SO YOU THINK YOU CAN DANCE?

Beginning with my stellar performance of “I'm a Little Teapot” at four years of age, I've always danced like nobody's watching.

 

When I was a teenager, my highest aspiration was to become a dignified dancing Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader.  Either that, or a Fireman.  Instead, I grew up to be a wife and mother. 

Not that any of those life choices are mutually exclusive.  In fact, I prefer to believe I managed to incorporate all of the above into one slightly dysfunctional slice of life: I became a mother who wore spandex while putting out toaster fires. 

 

I was a stay-at-home Mom who settled for teaching aerobics instead of pursuing fame as a Solid Gold Dancer (only because the commute to L.A. was too far). Honestly, those Solid Gold chicks had nothing on my tightly spandexed butt.  Gimme a pair of leg warmers with a matching headband, crank up the ABBA cassette, and I WAS THE DANCING QUEEN. Why, yes...yes I was.

Not satisfied with being a mere Aerobic Instructor, I ambitiously clawed my way to the top of the aerobics chain until I was offered the coveted title of Aerobic Coordinator.  Too sexy for my spandex, indeed!

 

But as anyone who has ever donned a leotard knows:  With great honor comes great responsibility.

 

When Lucas was 11 and Jacob was 8, I made the uncomfortable and unwise decision to leave them at home under the watchful eye of  Saturday Morning Cartoons (Ninja Turtle Power!) whilst I ran off to teach a one-hour aerobic class for an instructor who had called in sick.

 

And there I was  - right in the middle of a donkey kick -  when I looked up to see my neighbor and two sheepishly smiling sons standing in the door of the exercise room.

Apparently the Ninja Turtles had seduced Jacob to leave his toast in the toaster long enough to set off smoke alarms which alerted his older brother to call 'that 911 number' resulting in all my neighbors and assorted fire department employees voting to kick me off the nominee list for Mother of the Year – 1991.

 

Still, I was not deterred from following my dream to dance.

 

A few years later, I purchased four primo tickets for The Nutcracker Ballet.  I can't even tell you how excited I was to attend this acclaimed production for the very first time!  The only problem was that I had purchased the other three tickets for my guys, foolishly thinking they would share in my excitement of getting all  dressed up to sit in a crowded theatre for two hours and watch Talented People in Tights Glide Across The Stage.  I carefully dressed for the Big Event in my most festive Holiday Frock and hair poofed up to the sky (the higher the hair, the closer to Jesus!).  I assumed my fellers were grooming themselves likewise, in eager anticipation. Not wanting to be late for the curtain call, I rushed into the living room to gather the guys...only to discover with dismay they were unclean, undressed, and completely absorbed in an episode of Beavis and Butthead.

 

I planted my well-coiffed and thoroughly pissed-off self smack dab in front of the television, fluffing up the furor of my indignation like a tu-tu.  With tears in my eyes and no small amount of drama, I said something to the effect:

 

“All my life, all I've ever wanted to be is a ballerina. And finally...FINALLY...I get to go see this wonderful ballet – spend my hard-earned aerobics money to buy tickets for YOU TURDS to go to this wonderful ballet with me  – and you couldn't care less!  I put up with your burping and your farting and your scratching and all I've ever asked of you is THIS ONE THING. But NO. Nooooo!  I can't believe you stinking Buttheads had to ruin my Special Night!”

 

Three pairs of blue-green eyes looked back at me as though I had grown seven heads, one of  which was spinning around spewing dark slime.

 

[Truth be told, I was probably on my period and slightly hormonal.]

 

To this day, if I ever start getting all girlie on them, my boys love to torture me with The Nutcracker Speech.

 

Somewhere along the way, I realized that Very Few of the Very Best Ballerinas are blessed with Thunder Thighs.  This realization forced me to give up my dream of starring in Swan Dance and to begin looking for something more suitable to my un-ballerina-ish frame.

 

That's when I discovered Tap Dancing...the rhythmical cure for all pear-shaped-wannabe-dancing-divas.  No tu-tus required!  A few girlfriends and I signed up for a beginner's class at Amarillo College.

