An open letter to the lady (lower case “L”) in the white Mercedes convertible driving on Main Street at around 11:00am today:

Dear lady,

It is 4th of July weekend.  I get this.  People have the day off and there’s lots to do.  Like gettin’ your hair bleached.  Or gettin’ your nails done, for things, you know… like flippin’ people off.  An’ there’s booze to buy, too.  You know, for your pah-ty.

I’m just not sure if you know that there are other people on the roads.

I’ll try to explain.  Real slow-like.  So you un-da-stand.

Main Street is, well, a main street.  Lots of stores.  Lots of side streets.  Lots of automobiles (that would be “cars”).  Lots of people in these “cars.”  The speed limit on this main street is 25 mph (that would be “miles per hour.”)  So when you’re drivin’, oh, about 40-50 mph, you might not be able to decelerate (that would be “slow down”) in enough time for some other person in her car to safely merge (that would be “blend together” in traffic) from a side street.  And if you happen to accelerate (that would be “speed up”) just so that person cannot merge in time, just so you can tear-ass into that liquah store parkin’ lot 5 seconds soonah… well, there is the potential for a problem.

Maybe if your radio was turned down a notch or two, you could concentrate (that would be “pay attention”) bettah to your surroundin’s.  Now, I know you’re old enough to drive.  And to buy booze. And I’m sure you’ve been drivin’ and buyin’ booze for some time, because, well… I was close enough to see not only your middle fingah in its upright position when you flipped me off, but I could also see beyond your giant golden laced D&G sunglasses. You might want to get a bigger pair.  Of sunglasses, that is.  Because your other pair was big enough to bust (no pun intended… and I won’t even bother defining the word “pun”) a move on your steering wheel.

Or, maybe you could send someone else out to do your errands.  That might be safer.  But then again, how can someone else get your hair and nails done so, so, so… 80’s?  Silly me.  And oh, I did notice as I narrowly escaped death that your license plate is one of those super low initial and number plates that used to be so populah in the littlest state in the union.  Just wonderin’.  Is your husband or boyfriend a politician or judge or lawyah or somethin’?

But anyways.  Like I said, it’s 4th of July weekend.  On this special day way back in 1776, the remarkable document known as the Declaration of Independence was approved by the Continental Congress.  The 13 colonies were on the road to great freedoms.  Including, eventually, freedom of expression.  Some argue that your middle finger “expression” is “protected” expression.  Hmmm.  Somehow I kinda think you’ve done this before, many times, and that you’ve not given this expression/freedom much thought.  So I will give you mine.  Thought, that is.  In a town filled with people, including children, on a beautiful July morning on Main Street USA, your reckless driving was trumped only by your crass and distasteful gesture/behavior.  Translation:  although flipping the bird with your manicured nail is not quite illegal, it is impudent (that, my dear, would be unladylike).

Happy 4th of July to each of us… with each of our great freedoms!

Sincerely,

The Lady in the silver Pilot

I got that call on Saturday evening that no child wants.  It was my mom, who is 84, on the other end of the phone telling me that she had stomach pains all day that had worsened as night came.  My mom is a tiny little lady with an incredibly high tolerance to pain.  I knew this pain was serious.

It was 8:00 pm.  I put in a call to her physician’s emergency line, but already knew that an over-the-phone diagnosis was not only impractical and improbable… but impossible.  My mom lives about 10 minutes from me, so I made the decision to pick her up and bring her to the ER of our local hospital.  My mom was not happy about this, but there was no other recourse.

We arrived at the ER at around 9:00 pm.

We left at 8:30 the next morning.

The in-between consisted of waiting.  Blood pressure testing.  Oxygen level testing.  Temperature readings.  Blood work.  Chest x-ray.  Electrocardiogram.  CAT scan.  IV’s. Sample varieties.  More waiting.  My mom has a hernia that she absolutely hates, and I certainly understand why.  It is irritating and annoying and it interferes with the fit of her clothing.  My mom is a fashionista, even at 84… and she is very self-conscious of what she perceives to be something huge.  In truth, it is not visible to the observer, but she still finds the hernia very “visible.”  I get it.  But it has not, until now, given her pain.  Pain is what her physician is concerned about.  Pain is what brought us to the ER.

