The stage has gone dark.  (Let’s face it, the stage had been mostly dark for awhile.)

It feels like the right time.  Big changes are coming for me.  I don’t know what they are, but I know changes are coming, necessarily so.  I’m just trying to tidy up in anticipation of them.

If you land here, it’s probably by mistake.  Check your map.  Re-Google what you’re looking for.  And good luck!

For those who landed here on purpose, thanks for visiting me over the years.  You probably know how to get in touch.

Wish me luck!

Yet.

But one time they did come in from playing out front with a 5-pound hand weight they found at the neighbor’s curb in the trash.

“Mom, can we keep this?  They were throwing it away.”

Incredulous voices.  As if it were made of diamonds or something.

Most of the dumpster diving is really kitchen-trashcan-diving, if I’m being accurate.

I’m not new to surreptitious trips to the trashcan, while they are busy taking baths and cannot see me, pushing those school papers all the way to the bottom of the recycle bin.  These spy missions are absolutely necessary because my children seem to believe that I hold onto everything they have ever produced forever and ever because it’s precious and unique.  They would be crushed to know how much stuff I throw out after they go to bed.

Including baby teeth.

Ewww.  If I don’t keep their school artwork, I’m sure the hell not going to keep their biological leavings.  No, I didn’t save anyone’s cord-stump nor do I save baby teeth. And if I have a lock of their baby hair, that’s probably just because it was pulled out ruthlessly by a sister and shoved somewhere that hasn’t been cleaned since then.

It was bad enough that I had to scheme to throw out the school papers in their backpacks, but now it’s gotten worse.  Nowadays, I can’t seem to throw anything out without them right there over my shoulder saying “Can I have that?”

I say “It’s an empty peanut butter jar.  What do you want it for?”

(Or a paper towel roll, or a plastic milk carton,  or some bubble wrap from a package delivery, or whatever.  Just anything.)

They say “We want to make something with it. ”

I really appreciate their creative spirits.  Truly I do.  But a bid to ‘make something with it’ is 6 year old code for I will leave a trail of marker caps and stuck-together pieces of scotch tape and broken and tangled up rubber bands the like of which you have never seen.

I’ve been down this road before.

So anytime I have something to throw away, I nonchalantly look from left to right.  I stop and listen.  Do I have 45 seconds to get this thing hidden under the banana peels?  Oh god, what if they want to make something with the banana peels???

When the coast is clear, I dash for the trash and bury it under whatever I think is the least likely to catch their eyes as necessary for some harebrained creation.

Sometimes, I’m even successful.

Saturday, I was throwing the empty couscous container in the recycle.  My 9 year old asked “Can I have that?”

Oh, god, here we go.

I sighed, resigned to scraping Elmer’s glue dyed with food coloring off the breakfast bar, and handed it over to her.

She was up in her bedroom for more than an hour.  She had covered the container with a paper label she made herself.  It had a picture of a kitty cat and paw-prints all over it.  It said DOT AND PUDDY’S TREATS.

“We’re going to Amber’s tomorrow to give her her birthday presents, right?”  Amber is the big sister – who is turning 26 tomorrow.  (Happy Birthday, Amber!!)

“Yes, we are.” I reply.

“Can you help me buy some cat treats?  I made this for her birthday to hold treats for her cats.”

So we did.  And Sunday, my creative girl gave her big sister an old couscous container with a custom-label and a bag of treats for Dot and Puddy.

I’m pretty sure it was Amber’s favorite birthday present.  Which, what the hell, because I spent a LOT more on what I picked out, but whatever.  Ungrateful kids.  Right?

Later that night, I told my husband about the gift made from the old container.  I said “Isn’t that sweet?  I suppose this is why we let them pick through the trash, huh?”

He said “Well, that and because we know that with these skills we are helping them hone, they’ll be uniquely positioned to survive if society collapses.”

Yeah, I guess there’s that too.

My babies are dumpster-divers, and if the world as we know it falls apart, I can rest assured that in spite of the chaos, they will still have a nice pencil-holder made from an empty 1-liter Dr. Pepper bottle.

That’s good parenting.

It’s  the usual routine; first a trip into the bathroom where he tests his blood sugar level, then a trip downstairs.

Usually, he moves like a cat.  He can see in the dark and manages to navigate soundlessly through the bedroom and the house at large.

Me?  Just a trip to the bathroom in the dark becomes a scene from a Jerry Lewis movie.  If there is a Lego to be found in this house, I will step on it with my bare foot.  If there is a squeaky floorboard, I will manage to never miss it.  I will trip over any obstacle, no matter how inconsequential, left on the floor.

If he dies in this bedroom, there is a 50% chance it was his diabetes, but there is an equal chance I bludgeoned him with his own shoe after tripping over it.  “How. Many. Times. Have. I. Asked. You. ..”