Yet, once again, life wreaked havoc on my dancing career.  I kept missing class and falling further and further behind. The only time I could find to practice was while cooking dinner. Picture this:  me in my tap shoes, Hamburger Helper sizzling in the skillet, me click-click-clicking my way between the fridge and stove like a happy housewife hoofer. 

 

All-in-all, a mediocre effort which left me with nothing to show for it except a pair of dusty, impotent tap shoes stashed away in the top of the closet. Right beside my tu-tu.

 

When our boys finally left the nest, I came up with a new way to feed my dancing dreams:  I signed up for Ballroom Dancing. I signed the Dickman up, too.

 

And after we flunked the first session, I doggedly signed us up for another.

 

Suffice it to say, the Dickman took to ballroom dancing like a mermaid takes to high top sneakers.

 

It just didn't click for us. We danced like a couple who was staying together for the sake of the children...all awkward and tense and painful. I would become frustrated with Dickie and start yelling at him like that  mean dance dictator on Dance Moms:  "No!  Slow down!!! You're going too fast.  Start with your RIGHT foot...your other RIGHT foot!  Quit pulling on me!  Turn to the OUTSIDE...!!"

 

Funny thing about the Dickman:  he is a ridiculously gifted drummer and talented athlete, but his left-handedness goes all the way down to...his two left feet. I'm not saying he dances as bad as Buzz Aldrin, but still…severely grapevine and box-step impaired, he is.

 

And because he is so fiercly competitive, what he lacks in technique he makes up for in, uh...let's go with  passion. Not a positive asset in a crowded ballroom filled with people who actually  recognize a Rumba from a Fox Trot.  We managed to turn ballroom dancing into a full-contact sport, literally taking people out with our dance moves. Dickie even pulled a muscle that wasn't his.

 

[Babe, if you are reading this, you know I'm just trying to be funny.  Literary License and all that. You can SO drop it like it's hot.]

 

Ultimately, we sacrificed our turn on the ballroom floor for the greater good of the class and all of mankind.

 

After going through all that agony of de-feet, you would think we would never wanna dance again.  Guilty feet have got no rhythm...right?

 

Wrong.  Our hope for twinkling toes continued to spring eternal.

With a group of likewise-impaired dancing friends, we signed up for Beginning Country Western Dance classes.

Ladies and Gentlemen,  I am proud to announce that The Dickman and I successfully graduated as Officially Licensed Country Western Dancers. (Hold your applause, please.)

 

Yes, I said successful.  Keep in mind that I use the word in its most forgiving definition.  Which means that while our individual senses of rhythm are still not completely in tune...somehow, over a grueling eight weeks, we finally managed to convert our Texas 3 1/2-Step into something very close to a gen-u-ine Texas 2-Step.

 

It wasn't easy.  I mean, look...it's me and the Dickman; between the two of us...it's never easy and it's never clear, who's to navigate and who's to steer.

But this time, THIS TIME...he had a Hot Dang Cowboy teaching him how to lead.

 

The lessons went something like this:

 

Instructor to Dickman: "Jest grab aholt of that bump back there below her shoulder, that's how you steer her".

 

Dickman to Instructor:  "You mean her shoulder blade?" 

 

Robin to Instructor: "You mean my scapula?”

 

Instructor to Dickman: “No, that roll back yonder.  You kin jest grab right onto it and with a little pressure, you kin take her wherever you want her to go.”

Robin to Instructor: “You mean my fat roll?”

 

Instructor to Robin: “Uh...er...no, no. I mean, that uh...'curve'. Grab aholt of the curve.”

 

[Note to the Hot Dang Cowboy: curves and rolls are NOT the same thing, dude.]

 

Regardless, Dickie listened to the cowboy and took 'aholt' of my fat roll, with more pressure than was either necessary or comfortable.  Then he started pushing me around that dance floor...and, one-two-three-one-two-three, LOOK! We're dancing!

