Piece of (wedding) cake

The big outing of the weekend– and it was huge after spending the last week indoors except for trips to the doctors and pediatrician– was the wedding of one of the old youth volunteers from the Museum. We met the bride (and her brother) about six years ago and even then she was planning her wedding. I’ve never met a girl quite like her. Her entire world is and was pinned on her becoming a wife and mother. (Home)school was just something to do in the meantime. She comes from a huge family– a passle of younger brothers and a sister that adore her.

Her mother looks nearly as young as her daughter– and has one of the most easy going natures I’ve encountered. On the occasions that we’ve met she has a swarm of children buzzing around her legs and she’s in the middle of the chaos laughing. What I really love about the mother-of-the-bride is her attitude in life. I had to call after the “RSVP by” date because I’d mislaid it… she brushed it off lightly and regaled me with a story about the nuptial couple’s search for an apartment. I wondered aloud how she felt about the first of her 7 children leaving the nest. It must be, I said, strange to think of her daughter flying the coop. She responded with her own musings about her daughter suddenly in a home built for two with none of the noise and chaos she’s grown up in. The apartment search had included one with a spare room so that there could be plenty of over night visits from her younger siblings…

This was a big wedding in that there were lots of people to wish the young couple well– but a small wedding in that things weren’t done on an elaborate scale. Which I think is nice. A wedding is a wedding is a wedding in a lot of ways– the older I get the more amusing all the trappings are–. I’m not cynical about weddings– it’s just that there are so many places I want to see and books I want on my shelves and restaurants I want to eat at to think of spending that much money on flowers and matching satins. Wedding ceremonies are really important. Elopements make me a little sad– there are few enough occasions in life to warrant a mass “let’s drop everything and be there!” spirit of loved ones– why cheat yourself out of that?

Our wedding wasn’t entirely extravagant. We had great food and beautiful flowers and I wore my mother’s dress. There isn’t anything I’d change about it– other than I’d have had more of my cake (it was an exceptional cake. I dream about it.) and I’d have soaked in maybe a little bit more having so many people we loved all together in one room. The only niggling regret is that I had a particular song I really wanted my bridesmaids to walk down the aisle to and it wasn’t kosher in our church. In the montage in my head it replaces whatever song they actually did come in on– hold a gun to my head– I can’t remember what it was.

In the last 12 years we’ve attended some real production weddings. Some of the marriages have held– some haven’t… so there’s nothing wrong with a big hoopla and fanfare– I’m just practical enough to want to spend the money on something entirely else impractical.

I wish this latest bride and groom best wishes. I hope that they find in 10 years that they are still enjoying the other’s company.

Spring sprunging

We’re still all under the weather here– literally– because each day brings a new climate.

Most of last week was gray and rainy or threatening to rain. This coincided with our quarantine so we didn’t mind too much. Saturday turned out to be a glorious spring day. The kind of day that makes you want to tidy up the yard and wash a car and eat a hot dog. We managed two out of the three. I worked on the front shrubs and bushes and planted my front planters. It felt good to dig in the dirt and hack off the overgrown bits. Then I cheated and ran the car through the car wash.

The boys, meanwhile, took on themselves to take care of the other Sure Sign of Spring– and drove 30 miles to buy me a 1/2 pound of Morel mushrooms. I’ve been feasting for two days now. Glorious, saltwater-bathed mushrooms dredged and fried up in butter… absobloominlutely delicious.

Bllluugchhh. Achoo! COUGH!

We’be all hab cods here.

Horrible, horrible colds. Jack is reworking the scene from Stand By Me as a one-man show. I’m lining up a show at the Holiday Inn as a lounge singer while my voice is low and husky… and Robby is seeing how many neighbordogs he can stir up when he coughs and hacks very, very loudly in the middle of the night.

Stop by and have a teaspoonful of the pretty fuschia cough syrup laced with codeine… and don’t forget the chicken soup and cherry slushies.

Blah.

Mother of a Day

Both of my boys have colds. (Not sure yet about the dog… he’s been punky all day but that’s not entirely unusual.)

Rob had plans to have him “and Jack” make me breakfast in bed. That was before the husband started coughing up a lung yesterday. We ended up getting breakfast from the nice little Mom&Pop place across town. They make biscuits and gravy almost as good as I do.

Jack and I, for our part, stayed in our pajammas all day long. We had, as background music, the Brady Bunch TV Land marathon. Even Jack seemed dulled by that.