But we’ll save the bludgeoning for another day.

Now it is a quarter to two in the morning and I lie in bed listening to him head downstairs for some juice or whatever he chooses to bring his blood glucose back to normal.  I wonder “Should I put my pajama pants on, just in case?”

See, my father-in-law lives here so when I have to run through the house at night to perform emergency life-saving procedures, I like to be dressed.  It was the diabetes that was to blame the time my father-in-law saw my boob before.  No repeatsies, ya know?

I hear him down there fixing something to eat or drink, and he’s not quiet as a cat this time – he’s banging things around, much louder than usual.  To me, this is one of the subtle clues.  That must mean lower-than-usual blood-sugar.  Wonder how low he was?  Should I get up?  Or do I wait for the CRASH-THUMP of his body hitting before I go running?  That’s how it usually goes.  Where did I put that emergency glucagon shot after our last trip?  Is it back where it belongs in the medicine cabinet?  Should I put my pants on?

Maybe we shouldn’t have put granite counters in the kitchen.

I mean, the kids are all old enough that I don’t worry so much about them and their precious noggins hitting – but my husband is a diabetic.

Laminate would have been less deadly.

I hope there’s not a thump.

I’m putting my pants on anyway, just in case.

Fortunately, I hear him coming back up the stairs and he climbs back into bed.

“You OK?” I ask.

“Yeah.  Just low.” he says.

Low is a word that carries a ton of meaning when you’re the wife of a diabetic.  I find myself asking him all the time whether he is low.  If he is sweating when I’m not even warm, I ask “Are you low?”  When he’s acting goofy about something, “Are you low?”  Sometimes diabetics are just goofy – it doesn’t always mean they’re low.  But I ask.

For awhile there, we were having lots of issues with these lows sneaking up on him, and I would ask a lot.  To him, the question started sounding like an accusation.  To me, I asked it as a sort of verbal warning bell.

Ding. Ding.  Diabetes, Round 8.

We are fortunate in that we rarely have marital spats that get the adrenaline pumping, but when we have, I’ve had to worry about his blood sugar.  Adrenaline will do funny things, and if he drops fast when emotions are already high, he gets aggressive, kind of like a mean drunk.    Fortunately, in 18 years there have only been a couple times where this situation has caused him to push things too far.  In the heat of the moment, I just think he’s an asshole but later I blame the disease.

We’ve had some doozies of run-ins with this opponent.

But tonight, he’s back in bed.  “Just a little low.” he says.  “Go back to sleep.” he says.

“I was lying here wondering if your head would hit the granite.” I say.

“You can’t get out of sex that easily.” he replies.

And this is how I know he’s not too low.  He’s not good at smart-assy jokes when he’s really low, so it’s a sign that he’s fine.  For now.

“Go back to sleep.” he says, but I can’t.  My head is swimming with these words you’re reading right now.  “I have to go downstairs and write.” I say.

“Why?” he asks.

“They need to know.  It’s hard being the wife of a diabetic.” I reply.

He laughs.  “I imagine it’s marginally less difficult than being the actual diabetic.”