 

What?!  Is it possible that after 35 years of meandering to a different beat with my left-footed drummer...We.Are.Finally.Dancing? In rhythm?  On a dance floor?  Shut The Front Door!

 

In the spirit of full disclosure, our boot scooting is far from perfect. We are a work in progress. Even though he still pushes more than he leads, even though I spend most of my time trying to guess what he's gonna do before he does it (story of my life), even though it's not very pretty because I'm sweating like I have four armpits and trying to coerce body parts into stopping when the music does...somehow, in spite of ourselves, we have finally turned our stumbling into dancing.

 

Can you believe it? Old Dogs Learning New Tricks, working together to accomplish a heretofore unattainable goal. 

 

Ladies and Gentlemen, now you may applaud.  Or better yet...

Jazz hands, y'all.

YOUR PAIN IN MY HEART

"One day Jesus was teaching,
and Pharisees and teachers of the law were sitting there.

They had come from every village of Galilee
and from Judea and Jerusalem.

And the power of the Lord was with Jesus to heal the sick.

Some men came carrying a paralyzed man on a mat

and tried to take him into the house to lay him before Jesus.

When they could not find a way to do this because of the crowd,

they went up on the roof and lowered him on his mat

through the tiles into the middle of the crowd,

right in front of Jesus."

Luke 5:17-19

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STRETCHER BEARERS.

 

That's what they are called. Those wonderful warriors who run to our rescue when the struggles of life become too heavy to bear alone...the ones who metaphorically load our paralyzed selves onto a stretcher and carry our burdens to Jesus on our behalf.

 

I am not ashamed to say...I have taken a ride in that stretcher myself, more than a few times.

 

And I have been honored to help carry the stretcher for others.

  

My friend Karne introduced me to the term and explained it to me this way: We, as Christians, do for each other what Jesus would do if He was on the earth.  We are the vessels through which He provides care.

 

While reading a book that introduced her to the concept, she realized that God had brought us together to act as Stretcher Bearers for each other.

 

It's true.  She has taken my pain into her own heart. I have shed tears for her sorrows. We have helped each other through some tough times. We have borne one another's burdens.

 

Blessed beyond what I deserve, I claim for myself a legion of Stretcher Bearers:  Mom, my husband, my brothers, my sisters-in-law, my brother-in-law, my wonderful friends – y'all know who you are.

 

God gives us who we need and puts us exactly where we are needed. 

Whether we know it or not.

 

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A friend of mine recently lost her son in a sudden and tragic way. I had briefly met him on a few occasions, but his beautiful smile lingered in my memory. He and my youngest son were the same age. His mother and I graduated high school together.

 

My friend and her family are well-loved. They are wonderfully generous, Godly people who make the world a better place just by being in it. The repercussions of such a devastating loss spread far and wide.

 

We all hurt deeply for this precious family.

 

Our paths had not crossed often in the intervening years since high school; we had reconnected on Facebook and I had become a big fan of her witty and positive outlook on life. 

 

But to be honest, our lives did not intertwine closely enough to warrant the depth of sadness I was experiencing for her. My grief was beyond understanding.

 

I know I'm not alone in admitting this, but...I could not stop crying. I grieved endlessly for my friend, for the son of her heart. Tears filled my eyes each time I spoke her name. A heaviness filled my soul.

 

A few days after his memorial services, I literally woke up crying. With my head in my hands, I fervently prayed for God to bring peace to my friend and her family.

 

Later that same day, I was inspired to find her posts on Facebook to be courageously uplifting...full of hope and grace.  Nothing but words of praise to the God of Healing.

 

Though I know her to be a woman of deeply sustaining faith, I couldn't help but wonder...

 

Could God have chosen me to be a Stretcher Bearer for this sweet friend? 

 

Undoubtedly, there were many of us sharing the burden of this broken-hearted mother who had lost her son. All of us faithfully (though unwittingly) allowing God to weave our lives together into a comforting blanket of strength for the journey ahead. Through offerings of casseroles or cards, phone calls and hugs.  Prayers without ceasing.  Grief equal to the loss. God provided.