The 12 hours of waiting and tests seemed endless… but the worry trumped it all.  I held my mom’s hand each time a new procedure came along.  I helped her get undressed.  I folded her clothing neatly, as she asked me to.  I watched her sleep as I kept vigil.  I am my mom’s ears and eyes in situations like this, and I took note of everything everyone said.  The receptionists and technicians and nurses and doctors and the surgeon who was called in to consult were all kind and caring and patient and wonderful.  I kept myself awake and together throughout the long night.

But it was my mom’s little shoes that got to me.  One of the nurses had taken them off and placed them in a basket under her bed.  Each time I caught a glimpse of them, I felt like crying.  I was with my mom when she bought them.  They are little brown leather Naturalizers… and she loves them for their comfort.  They slip on and off easily, and she can wear them year ’round.  But what my mom really loves is high heels.  My mom has a collection of high heels in every color.  They are lined up so neatly in her closet, but she cannot wear them anymore.  She doesn’t have the stability or balance.  I got my love of high heels from my mom.  My childhood memories start at my mom’s feet.  She loved to dance.  I loved to watch her shoes as she danced.  I still hear the sounds of her click-click-click high heels clicking along the sidewalk as she held my hand.  I remember putting on her shoes and click-clicking around my house to her laughter.  My mom loved to color coordinate everything, especially down to the shoes.

It’s the little brown shoes that tell me that everything is different now.

With the sunrise on Sunday morning, we were sent home with instructions to see my mom’s physician, consult a surgeon, stay on a liquid diet for a couple of days and take medication for pain.  Oh, and an infection that needed antibiotics.

I helped my mom get dressed.  I combed her hair.  I gathered her purse and instructions.  I thanked the nurses who had been so very kind.  Then I got my mom’s shoes from that basket under her bed.  I choked back tears as I helped her slip them on.  But at the same time, my mom looked at those little brown shoes and said, “Thank God for these shoes.  At least I can walk out of here.”

Touche, Mom.  I guess the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Except for the click-click-clicking.

I feel I must begin this post with the words, “If anyone ever told me…”

Because “if anyone ever told me” 8 years ago today that 8 years later I would be wondrously in love with 4 little boys who would come from the marriage of Audrey and Matthew… well, I probably wouldn’t have believed those “anyones” anyway.

8 years ago today, Audrey and Matthew were married on what would be the hottest day of the entire summer in Rhode Island.  But that didn’t matter.  The sky was blue.  The flowers were in bloom.  Music and laughter and joy was in the air.  People had come from far and near to share this special day, this special ceremony, this special couple, their lives and their future.

Their future would include, in 8 years, 4 children.  4 boys.  4 beautiful little blessings.

Today, I accompanied Audrey to her pool club with William (4), Alexander (3), Benjamin (2) and Henry (1).  I couldn’t stop looking at these little guys and thinking of the miracle of each of them.  In 8 years.

And it just so happens that Audrey’s pool club is the very same one that we belonged to when my kids were kids.  This photo is Audrey at age 6.

I don’t remember ever feeling as full of life… the full circle… as I do today on Audrey and Matthew’s anniversary.  The past, the present and the future is all wrapped up in this magnificent little circle, and I feel extraordinarily blessed to be a part of it.  I feel extraordinarily whole on this most special day.

I think this is why we have special days.  Special days of celebration.  These days give us reminiscences and recollections to embrace as we take a step toward more special days and more memories that have yet to be shaped.  These days bring the great, great joy.

Centuries ago, Martin Luther wrote, “There is no more lovely, friendly and charming relationship, communion or company than a good marriage.”  Audrey and Matthew are greatly blessed that these words describe their marriage… and I am going to add just a few more words… “and 4 precious little boys.”

I love you, all my little darlings.  HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, AUDREY & MATTHEW!!

On Friday evening, June 26th, Barry and I attended the wedding of a daughter of our cherished friends, Dave and Ellen.

We go way back.

I first met the bride, Jessica, when she was… oh, maybe 2 or so.  Ellen was calmly getting Jessica and her twin brother, *Paul, ready for swimming lessons at our local YMCA while their older sister, Alicia, sat so beautifully and read books on the ladies’ room bench.  I was not-so-calmly getting Audrey ready for the same class.  I remember, so vividly, Ellen’s serenity in comparison to my franticity (is this a word?).