He’s got a point there.  At least my support group gets cupcakes.

~~~~~~~~~~

Other posts about life with diabetes can be found HERE and HERE and HERE.  Probably a few other places too, but it’s 2:27 and I need to go back to bed now that no one has cracked his head open on the granite.

If you’re so inclined, go donate to the American Diabetes Association and we thank you.

My son has a superpower.

He is invisible.

Most disabled people are, you know

They are born with it, alongside twisted limbs or broken minds.

My son, he can’t walk, or talk, or eat

He can’t hear and he will never fly.  But

He is invisible.

You may not have seen him.  But he saw you

He smiled at you.  A smile

Bright as a ray of light shining through a cracked window.

He looked at you.

…
You didn’t see him.

Or you wouldn’t see him.

You should go read the whole thing.  It will tug at your heartstrings.  It will make you want to shake your fist toward the sky and say “What the hell is wrong with people?”

Or you can keep reading this post, because it might do the same thing.  See, this morning, I felt like RedneckMommy must have.  I felt hot tears burning my eyes as I witnessed the world overlooking my child, acting as if she wasn’t there.

Oh, look at Linda bringing the drama.  Yes, yes – I am a drama queen on this topic.  I always have been.  I’ve posted on the topic of my daughter who struggles with carrying extra weight a few times.  Here and here and here.  About how unsure I am regarding how I should be helping her with her with this.  About how much it hurt to hear other little girls call her fat.

I knew that as she got older, it would manifest in her social interactions more and more.  Now she’s 9 and I’m seeing it happen.  The discrimination is bolder.  The invisibility is more visible, if that makes sense.

Last week, she told me that during recess she walked over to the kickball field where they were picking teams to play a game.  There were two children chosen as team captains who were taking turns picking individuals for their teams.  Jadie stood there among the not-yet-picked.  She stood there until she was the last one standing there.  I know it hurts a child to be the last one picked, but Jadie can be tough enough to handle that.  I’m not so sure she was tough enough to handle the way the two team captains fought over who had to take her, though.

“You take her.”

“No, we have too many – you take her.”

“I picked last – it’s your turn.  You have to take her.”

My child turned and walked away without a word.

In the retelling, she tried to keep an air of bravado, but this child – she may act tough on the outside, but she has a creamy nougat center and I could tell that she was hurt by the exchange.

And now?  She tells me she doesn’t really like kickball anyway.

In that story, she might have wished for invisibility.

What happened today, I was a first hand witness to.

My two youngest wanted to sign up for the mini-cheer camp run by the high school cheerleaders.  Today was the big day.  I dropped them off at 8 AM and went to run a few errands.  I came back a couple hours later and sat on the bleachers watching the girls all learn how to cheer.  My two were divided into separate groups – kindergarten through second grade in one group, and then third through fifth grade in the other.

It was the group with the older girls that caught my interest.  I watched for a long time and couldn’t help but think that my child was deemed invisible out there.  I watched a half dozen high school cheerleaders being playful and friendly with the adorable little girls and not even one interacted with my daughter.

Oh, sure – she’s got some culpability here.  She might have been hanging back a little.  She might have been anxiously chewing on her nails.  But, see, that’s what you do when you’re too afraid to put yourself out there.  When just last week, two team captains fought over who had to take you on one of their teams.  When you’ve had experiences with other children where you were called fat and ugly to your face.  You tend to start pulling away.  You tend to not want to put yourself out there for fear of more rejection.

But she was there – she was present.  She was learning the cheers and trying to be a part of the group.

I watched as the high school girls instructed the group to form a circle because they were going to play a game.  I saw my daughter alone on one side of the circle while the other girls were clustered on the opposite side.  I heard the older girls tell the grade-schoolers to spread out and form a full circle.  I heard my daughter say “There’s plenty of room over here.” and indicate with her arms that she had space on both sides of her.  I watched how no one came over to fill those spaces until finally the high school girls did.

And then they played Little Sally Walker, a fun little game that girls often play.  There is a subset of girls who skip around the inner circle while a song is sung.  When the end of the verse arrives, the girls in the inner circle each stop in front of a girl of their choosing from the outer circle and do a little dance.  The girl from the outer circle who was chosen now gets a turn skipping around the inner circle, and so it continues.

There were many rounds of the song and many girls got their turns skipping around the inner circle, some got multiple turns.

But not all of them.  Some of them didn’t even get one.

Some of them were invisible.  Some waited for their turns while they chewed nervously on their fingernails.

Or, more accurately – one.  One girl waited anxiously for her turn while she chewed nervously on her fingernails.

My child.  She was invisible today and I sat on the bleachers swiping away the tears that kept forming without my permission.

I silently implored the high school girls to notice what was going on – to correct the situation.  No one did, and the game ended.

At the end of the camp session, each of the groups put on a little performance for the parents.  Cameras flashed and parents clapped wildly.  The high school girls were looking up at the clock with the realization that they had 10 minutes to fill before they could go to Taco Bell or wherever they were planning to go.

The decision was made to play Little Sally Walker again, because the girls love it so much.

Well, most of them.

This time, it was both groups of girls forming a huge circle.  There were at least a dozen girls skipping around the inner-circle.

If I were a religious person, I would have lifted my voice in prayer to whatever god I believed in and asked him to please, please let my child be picked once.  I don’t know much about prayer, but it seems such an inconsequential thing to pray for, right?  “Dear God, please make this pimple on my chin go away before prom.”  I don’t know.  Prayer seems to be for things like intensive-care-unit patients and lumps found on breasts and stuff.

But my prayer (sent up to whom, I don’t know) was just that my child get a turn in Little Sally Walker.

It didn’t seem like too much to ask, really.