 

As further evidence that His plan was already in place before I knew what was happening, I recalled the image I posted to my own Facebook page the day I learned of the tragedy:

 

This experience has served to reinforce what I have always known to be true:  When Jesus asks us to “Bear One Another's Burdens”, we should take Him at His Word.  He is asking us to literally transfer the burden off our brothers and sisters and onto ourselves. For it is by enduring their hardship that we make it easier for Jesus to guide them through their oppression.

 

Being a Stretcher Bearer is a physical manifestation of God's second commandment to love our neighbors as ourselves.  To love them just as Jesus loves them.  To be Jesus in our own skin.

He never promised that this life would be easy.  He has always promised to provide what we need to make it through.

What we need is each other. 

 

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To those of you who have carried my stretcher...I love you. I thank you. And I ask you to please stand by   :o)

I will do the same for you. 

Even if it means getting creative, cutting holes in roofs and dropping that stretcher right on top of Jesus' sweet head.

Bam.

Before we know it, our burdens won't seem quite so heavy to bear...

 

TO PEE OR NOT TO PEE?

Have you ever noticed that after turning 50, bodily functions become nothing more than a series of science projects?

 

CASE IN POINT: Last Saturday evening I dined like a princess on Prime Rib, baked potato and a side order of ...

 

Fresh Asparagus.

 

I have never been a big fan of asparagus, having been introduced at an impressionable age to slimy stalks of the canned variety with disgusting results.

 

But Saturday night, my waitress encouraged me to take a chance on the “tastiest, freshest asparagus ever!”

 

So, I gave it a whirl.

 

And it was good.

 

I ate every bite.

 

Twenty minutes later, the most amazing smells were coming from my stall in the restaurant loo.

 

At first I was a bit worried. Then I remembered about the high sulphur content of asparagus, one of the chemicals blamed for producing smelly wee.  

 

Curiosity got the better of me and I did a little Googling. (Seriously, were we just a bunch of bumbling idiots before Google?)

 

Please allow me to share what I have learned about Asparagus Pee:

 

Did you know that only 40% of people have the genetic ability to produce funky smelling urine after eating asparagus? According to scientists (who study things like rectal thermometers and bodily fluids), the ability to produce such an odor is genetically controlled.

Even more interesting is the hotly contested debate over whether or not the ability to SMELL the odoriferous effect of asparagus in urine is also at the whim of our genes.

 

Some tinkle experts believe that ALL of us actually experience fragrancy following asparagus ingestion, but not everyone has the ability to smell it.

 

So there it is: if you produce it, you may not smell it and if you can smell it, you may not produce it.

 

Obviously more of our tax dollars need to be spent in solving the all-important Asparagus Pee Controversy (APC). The potential impact this could have on the future of our nation is mind-boggling.

 

What if – instead of Democrats / Republicans / Libertarians / Vegetarians / Progressives / Whigs – what if all of America was divided into two political parties: the SMELLERS and the NON-SMELLERS????

 

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Just imagine...

 

No more partisanship.

 

No more 'Us' versus 'Them'.

 

My rights would be everyone's rights.

 

All Americans would be equally free to exercise their God-given gifts of  forming differing opinions through independent thinking without fear of harassment or denigration.  

 

The thought of such unadulterated freedom makes me giddy.

 

Why, there might even be folks who would feel free to oppose gun control...yet still love Jesus.

 

Or others who were free to disagree with health care reform…without being a heartless swine.

 

What if…what if every American could respectfully claim to be a good citizen whether or not you wish to save the whales or the snail darters?

 

Mind-boggling, indeed.

 

Divided into SMELLERS and NON-SMELLERS, minorities and gays would be afforded the same respect as majorities and straights.  What a concept!

 

No longer would personal beliefs be used as a litmus test for patriotism.

 

It

        would
                         all
                                   come
                                                 down
                                                               to
                                                                         our
                                                                                     DNA.

