week.  (What?  It was life-changing!)  My mom and my sister had been asking me if I were OK... apparently so much that My 2-year-old Niece was feeling neglected.

My Niece:  Nana, Nana, Nana, Nana, Nana, Nana, Nana, Nana, Nana, Nana, Nana, Nana.

My own momma:  What, honey?

My Niece:  I'm fine.

{laughter from all three of the grown ups in the room}

My Niece:  Oh!  I'm a funny girl!

1986? I found your geese...

My own momma is not a hoarder.

I only say that because she told me to stop calling her a hoarder.  When compared to those who are featured on the TV show Hoarders, my own momma's not quite there. Yet.  She's pretty darned close though.  If she only had a cat and if she only kept the used liter...  (Really, I saw that on one of the episodes!)