Frankly, though, I am not a religious person and I don’t believe there is a higher power who could intercede on this hard road my little girl is traveling.  I believe that it is down to us human beings here on this earth to regulate ourselves.  I believed that the only way my child would get chosen for Little Sally Walker would be because someone noticed that she wasn’t invisible and realized that she may want to participate in the game.

One of the high school girls did just that – she stopped in front of Jadyn and did her little dance, thus choosing my baby girl to have a turn skipping around the inner circle.  From across the gym, I saw my daughter’s face light up.

I’m glad it happened.  I’m glad for Jadie that she was drawn in, even if it was just for a minute.  Maybe next time the cheerleaders are having a mini-cheer camp, my child will want to sign up again.  Maybe she’ll gather her courage and go back to the kickball field.  Maybe.

I am grateful to that girl for noticing my child.  It’s not enough, though – one person, one time, one minute.  It’s just not enough. I know that for Jadie to keep putting herself out there, she needs to have people include her and notice her and accept her.  She needs more of these experiences that light up her face – they have to outnumber the other kind, the kind that make her put up walls and pull away.

I don’t believe there is a god who will help us with this.  I believe it’s up to us – to you, to me, to your kids, to my kids, to teachers, to playground monitors, to camp counselors, to Girl Scout leaders and bus drivers and cheerleaders.

Will you accept the challenge?  Will you keep an eye out for the child hanging back biting her nails and notice her and choose her?  Will you look at and smile at the little boy in the wheelchair with drool coming out of his mouth?  Will you teach your children to do the same?

Please?

For me?  For her?

EDITED TO ADD:  I wrote a bit  a follow up at the end of THIS post, if you want to go read it.   Thank you all for your comments.

How was Winter Solstice?  What about that one that the Jewish people celebrate that I can’t spell – how was that?  (To be fair, I see it spelled in a number of ways and I’m always afraid to pick the wrong one so I’m not going there at all.)  What about those of you who observe some other third-tier, made-up December holiday – did you enjoy yours?

Have I now insulted everyone?  Good, then.   My work here is done.

My family had a lovely Christmas.  Truly.  We are very fortunate, not to mention cute.  I can totally prove it.  (You knew it was coming, didn’t you?  It’s the matching Christmas pajamas group shot.  Ha!  You thought I forgot, didn’t you?  No such luck!)

The Dork Family

So, yeah, Christmas was lovely, yadda yadda.  Let’s move on, then, shall we?

December 26th.  This was my birthday.

You would think it’s a wonderful day to have a birthday.  I mean, you’re on a Christmas high, fueled by fudge and sugar cookies.  You’re off work.  You get to lounge around in your pajamas all day eating left-over fudge and sugar cookies.   What more could you ask for, right?

Here, come sit by my knee – I’ll tell you.  Of course, you have to be a bit of a selfish little baby to understand.  But!  The good news is that you can tsk-tsk me and sit in judgment if you don’t understand.   Frankly, I don’t understand it either so there’s that.

First, you have to understand that on this day more than ever, I am as close to a split-personality as one can be without an official diagnosis.  There really are two of me and they end up rolling around fighting in the mud, but not in that sexy, erotic way.  They are just at odds, in total disagreement.  Of course, they are both ME, but for illustrative purposes I feel like I should give each of them a unique name.

How about Mary for one.  Mary is a pure and wholesome name.  It conjures up feelings of optimism.  Someone named Mary would be well-grounded, reasonable, and sweet.

The other one… I think we should call her Lucinda, mostly because it’s a combination of Lucifer and Linda which seems to capture her perfectly.

In order to make the illusion complete, I’ll give you this guidance:

When Mary is speaking, imagine you hear birds tweeting in the background.  There is a scent of lavender in the air.  Everything about the scene makes you calm and happy.

Now, Lucinda… let’s see.  Remember that movie Whatever Happened to Baby Jane with Bette Davis and Joan Crawford?  I have no idea what music played in the background after Bette Davis lost her frickin’ mind, but that’s the music that would be playing when Lucinda is speaking.

Cue up the birthday, early morning.

Mary wakes up, having slept to a ripe ol’ 8:46AM.  She smiles and stretches as the sun shines in through the window.  “Oh!  It’s my birthday!” she says.  “How lovely to have my birthday right after the best holiday of the year!  I’m still awash with love and joy from yesterday.  What a wonderful life I have!  What a lucky girl I am!”

Mary steps out of bed and goes to brush her teeth, with the help of her little animal friends, of course.  The tune “Whistle While You Work” plays faintly in the background.

“I don’t even have to go to work today!  I get to stay home, here in my own house, all day on my birthday.  Oh, this is truly the happiest place on earth!  I’m not even going to change out of my pajamas!”

Mary descends the stairs, walks down the hallway, and stops cold.

Her head spins around a few times, horns pop out of the top, her eyes narrow to slits and suddenly she’s wearing black lipstick (what the fuck??).

Lucinda surveys the kitchen and family room.  It’s like a frickin’ tornado has passed over and strewn toys and crap all over the place.  And dishes!  Where did all the dishes come from?  It’s her BIRTHDAY and she’s expected to come down and deal with this?  What is wrong with these people – why didn’t they set their alarm clocks for 4AM in order to pay the proper homage to her BIRTHDAY???  And why does her birthday have to fall into the shadow of The Birth of JESUS?  How unfair is that?  Why does it cause her to feel like a petulant child every year on her birthday?  What’s up with that?

Lucinda turns on her heel and stomps right back upstairs to where she takes a 2.5 hour radical bubble bath.  Then a nap.

Suddenly, at 4:27, Bill comes up and says “Are we supposed to be somewhere?  I’ve gotten two texts asking where we are.”

Oh shit.  I jumped up and pulled a brush through my hair and we headed up for my birthday happy hour with some very wonderful friends (who probably don’t know about Lucinda.  Shhhhh….)

One big-ass margarita and I was…. well, I suppose drunk is the only word to describe it.  I’m not much of a drinker; I never could hold my liquor.  But since my surgery, it’s worse than ever.  I told the others at the table “I need to go out and get some fresh air.”   Mostly, I didn’t want to lose my margarita right there in front of everyone.  Thankfully, the 30 degree temps brought me back into the world of the living.

I didn’t even get sick after the shots.  Oh, sure – I had to go into the restroom and put my cheek against the cool tile.  (Ewwwww.)  But still, publicly, my dignity was mostly intact.

My birthday is over, thankfully, and maybe Lucinda will remain at bay for a bit before she shows her ugly face again.  I have no idea why that day is such a trial for me.  It’s not about getting older, I know that.  But at least I know now that I can drown the feelings with tequila.