And left with the choice of a SMELLER or NON-SMELLER, the choice would be crystal clear.

 

SMELLERS win.

 

Every.Single.Time.

 

I mean, seriously.  When it comes to presiding over this great and bountiful nation of ours, why in the world would we choose some schmuck who can't even smell their own stink??

 

 

 

 

What I've Learned From Rhinos...

I became a health care professional because I wanted to make a difference. Because I wanted to help people. Looking back, I probably should have been more specific about who I wanted to help...

There was the morbidly obese homebound patient, who was literally dying from laziness and fear. She had agoraphobia (an irrational fear of leaving her home), and had managed to shrink her entire life into the walls of her bedroom, from which she refused to leave. She lived her life from the comfort of her bed. She even grew tomato plants on her bedside table so that anytime she wanted fresh veggies, all she had to do was roll over and pluck a tomato off the vine.

Trying to help that poor lady was an exercise in frustration. After weeks of futile attempts to get her out of bed, I finally said, “Ma'am...if you don't start moving, you are going to die. You know that, don't you?” To which she replied, “Sure I'm gonna die. We're all gonna die, someday.”

She was one of my very first patients, yet I think of her often.  The lesson she taught me was an important one: as long as fear is holding you back, you will never get stronger.

I have learned many valuable lessons from my patients, but none have challenged or convicted me greater than my stroke patients. From them I have learned more about communication, patience and the indomitable human spirit than from any other source.  Stroke patients are uniquely challenged in mobility and communication. Simple language is often meaningless babble to their ears. These patients are wounded and confused, filled with fear and despair. Their soul is intact, yet vital parts of their brain have been destroyed.  Life, as they know it, has been forever changed.  I have learned that in order for them to trust me with their body, they must first learn to trust me in their heart.

It is intensely humbling to be a catalyst of healing at such a vulnerable moment in someone's life.

Through my education, I have garnered a bountiful bag of tricks to help these patients re-learn functionality. But my tricks are not enough to help those patients who are unable to push past fear and embrace the hope of recovery.

I have learned that fear can be more paralyzing than a stroke.

Through my faith, I am able to offer hope to my broken patients. I have learned to take the time to hold their hands and look into their eyes to connect with them on the deepest level possible.  To see the essence of who they are...to look past the depressed form laying limply on white sheets. To see the living, breathing person they once were: the grandfather who tossed his giggling grandchild high up into the air; the gentle gardener who picked beautiful flowers from her well-tended garden; the happy-go-lucky schmuck who sang opera in the shower. Until they know that I am looking at them --- that I really see THEM --- in their scattered mind I am just one more person with an annoying voice that has come to disturb their sleep.

From these patients I have learned that 'fear' and 'hope' are two sides of the same coin. I have learned that the difference between a stroke victim and a stroke survivor is the ability to overcome fear and embrace hope.

And as Mitch Albom said: I am in love with hope, y'all.

Here's the thing that blows me away:  At any given encounter,  I...you...WE have the God-given power to fan the flame of hope within each other.

It's true.

I've seen it.

I've lived it.

And guess what folks...it's not just an option, it's a responsibility.  One that should not be taken lightly. 

When I meet a stroke patient for the first time, I am pumped to know that I get to serve as a conduit from God to bring hope to a shattered life.

Why should it be any less so for every person I interact with on a daily basis? Haven't we all been broken by life at some point? Brought to our knees with fear upon occasion? Aren't we all carrying burdens that are much too heavy to bear alone?

If we know this to be true, how can we not accept the responsibility of promoting a spirit of hope to our brothers and sisters rather than fostering the disease of fear?  A disease we are allowing to slowly and insidiously paralyze our lives.  Our world.

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Okay, I'll admit it. I may be one of those people who live with my head in the clouds.

But just because I believe in rainbows and unicorns, doesn't mean my feet aren't grounded in reality. Reality is knowing that unicorns are in truth - fat rhinos. No way could a skinny little 'storybook' unicorn could fart a full-blown glorious rainbow.