(*I reminded Paul at his sister’s wedding that I once saw him naked… and his immediate response, in front of many guests, was, “Oh, that’s right, Sharon.  Last week.”  You got me, Paul!).

Our family paths would cross even more-so as Jessica and Audrey became teammates on the Barrington Printing Minor League Softball Team, where Dave was the coach and Barry the co-coach.  By then, the girls were about 7 or 8 years old.  I don’t think I have ever had more fun in my life than I did at those many, many nights of softball games… me with my opinions and ideas, suggestions and game strategies, and Dave with his, “Hey, Barry, reign in your wife, will ya?!”

And it got even better.  By then, Dave and Ellen had another daughter, Tara, and we had Jane.  Tara and Jane would go on to play softball, too… with Dave and Barry as their coaches.  Me… same opinions, ideas, suggestions, strategies.  Dave… same calm, fun, generous, loving man and dad and coach.

Dave and Barry also have a professional relationship, and this means that I see Dave often.  I have for years.  And Dave never lets us forget that the score is 9 to 0.  In grandchildren, that is.  According to Dave, Jessica and her husband, Jason, had better change that score!

I heard from Dave wonderful details of Jessica’s wedding to her fiance, Jason, as the plans rolled along.  Love, excitement, wonder, happiness and joy was in the air.  Then, just 6 weeks before the wedding, Ellen was rushed to surgery.  Open heart surgery.  An 11-hour surgery, where Ellen’s very life hung in balance.  It was like silence in the world.  Moment to moment.  Hour to hour.  Then day to day.

Ellen fought valiantly.

On Friday evening, at her daughter’s wedding, Ellen… escorted by her son Paul… walked that glorious walk down the center aisle of the outdoor ceremony.

I have cried at weddings before.  At seeing the bride.  Her dad.  Or a very special escort.  But I have never cried at watching the mother-of-the-bride… until on this glorious day.  The joy was so great, so strong, so powerful, so blessed that the dark, ominous rainclouds parted in the sky and rays of light shone through.  This is the truth.  And as the beautiful bride, Jessica, and her dad came into view… well, there was joy to the sky and beyond.  And I know there was divine intervention because immediately after the outdoor ceremony, lightning ripped across the sky and a cleansing, good-luck rain sprinkled the ground below our feet.  The party moved inside the elegant Kinney Bungalow at Sunset Farm.

The rest of the night was one to remember.  Glorious sun.  A little more rain.  A magnificent sunset to honor the bride and groom and the farm itself.  And dancing.  Joy.  Happiness.  Warmth.  Wonder.  Blessings.

Time stood still at Jessica and Jason’s wedding.  And all was well with the world.  Everything was exactly as it should be.  A beautiful tapestry of colors and laughter and emotions.  The swirl of life itself.

And I will never forget that one glorious walk.  One gloriously beautiful mom.  One glorious wedding day.

The sun’s been peeking through the clouds here in New England… at least enough for swimming lessons in semi-frigid waters.

Ah…

And it was on the way home from “the pool” today that I learned a new word from one of my grandsons.

DIVINGSAUR.

Swimming lessons include a modified/assisted “jump” off the diving board, and Audrey’s 3-year old, Alexander, asked both William (4) and Benjamin (2) if they liked jumping off the DIVINGSAUR.

It’s gotta be the cutest thing I’ve heard in many a summer!

I am not particularly picky about food.  I like what I like, and I tend to like healthy food selections, but I’ll try just about anything.

But there are some things that I love.  Like pecan pie.

Well, I loved pecan pie.  Until today.  This is why.

I was craving a nice piece of pecan pie, and there is this little place kind-of near my house that has superb pecan pie.  Let’s put it this way… it’s worth the drive.  I ordered my lone piece of pie at the take-out counter.  The lady behind the counter cut me a nice slice from an almost-whole pie as she asked if I wanted it with whipped cream.

“No, thanks,” I answered.

She put the pie slice on the counter and reached for a take-out container.

Someone behind me ordered something.  The take-out lady asked a question about the order.  I don’t remember what the order was because my mind went blank and my taste buds wilted as a big bubble of spit flew from the take-out lady’s mouth and landed on my naked pecan pie.