Happy New Year, y’all!

Many years ago, there was a mother.  No, a mommy, really.  There was a mommy and she loved her little girls.  She wanted to start a new Christmas tradition that was all theirs, something special they would look forward to every year.

“A snow globe!” she exclaimed with delight.  “I’ll choose just the right special snow globes, one for each of my two girls!”

And so it had begun.

Every year, the mother would search high and low for the perfect snow globes.  Some of them were very expensive!  But the joy on the face of the children was worth ten times the price.  Each year, the little girls were excited to discover what sort of snow globe Santa had chosen for them that year.

And so it continued.

The mother had more daughters and folded them into the snow globe tradition.  Eventually, she was buying five snow globes for five daughters.  One year, she thought she spotted an eye roll when the snow globe was unwrapped.  Maybe not.  Perhaps it was imagined.  None the less, there wasn’t the same magic around the snow globes anymore.

When she had to have a new wing built onto her home for the storage and display of all the wonderful snow globes, she began to suspect she had a problem.  While it was true she had no cats at all, it was clear she was in the running as the crazy snow globe lady.  Still, she couldn’t stop.

In 2005 came the realization that two of the daughters had moved out into their own places and taken no snow globes with them.  What could this mean?  Had the tradition outworn its welcome?  Was the snow globe magic gone?  And if Armageddon were to occur, could the family even drink the water from the globes for survival?  What good were the damn snow globes anyway?  Stupid tradition!

If only she had saved all the boxes, then the snow globes would have retained their value.  She could have sold them all on eBay to other crazy snow globe collectors and perhaps raised the $2,800 necessary to buy a Wii on the black market.  Live and learn, she thought to herself.  Live. And. Learn.

Alas, the snow globe tradition ended after 2005 but each year when Christmas was imminent, the mother had to stop herself from window shopping.  From stopping in the San Francisco Music Box Company store and touching the beautiful globes on the shelves.  From visiting the Disney site’s snow globe section.  From thinking about the snow globe tradition and how much it had meant to her, to them, when it was at its peak.

Sometimes at night she’d go into the special snow globe wing of the house (which was really not a wing at all but a set of glass-doored shelves in the little girls’ bedroom – pardon the literary license) and looked at them… the Tinkerbell one from when Amber was crazy for Tink, the Eeyore one which was Katie’s favorite character from Winnie the Pooh, the carousel horse one when Katie was into carousel horses,  the dolphin when when Amber was into dolphins, the Noah’s Ark one for Sarah’s first Christmas, the ones with the girls’ college mascots from when they were in college, and so many more.  All those snow globes, all those years.  Each one representing a special Christmas memory, a special time in the lives of these girls.  These wonderful girls.  So many years collecting them.

Sometimes she would lift one up, blow the dust from its dome, and wind the key on the bottom just a little, just enough to hear a few seconds from “It’s a Small World After All” or “You Are the Wind Beneath my Wings”.  Maybe from “Brahms’ Lullaby” or “Fur Elise” or any number of other sentimental and sappy tunes.  Snow globes always have sentimental and sappy tunes.  That’s the part that makes the mother cry, right?  Those sentimental and sappy tunes… hard to keep a dry eye.  Because of the tunes, you know.

Late one night, when everyone else was sleeping, the mother snuck online and found a beautiful snow globe with Big Nutbrown Hare and Little Nutbrown Hare that said “Guess How Much I Love You” on the front.  Quietly, quickly, when no one was looking, she snuck it into her shopping cart and did a swift check out.  When the package arrives, she will open it in private, listen to the “Ode to Joy” music that comes out when she winds it up, and then she’ll sneak it onto the shelves behind the glass doors in the little girls’ room.  It will be her secret – no one else needs to know.

And they lived happily ever after.

The wedding went off without a hitch.  Well, there was one hitch – the primary purpose of the day.  My daughter and her beau got hitched!  Woot!

It was a fabulous day.  I mean, fabulous.  I kept waiting for that moment that we would submit to America’s Funniest Home Videos.  You know – the best man fainting, or the bride’s strapless dress slipping down when she tossed the bouquet, the people who ate the chicken getting violently ill.  Something.

There will be no submission to America’s Funniest Home Videos.  The day was just that perfect!

I took 662 photos.  Grab a seat!

OK, I won’t subject you to all of them.  I will subject you to only the ones of me, because, people – I looked fabulous!

The dress was sublime.  In fact, I’ve decided to wear it all the time.  I shall wear it to soccer games, fish fries, and PTO meetings.  I shall wear it to grocery shop and to work out at the gym and, of course, when I’m cruising for hot guys.

Even as fabulous as the dress was, it was still only the 2nd best dress of the day.  Because?

There were actually quite a few fabulous dresses there.  Many of them worn by those I have given birth to.  What do you think of these?

And the prize for the best TEAL dresses of the night?  Here’s a junior bridesmaid (another JustLinda offspring):

And the maid of honor, who I also happen to have given birth to, and her boyfriend:

And now I’m just going to keep sharing my favorite photos from the day.  There is no rhyme or reason.  We’ve moved beyond the dress competition.  I just am beaming with joy and pride over how lucky I am each time I glance at any one of these photos, much less the assembled collection of them.  If I go missing, you can probably find me hiding in the back of my closet just looking at these photos.

Jackie-O and Bill:

Wait – you really need more than one of those, right??

We all got verklempt:

CAKE!!

The maid of honor (yes, she’s one of mine!) makes a toast:

First dance:

The flower girl tries to teach the ring bearer how to dance “right”:

Jackie-O dances with the flower girls:

The bride dances with the flower girls:

Jackie-O dances with the BIG girls (and one little boy):

The bridal bouquet, wrapped in a gold necklace that her great-great grandfather gave to her great-great grandmother on their wedding day in 1885:

Sisters, and bridesmaids (guess which one is 11 years older than the other?):

The whole shootin’ match:

My favorite picture of Jackie-O escorting the bride (oh, and that other guy is in it too):

And you know it’s time to go home when there is a petticoat sticking out of your bag:

It was a great day.  The best kind of day.  I hope the joy and happiness my daughter and new son-in-law felt on this day will be with them for the rest of their lives.