And I would never send a unicorn to do a rhino's job.  Sheesh.

I choose hope.  But it is hope grounded in reality. The reality of knowing that some of my patients will likely never walk or talk again. The reality of suffering.

I would be a cruel (and crappy) physical therapist to offer false hope to my patients. For their own safety, I must teach them the reality of their limitations. For the love of God, I must share in their suffering. In doing so, I help them to release their fear.  And I must say, the birth of courage under such devastating circumstances is a life-changing transformation to witness, indeed. 

My prayer for today is that I will become more aware and responsible in my interactions with others.  That I will never sow seeds of fear and weakness. I pray for a faith strong enough to conquer fear, a soul that overflows with hope and an unfailing belief in rainbow-farting rhinos.

For ever and ever.  Amen.

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit. 

~ Romans 15:13 ~

Pay No Attention to That Man Behind the Curtain...

Dear Facebook,

Where did we go wrong?

When I first met you, you were absolutely charming and delightful. I checked in with you almost every day, giddy with anticipation of finding new messages, new friend requests...a new way to take  mindless breaks from the stresses of daily life.

You and I have had so much fun over the past few years. From side-splitting laughter with old and new friends to moments of  heartfelt poignancy. I have made memories with you and shared my family with you through hundreds of silly little anecdotes and countless embarrassing photographs.

But frankly, Facebook...you have changed.

Not only are you not as nice as you used to be...let's face it, you're not near as much fun. It seems to me that somewhere along the way you went from being a Social Network to a Political Network.

And in doing so, you have allowed your users to become much too comfortable hiding behind the protective shield of  their monitors, feeling righteously empowered to pontificate in judgemental indignation while hurling angry bombs of hatred at randomly selected  targets...much too often in the name of Christianity.

Facebook, you have provided an endless supply of obnoxious graphics and toxic videos for narrow-minded knuckleheads to post in your news feed. (Though in your defense, those are likely the same folks whose entire belief system fits on the bumper sticker of their car.)

I will give you this --- you have certainly given the Bible a break. Instead of  bashing Real Sinners over the head with the Good Book, many Christians now use you as their favorite battering tool. And in doing so, a climate of hate has been fueled, thereby minimizing any opportunity for sincere adults to engage in civil discourse with respect and grace.

You know I could call your bluff, don't you?  Just like Dorothy & Toto, I could pull back the curtain to reveal the 'keyboard warriors' who spew such negativity and judgement from the safety of their seclusion. 

But I won't.

I won't do it, because in my heart of hearts...I believe most of the perpetrators are basically good people who have gotten caught up in a bad practice. A near-sighted practice of intolerantly highlighting 'eye splinters' in others, while ignoring the plank in their own.  

What I am going to do, Dear Facebook, is take a break. 

That's right.  I'm leaving you for awhile. And while we're apart, I'm going to figure out exactly how Jesus wants me to counter all the negativity and prevalent hate that fills your news feed and saddens my soul. 

Peace and Love,

Robin

Driving Miss Crazy While Turning 100,000

I'm not a nerd or a big fan of numerology, but I am a sucker for symmetry.  And milestones.

You can imagine my excitement when I realized that the odometer on my car was just a few hundred miles away from turning to 100,000. Hugely exciting for me, as I've never been able to hold on to a car long enough to witness such a momentous marking of mileage.

My biggest worry was that I would be too busy having road rage or putting on my lip gloss or eating a taco to catch the notable event as it happened. Worse, that I would be alone in the car with no one around to share the memory.

I find it more than fitting that the Big Moment happened on a road trip with my Mom and my husband...two of my favorite people. Oh yeah, and that OnStar GPS chick. Of course that bimbo had to tag along.

We headed out early Thursday morning, optimistically dreading the long trip from Amarillo to Houston, though none of us dreading it with less optimism than the Dickman. (And really, who could blame him? What man in his right mind would look forward to being locked in a car for nine hours with three chattering chicks...a Twittering Trifecta of Insanity?)