I stared at the bubble of spit as it disappeared into my pie.

All of my senses ceased.  I didn’t hear the snap of the take-out container or the normally friendly sound of the paper bag my order went into.  I couldn’t feel my fingers handing over the money.  I couldn’t smell the delectable aromas that envelop the restaurant.  I couldn’t see beyond that bubble of spit that melted into the pecan pie that sat inside the container inside the paper bag.

I couldn’t speak when the take-out lady handed me the bag.  I simply took it, walked to my car, drove home, walked to my trash bin and threw the take-out bag away.

I don’t think I will ever be able to eat a piece of pecan pie again.  Ever.

Am I being overly dramatic?

We all know, and we’ve all heard, the stories of grandparents and how they actually think they can “spoil” their grandchildren in any way, shape, time or fashion.

Who do they think they are, anyway?

(Oh, wait.  That’s right.  I am one.)

And I’m of the not-so-humble and categoric grandparent opinion that the rite of passage into grandparenthood does allow me to cross any line… invisible or otherwise.

Which brings me to this morning.  Benjamin.  And a bottle.

Audrey came to my house at around 7:00 am with Benjamin and Henry.  Her other guys were with their dad, and she knew we could squeeze in some quality work time before 9 or 10:00.  We did.  At about 10:00, Henry needed a little nap, so Audrey put him in his pack-’n-play while she attended to some important phone calls.  That left me alone with Benjamin, and the first thing he wanted to do was open the kitchen drawer where I keep my spatulas and cooking spoons.  Of course, we did.  But way in the back of that drawer Benjamin spotted something.  Something from his past.  Something taboo, shall we say.

“Look, Grandma.  A bottle,” he said, with wide eyes.

“Oh.  A bottle,” I answered.

“And a nipple,” he correctly assessed.

“Ah.  A nipple,” I agreed.

Then Benjamin looked at me with his big blue eyes and asked, “Can I have a bah-bah?”  It nearly broke my heart that he called this thing a “bottle”… but the act of having one became “bah-bah.”

I melted into the oceans that are his eyes and said, “You know Mommy and Daddy would say ‘no’.”

“Pleeeassse, Grandma,” he whispered… like Mommy or Daddy would be bounding around the corner at any moment and end this fantasy.

I hesitated for a moment.  And in that moment I remembered that Audrey and Matt had allowed Benjamin his bah-bahs until he turned 2 years old (in April) because he is only 14 months older than his little brother Henry… and Henry used bottles.  A few weeks ago, Audrey and Matt “weaned” Benjamin to sippy cups.  It wasn’t an easy transition.

But then I looked into Benjamin’s eyes again and I found myself saying, “Yes.”

‘Cuz I am a grandma.  And I can say “yes” to “no” things.  (I will admit that I felt a twinge of “oh,oh” but that didn’t stop me.)

I took the bottle, screwed in all the right pieces, filled it with milk, added the nipple and handed it to Benjamin.  He said, “Thank you,” and immediately took it to my family room… and this is what I found:

Benjamin soon asked for more milk, and I accommodated this request, too.  I had fallen deeply and hopelessly into those beautiful eyes.

When Audrey came into the room, she screeched to a halt at the sight of Benjamin sprawled across Pop-up’s chair with a bah-bah.  “WHAT?” she asked.

I had but 3 words.  “‘Cuz I can.”

Period.

It’s been rainy and cloudy and misty and drizzly and damp in New England.  I think we’ve even broken records for consecutive rain days and/or low temperatures.

But anyway.

Everything is green and lush and brilliant and alive.

Which brings me to my point, here.  We’re only given a certain amount of words to use in our lifetimes.  These words are gifts.  They are priceless gifts.  Why waste even one syllable of these words on complaints about the weather?  Weather is one thing we cannot change… but must we let it change us?

I do understand that weather conditions may impact an outdoor activity.  Or even getting to an indoor activity.  I understand that varying weather patterns control modes of transportation.  I know that weather controls kids’ summer activities and lessons.  I woke up this morning and peeked out my bedroom window only to discover that the rain will probably cancel my grandkids’ swimming lessons… much anticipated lessons.