~~~~~~

That was supposed to be the end, but I keep finding more that I want to share:

This was from the morning hair-doing session:

How could I have forgotten this one??

Last one, I swear:

This time I mean it:

ps:  I lied.

Dear Katie,

I have read that good mothers will pull their daughters aside prior to the wedding date to explain to them all the important things about marital intimacy, the birds and the bees.

I considered the prospect of you and me having that conversation and then couldn’t stop laughing.  I don’t think we’ll go there.  Though if you have any specific questions, I welcome you to ask them so I can blush and quickly change the subject.  Plus – these days, people have the Internet for all those answers and also you’ve probably figured all that out by now.  (And if that’s the case, do you mind if I ask you a few questions??)

It is funny thinking about the taboo subject here.  I’m not sure if I did an adequate job imparting information to you in that area, but I tried.  In fact, a few of my most favorite Katie stories involve the topic of the birds and the bees.

When you and your sister were fairly young, I bought the book Where Did I Come From? and the two of you sat on either side of me that first time so I could read it to you.  It was all illustrated and stuff.  Remember?  I really should have pre-read because even though it was said to be age appropriate, I found myself getting embarrassed and I tried to sneakily skip pages, but NOOOOOOO… there you were “Mom, you missed a page.  Mom, you missed another page.”  Not sure how I got through that, but I remember handing you the book afterward and saying “Here, you guys can just keep this up on your bookshelf in your bedroom and look at it whenever you want.  You can read well enough now – it’s all yours!”

There must have been some intervening discussions here and there, right?  I’m sure there were.  (If not, don’t tell me.  I’ll just feel guilty.)

The next time I specifically remember the topic coming up was at dinner one night many years later – all of us assembled, including Bill and his dad.  Do you recall – you announced that you were officially the last virgin in your group of friends.  I don’t remember if my reply was shocked silence or hysterical laughter.