A lesser man would have at least brought along ear plugs. But not the Dickman. Armed with only a fistful of 5-Hour Energy Drinks, one lead foot and a determined smile...he bravely set off on the journey.

As the odometer ticked away the miles, my sainted Mama blessed us with her nuggets full o' wisdom...the highlights of which I recorded.

Here is just a smattering of Mama's Ramblings from the Road:

MILE 99741: “Don't you just love Tom Selleck, Robin? I loooooove Tom Selleck. I have always loved him. I mean, I love to just look at him. I don't really want to do anything with him.  Except maybe feel him a little. Don't tell me you don't want to feel Tom Selleck, Robin. Surely there's somebody you wish you could feel...”

MILE 99811: “I've done a few things I'm sure God didn't approve of. Not as many as Dick, but a few.  It's easier not to sin when you get older.  Let's face it – it's just easier to be a Christian when you get old.”

MILE 99896: “Hey Dick? Aren't you proud of me for doing my Spiegels so that you don't have to stop as often for me to tinkle? Robin told me to do those exercises 10 times a day and hold for like...3 seconds.  But I hold 'em at least 64 seconds. Hey Dick? How many times does 3 go into 64?”

MILE #99923: “Hey Dick? You shoulda seen the hand dryer in that bathroom. It sounded like a B-14 taking off. Is that the right number, B-14?  I can't feel my hands.”

MILE #99952: “I would not want to live on waterfront property - even if they were giving it away. I'm scared to get in the water anymore. What if my head went under and my false teeth floated out? I guess I would just stay underwater until I stopped breathing.”

MILE#99993: “Hey Dick...remember when you were 15 and dating Robin and her brother asked you how your hammer was hanging? Did that really embarrass you?”

And then...

And then It Happened.

The clouds parted and the angels trumpeted and the odometer rolled over to 100,000!!!  Even Mama hushed for a moment of silence. It was a brief moment, but Dickie and his bleeding ears truly appreciated the effort.

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Other than hitting 100,000 miles, Mom's funny banter was the most entertaining part of the trip. Right up 'til we passed the city limits of Houston-Freaking-Texas.

IMPORTANT FACT: The Dickman cannot multitask.

That little factoid, coupled with the reality of Houston's highway infrastructure being just a few concrete blocks short of a demolition zone, mixed in with Mama's droning, my back-seat driving and that obnoxious OnStar beeyotch...and you have nothing less than a recipe for disaster.

Envision with me, if you will...Houston, Texas during rush hour. My Mama is talking LOUDLY with my brother on the phone, I'm screaming directions at Dickie because that blasted OnStar chick WILL NOT shut up, while he is staring in utter panic at the octopus of freeways and off ramps looming ahead. But because Dickie is a man and can only do ONE THING AT A TIME...he exits off the main freeway onto a highway of 90-mile-an-hour-bumper-to-bumper traffic.

OnStar robot bimbo says: “You have left the planned route. Do you need directions to get back on route? I'm listening.”

With eyes popping and veins bulging, Dickie squawked, “Yes!”.

“Speak slower, please.  Do you need new directions? I'm listening.” 

“NO!!” says Mom loudly to my brother on the phone.

“Okay.  Your route will be cancelled.” said lil Miss OnStar.

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Everything that happened afterward is pretty much a blur. Suffice it to say that I don't know who was more lost...OnStar or us. All I know is that it took 9 hours to drive to Houston and 2 hours to find our hotel.

On the trip back home, Mom promised to be quiet.  She seemed to have no trouble adjusting to breathing through her new  muzzle.  And we both quickly learned to appreciate the convenient absorbency of adult undergarments.

As for Dickie, he loaded up with whatever comes after 5-hour energy drinks, bought a shiny new laminated map of Texas, and fired that OnStar chick.

Anyhoo...here's to the next 100,000 miles.  And to remembering:  it's not the destination, it's the journey.

“You got to be careful if you don’t know where you’re going, because you might not get there.”