But getting back to words.  Take the 2 or 10 or 100 words that you would use today to reference the weather and say something kind or funny or loving or happy to someone.  Anyone.  Your child.  A waitress.  A cashier.  Your mom or dad.  Your spouse.  A friend.  A passerby.

The best part is that these words will impact your recipient more than all the weather in the world, combined.  You only get so many words to use… so use them well.  Your words are your gifts to the world.

Late yesterday afternoon, Audrey called and asked if I could go for a little ride with her and stay with the kids in the car while she popped quickly into a couple of places.

It was raining.  The kids were antsy.  And Audrey was trying to avoid that dreaded unbuckle the seat belts, etc. for little chores like CVS, the bank and the post office.

No problem.  Audrey picked me up at my house and I hopped into her car.

OK.  Problem.

She had Alex, Benjamin and Henry with her.  And they were all crying.  Alex wanted to get out at my house and play NickJr. on my computer.  Benjamin was crying because he wanted to “go in Grandma’s house.”  And Henry was crying because, well… he thought it was the thing to be doing.  I hopped into the back of Audrey’s caravan-type-car and began the entertainment portion of the trip.  Audrey had two books in the car, one about whales and one about panda bears.  I distributed them.

Problem.

Benjamin wanted the whale book that I had given to Alex.  Alex was happy with the whale book.  Henry wanted a book.

I know that Henry loves my Blackberry and its orange protector cover… and although I very rarely give in, I made sure it was locked and then handed it to him.  He stopped crying.  But then Benjamin wanted my phone.

Henry quickly removed the orange cover, so I snuck it from him and gave that to Benjamin.  Benjamin seemed satisfied with the orange cover.  Then I began to read the whale book to Alex.

All was OK.  Audrey ran into CVS, then to the bank.

While at the bank parking lot, still reading to Alex, I realized that both Benjamin and Henry were very quiet.  Benjamin had picked up the koala bear book and was flipping through the pages.  Perfect.

Henry was staring at my phone.  Like… a this phone looks different kind of look.  I looked at my phone and saw that he had somehow unlocked it and what had he dialed?  EMERGENCY.

NOT SO PERFECT.

I immediately pressed disconnect and hoped that the call had not actually gone through.

It had.

Unknown Number was calling.  I answered it.  “Hello?”

“This is your 911 operator.  What’s the nature of your emergency?”

“No.  There is no emergency. I’m so sorry.  My grandson dialed from my phone.”  I didn’t say that I let him use my phone as a toy.

“Are you sure, m’am, that there’s no emergency?”  I know how important it is for the operator to be assured that I am not just saying this…

“No.  Really.  No emergency. I am just embarrassed to have bothered you.”

“No bother.  I just want to make sure there is no emergency.”

“No.  I am so very sorry,” I apologized.

“Don’t be sorry.  I am happy there is no emergency.”

“Thank you,” I said.

By then, Audrey was back in the car.   I told her that Henry had somehow dialed 911…

But by then, Henry was eying the keys that were attached to the ring on my purse.  I thought the keys may be better than my phone.  I mean, they can’t dial 911.

I don’t know how Henry managed his 911 call, but I will say that the operator who called back was so efficient, so kind and so insistent that my call was truly not an emergency that I will forever be thankful.  He kept me on the phone long enough to establish this.  I will never let this happen again… but if I ever do need to make a 911 call, I will be happy with the voice on the other end.  Thank you, 911 operators, for the important work that you do.  Thank you.

The rest of the trip was uneventful!

Ya know how sometimes ya just have to let out at good @#*! once-in-a-while when @#*! happens…

Like when someone in another car cuts you off.  Or your drive-thru coffee is light with cream and sugar when you asked for black, no sugar.  When you have this much gas in your tank and you’re late for work already.  Or you thought your appointment was at 10:00 am and it was at 9:00.  How about when you need brown sugar (that’s not killer hard) for a recipe and you don’t have any.  Your electricity went off and your alarm didn’t ring.  The MapQuest directions sent you around the universe.  Your little black dress is a tad too tight.  Your phone rings just as the baby is settling down for a nap…

You get the picture.

So.  Little kids.  They don’t get to say @#*! (or even “poop”) or anything like it when poop happens to them.  And poop happens a lot to kids.

What do you allow your kids to say to express a bit of frustration?