It wasn’t long after that we were getting you ready to go away to college.  You were 18 and we shopped for all the things you’d need.  I insisted on sending a big box of condoms, no questions asked.  You had only been at school for a couple of weeks when you called to say “Hey, Mom, send more condoms.  That first jumbo box is gone already!”

You have always – always – made me laugh.  I’m pretty sure you came straight from the womb with a fully formed sense of humor.  (Don’t listen to your father – you get it from ME.  I’m the funny one, dammit.)

I can’t believe you’re getting married.  I mean, I totally can, of course, but jeez – it went by so fast!  Well, it sort of dragged in the middle there, but other than that – lightning fast.

I feel like I ought to impart some wisdom to you, but the coffers are low.  Plus, really, writing about it here on my public blog is more about exploiting the whole thing in exchange for ego-stroking comments.  Being an over-sharer and an attention whore yourself, I’m sure you can understand.  (If not, shoot me an email and I’ll delete this whole post and replace it with a knock-knock joke.  Or even better -  how about this:  Why wouldn’t the baby shrimp share his toys?  Because he was a little shellfish.  Get it?  Selfish/shellfish?  Funny stuff, huh?)

In the absence of wisdom, you get this instead:

Traditional sentiment:  Never go to bed angry.

Mom wisdom:  Going to bed angry is preferable to murdering your spouse.  Weigh your options carefully.

Traditional sentiment:  Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Mom wisdom:  Under normal circumstances, I would agree with this.  But if there is ever a time when there are infants not sleeping through the night and toddlers in diapers drawing crayon murals on the walls, well, then absence just makes the one left at home homicidal.  I think what I’m saying is this – if you ever find yourself in that situation, make sure you’re the one sleeping diagonally with twelve pillows in a comfy hotel bed far away.  You’ll get more sleep that way.

Traditional sentiment:  Home is where the heart is.

Mom wisdom:  Sometimes, your heart may at  a beach far, far away or anywhere that is NOT home.  Hopefully, in those cases, your finances will cooperate and you can leave home far behind for awhile and go hang out with your heart and maybe some margaritas on the beach for awhile.

Traditional sentiment:  The best gift a man can give his children is to love their mother.

Mom wisdom: I’m not saying that this isn’t a good gift, but I’d just like to encourage the man to consider the gift of boarding school in addition.  Those two things together?  Pretty awesome.  Well, I’d imagine them to be pretty awesome is what I’m saying.

Traditional sentiment:  The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.

Mom wisdom:  Uh, no.  Wrong.  I won’t even bother to correct that explicitly because we all know the true way to a man’s heart is generally a little lower than the stomach!  (Actually, I believe there are two ways to his heart:  via the bits in his pants or straight through his chest cavity.  Which route you choose depends upon what effect you’re attempting to have on his heart.  Choose wisely.)

Traditional sentiment:  Choose your battles.

Mom wisdom:  Choose your battles, sure.  But also:  plan your strategy, bulk up your arsenal, raise your army, and attack when his defenses are down.   If you’re choosing your battles, you ought to optimize your chances for kicking ass; that’s all I’m saying.

Traditional sentiment:  Honesty is the best policy.

Mom wisdom:  Too much honesty is enough to get your ass kicked, and rightfully so.  Especially if you have PMS.  Trust me – it’s better to bite your tongue until it’s bloody than to honestly share everything that is on your mind.  Learn from my mistakes, I beg of you.

Traditional sentiment:  Love is never having to say you’re sorry.