~ Yogi Berra ~ 

LUMPY MIRACLES

M4 has slid into place with hardly a whimper.

I will never get over how one minute they're just a wriggling mass kicking at their Mommy's ribcage and then, PLOP! Here they are…a living, breathing, sweet-smelling lump of love that you could never imagine living without.

My highest goal in life right now is to make him grin.  At anything...the ceiling, the light...hopefully, at me.

 

I struggle for words to tell him all he needs to know about this amazing life he has inherited. Even though he clearly shows signs of being the SMARTEST BABY EVER, he's not talking yet.  So for now, we communicate telepathically. Our conversations go something like this:

MiMi: Hey there, Baby Marcus...welcome to our big, round, wet, overcrowded ball.

M4: Hey, MiMi. Whaddya call this place?

MiMi: We call it 'home', and it takes a little getting used to. There is much to learn about surviving on this strange planet, but don't worry. We'll teach you everything you need to know.

M4: Gee thanks, MiMi. But all I really want to know is this: where did that pretty lady with the milk jugs go?

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Speaking of boobs...

Smack in the midst of grandbabies dropping from the sky, I managed to convince myself that I had breast cancer.

Seriously.

Just before our 35th anniversary trip to Dallas, I felt a strange lump. I tried to blow it off and enjoy the trip, but while cheering on the Texas Rangers, I felt a sharp *snap*  under my breast.  Right there in the Rangers Ballpark, amongst tens of thousands of fans, the underwire in my bra broke apart...ON THE SAME SIDE AS THE LUMP!!! It completely weirded me out. I took it as a sign, tossed out the rest of my Diet DP and resumed cheering with my left arm only.

When we got back home, I promptly called my doc who set me up for a diagnostic mammogram. In the meantime, I imagined all the ways my life would be changed when the doctor said those three words I have always expected to hear, "You Have Cancer". 

I didn't tell anyone about The Cancer. I didn't even buy a new bra to replace my broken one. Why bother?

I was amazingly brave and spectacularly stoic...until I wasn't.

The night before my mammogram, everything came rushing out and spewed onto the Dickman in one big messy pile of emo-vomit.

It had been a bad day of dealing with a rude patient, running out of Fritos before running out of bean dip, fires in Colorado...you get the picture. Poor, unwitting Dickman came through the door and asked something completely inane like, “Did you use my razor to shave your armpits again?”

And I exploded.

“You are so selfish and inconsiderate and I PROBABLY HAVE BREAST CANCER!!”

[Poor guy. Nothing in life prepared him for Menopausal Robin. Nothing in life prepared ME for Menopausal Robin.]

The Dickman was scared sh*tless. Or at least he acted as though he was. (I strongly suspect that when I wasn't around, he was trolling the internet for my replacement. Probably for a woman in perfect hormonal balance who owned her own razor.)

The next day, he called me every 30 minutes. As I pulled up to the clinic, I picked up my ringing phone and answered with, “Will you please leave me alone?” He said, “Never.”

After all the poking and prodding and sadistic squeezing of my poor aching breast, the results were in:

I did not have cancer. I had a fibrocystic flare-up likely due to hormones and/or too much Diet DP.

Until that moment, I hadn't realized how much I REALLY did not want to have breast cancer. As I walked out through the waiting room, I smiled reassuringly into the concerned eyes of kind strangers, realizing as never before the spirit of sisterhood that exists in such a place.

I made it all the way to my car before I started crying. And then...I couldn't stop.

I cried for all the people I've loved and lost to cancer, for my friend Karne's Mom who fought so bravely, for my young colleague Shayla who just completed her last round of radiation, for the ladies (and men) in that waiting room who on that very day, were not so lucky as I.

I knew I had to suck it up and call my Dickman.  I knew if he heard me crying he would think the worst. I pulled myself together, and he answered on the first ring.

“Seriously. Will you just leave me alone?” I said.

“Never.” He replied.

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There are two ways to live: you can live as if nothing is a miracle; you can live as if everything is a miracle.

 Albert Einstein