There were presents (for me and Jack– I wouldn’t be a mother without him) and cards and phone calls to my mother in France and Rob’s mother up north. All of our plans to work on the gardens went up in the smoke of Robby’s cough creeping into our lungs and the cold, rainy day.

Really, the best part of today was Jack being cuddley (a sure sign that tomorrow he’ll be in the full blown stage of Daddy’s cold) and sweet. He said, “Mommeee Mommmeeee” a lot today.

The kid knows where to shop.

P.S. And the goodness of today continues– the latest update on our little friend Nettie is good. She’s starting to take over the functions that machines and medicines did for the last 10 days. Her brain pressure is down to a good number… Your prayers and good thoughts are so very much appreciated. No one should spend Mother’s Day (or Father’s Day) in a children’s IC unit. Please keep Nettie in your thoughts. And thank you for all the emails you’ve sent this way– so many of you that have written me haven’t ever had the pleasure of meeting my friends or their daughter and yet you’ve stopped to include them in your daily prayers. Thank you for being the kind of people you are.

Stop for a second to pray?

Life changes in an instant.

The news comes that friends of ours are in the hospital at their daughter’s side. She’s just a little girl– only 7– and not doing so well. She was hit by a car. Her little body has taken a beating.

If you’ve met Nettie then you know she’s a wildcat. She’s stubborn and willful and absolute boundless energy. She’s a whirlwind. She’s her mother’s girl.

You can direct your prayers however you think best. We’re putting in our prayers that we hope that tiny girl will fight with all her fierceness to wake up. To heal. To wrap her little arms around her very worried Mama and Papa.

If you aren’t inclined to pray (and I’m sorry for you for that) then do whatever it is you do to put good thoughts out into the world to keep a family encouraged and hopeful and comforted.

Just think good thoughts for our friends and their Nettie.

13

My niece is turning 13 years old tomorrow. She’s a teenager.

Fact is– we’ve thought of her as a teenager for a while now. It’s surprising, sometimes, that she was still 11 or 12… She’s a good little egg. Of course, all at the same time it’s still shocking that she’s nearly 13 and not still 3 or 4.

It’s getting harder to remember exactly how 13 felt. Occasionally a smell will bring back a memory sharply. The musty smell of a classroom on a rainy day. Cheap teenage perfume. Thirteen was around the time my pal Gail and I discovered “The Tracks of My Tears” and played it over and over on our (yes) cassette players. It was the year that I thought my friend James to be the most handsome boy on earth in a pining fashion. It was the year that my Melle and I went to camp in the woods in tents under the flashing thundering summer sky.

At 13 life stretched endless forward. Time stood still and crawled to the slowest of slow speeds. Our perfect bodies were disgusting. I’d read a library of books and hadn’t yet scratched the surface of learning anything.

Thirteen isn’t the age most people would revisit. We slap on grins and tell newly emerged teenagers that it’s a wonderful time– but it isn’t really. It’s painful and raw and frustrating and unfair.

And wonderful and promising and just on the top of the hill where the coaster really starts to pick up speed for the very first time. In a Whhhooooosssssh! it’s suddenly 23 years ago.

What I’d tell the Younger Me? Enjoy it as much as you can. Enjoy the long, slow days and the utter lack of responsibility. Savor going off to bed while, downstairs, Mom and Dad are keeping watch (and the bogeyman at bay). Where money worries are whether to get the Twizzlers or the MilkDuds at the movies. When the next Big Thing is turning 16. All that’s ahead is (mostly) wonderful– so take your time and wallow in being 13. The good stuff isn’t going anywhere. (Neither is the bad). Oh. And pay attention in Civics so you don’t have to look up that stuff as an adult. It won’t get any better with age. Don’t worry about the stupid girls at school that make you feel inferior in any way. They’ll end up bitter and too blond and brittle. Learn now to write a term paper. It will help you out tremendously down the road. Go to camp. Go to church. Try not to take your parents for granted. Beware of trendy haircuts.

And listen to Tracks of My Tears. It’s a much better anthem then “It’s My Party And I’ll Cry If I Want To.”

Geeses ganders and other great inequalities

I’ve turned 36. Woo. Woo.

Is the life expectancy still at 72? Is half my expected life over now? And why is it that Harrison Ford is still referenced in entertainment magazines as being “middle aged”?

You’d think at some point there would be less questions and more answers. Sigh.

Maybe at 37?