Mom wisdom:  Ha.  Haha.  HAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.  When you’ve really messed up, apologize profusely; crawl on your knees in contrition.  Promise things you said you’d never do in order to earn forgiveness.  Say you’re sorry a million ways.   And mean it.

~~~~~~~~~~~

On a more serious note, just do your best.  It’s all anyone can do and it’s usually more than good enough.  Take every opportunity you can to laugh – nothing diffuses anger more quickly than a good one-liner.   Walk away when you need to walk away, but not for too long – make your way back together.   Bend, but don’t break.  Never give up the essence of who you are.

Most importantly – name your first born after your mother, even if it’s a boy (it’ll help him build character).

You two will be fine – you’re both awesome and funny and smart.

And loved.  Very much.

Congratulations and best of luck as you take your first steps together in this new chapter of your lives.

Love,

Mom

ps:  Tell Scott to call me Linda.  None of that bullshit about what to call the inlaws here, OK?  Promise?  I’m going to test him on that.  He won’t get away with “Hey, you…” or anything like that.

pps:  Maybe he already does call me by my name – I can’t recall what he calls me.  But now that I’ve drawn a line in the sand, I’ll be paying attention.

ppps:  Three days!!!

Sit down, and I shall tell you a tale.  It won’t begin with Once Upon a Time because this is no fairytale.  This is as true as the day is long.

There aren’t any little children around, are there?  It gets a little scary at the end.  Fair warning.

So if you’ve been following along with my riveting life, you’ll know that in just a couple of weeks, I have the big prom my daughter’s wedding.  I know, I know – the way I keep droning on about it (me, me, me!)  you’d think it was my wedding.  Perhaps I’ve gotten a little exuberant about it all, but can you blame me?  The dresses are all so pretty!  So many matching dresses!  You know how I love girls in matching stuff, right?  And there will be lots of photos.

Plus, if she wants it to be about her, she can get her own damn blog.  (Hi, Katie!!)

Also?  Me in a totally awesome size 12 red dress.  I shall endeavor not to steal too much of the spotlight from the bride.  (As if.)

I’ve tried not to be the interfering mother taking over the wedding plans, but I did want to be helpful to the extent I could.  My daughter, at my request, has given me a few assignments.  I designed and made the invitations myself.  And that saved us… oh, wait - yeah, it only cost us about twice as much as it otherwise would have.  Go, me!

For my next assignment, my daughter said I should make the giant cupcake that will reign supreme on top of her big ol’ tiered tower-of-cupcakes.  (I picture that last phrase said in a very deep, echo-y radio commercial voice).

You might assume that perhaps she is an admirer of my great cake making and decorating skills.  I might have even deluded myself into thinking that was it for a few moments there.  But, no.  I possess no talent in cake decorating.  What I do have is the BigTop ™ giant silicon cupcake pan.

In other words, I was given this prestigious task simply because I own the pan.

Never mind that.  I would make her proud!  I could do this.  I would simply make a practice one or maybe two, perfect it and voila’ – I’d be ready for the big day.  Success was so close I could taste it.  (It tasted like cake, by the way.)

I spent hours perusing the internet.  Then I decided to look online for pictures of giant cupcakes.  Oh, this was going to be fun.  I deliberated on which style I wanted, what type of decor, colors, frostings, accoutrements, as if all I had to do was choose and then, by osmosis, I would have the skill to make it happen.

I decided that fondant looked fancy and smooth and, best of all, oh-so-easy.  (Ends up, I didn’t even know how to pronounce it correctly, much less use it effectively.) (That’s a little writing technique called foreshadowing.  Are you on the edge of your seat?)

After laughing hysterically at the amount of work that goes into homemade fondant, I got in my car and drove to a store to buy some.  I acquired a multi-colored package of pre-made fondant.

I baked a giant cupcake and it was sublime.  (I should tell you the recipe.  It’s a doctored up box cake that has sour cream and pudding mix and egg whites and olive oil and let me tell you – the cake was delicious!)  Once it was cooled, I started working with my fondant.  I used the least desirable colors from my multi-color pack in order to preserve the good colors for my masterpiece.

I used a crumb coat first.  (See?  You’re already impressed with my cake-decorating vocabulary, aren’t you?)

I rolled.

I floured.

I shaped.

I was prepared to pipe my buttercream frosting to add the pieces of rolled fondant to decorate my giant cupcake.  However, before I got that far, I already know it was a disaster of gianormous proportions and I didn’t even bother to pipe anything.

This cake should have a white flag of surrender sticking out the top of it.

My six year old said “It looks like a ham.”  (She likes meat.)

My eight year old said “It looks like the mushroom guy from Mario Party 8.”

Then, my fourteen year old tried to make me feel better.  “It’s not that bad, Mom.  It’s better than I could have done.”

Thanks, honey.

I made a bee-line for my favorite bakery and yes, they do sell giant cupcakes.  They suggested I look on the Internet and find a photo depicting how I’d like it to look and they will make it happen.  Voila’!  That easy.  People – I have the skills to find images on the Internet. I can do that!

I am the mother of the bride.  I am very happy to write the check to purchase the prestigious cupcake that will sit atop the tower-of-cupcakes to save my daughter the humiliation of having  to act like she loves the mushroom-ham monstrosity I made for her wedding day.

Oh, the lengths I will go to save my pride help my children.

That’s how much I love them.

T minus two weeks and counting!!

Me:  There’s a cop up ahead, you ought to slow down.

Husband:  OK.

Me:  The guy in front of the person in front of you is turning left – you might want to change lanes.  Or at least slow down.

(That slow down thing?  It’s called a theme regarding our car-conversations.)

Husband:  Yeah, I can see that.  OK, thank you.

(A moment of silence while I watch with my eagle eye for the next bit of driving advice I can impart to his willing ears.)

Husband:  I’m so grateful for your help.  It’s a wonder I don’t drive straight into a brick wall when you’re not in the car with me.

Smart-ass.