IF IT'S NOT ONE THING...IT'S YOUR MOTHER(S)

Mom knew she had arrived earlier than the appointed time when she pulled up in front of Dora’s house, but she was anxious to be on her way to Amarillo…anxious to get the dreaded spinal decompression surgery over with. Dora stuck her head out the front door and hollered that she was almost ready, then disappeared back into her house. To pass the time and calm her nerves, Mom pulled her paperback book out of her purse, rolled the car windows down, and quickly became absorbed in her latest story.

Several minutes had passed when Mom heard a faint sound coming outside the passenger window. Glancing over, Mom saw a hand waving at her through the window and heard Dora’s voice calling for help. She hurriedly opened her door and walked around the car, surprised to find Dora lying uncomfortably between the curb and the car.

“What are you doing on the ground…did you fall?” asked Captain Obvious, aka, Mom.

“Yes, I've fallen and I can’t get up! You’re gonna have to help me!” exclaimed my Mother-in-law, Dora.

Mom shuffled around to the back of the car and pulled her walker out of the trunk.

“Here…use this.” she instructed as she plopped the walker down in front of Dora.

“Dang it, Donna! I said: I. Can’t. Get. Up! I think I hurt my leg.” replied Dickie’s clumsy Mama.

As luck would have it, a white knight in a beat up truck saw the two little ladies beside the road and stopped to help. He managed to get Dora tucked into the car, returned the useless walker to the trunk, and sent them merrily on their way.

Uh, except the merrily part only lasted until Panhandle. At least for Dora. That’s when her leg began throbbing with pain. Which Mom – whether out of stress or a warped sense of humor - found to be hysterically funny.

I happened to be working in the same hospital where Mom was scheduled for surgery. I thought it was sweet that Dora wanted to come with Mom, to offer her support. They had planned to drive straight to my house, and I was waiting for a call to tell me they had arrived safely. That was not the call I received…

“Robin…hahaha…we’re almost to Amarillo…hahaha, but I swear, all that’s holding the two of us together is duct tape and bailing wire, hahaha. Dora thinks she hurt her leg, hahaha. She fell trying to get into my car…haha…and I didn’t even hear her …haha…cause I was reading my Nora Roberts book and you know how good her love scenes are, hahaha.”

“Wait a minute, Mom. If Dora is hurt, why are you laughing so hard?”

“Hahaha! Isn’t it awful…haha? I shouldn’t be laughing, cause Dora is really hurting, hahahaha. You don’t think she broke her leg, do you? BWHAHAHAHA?”

“Mom. Seriously. Stop laughing and drive straight to the hospital. Call me when you get lost.”

She called three more times trying to figure out how to get to the hospital. Mom’s sense of direction is about as warped as her sense of humor.

I had a wheelchair and a couple of my physical therapy buddies ready to help them out of the car when they arrived. Mom still had the giggles, but Dora’s ashen face wasn’t quite so jolly. According to the x-rays, she didn’t have much reason to be. Yep, it’s all fun and games 'til somebody breaks a hip.

And that, my friends, is how my Mom and my Mom-in-law came to be on the same floor of the same hospital after undergoing orthopedic surgeries a mere two hours apart on the same day. That was seven years ago. Since that fateful day, they have not been allowed to travel together without a responsible adult in the car.

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Tuesday happened to be my day for being the responsible adult.

Call me crazy, but I don’t agree that doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results is insanity. In my dysfunctional world…it’s optimism. Which is why, in an effort to kill two birds (or Moms) with one stone, I had optimistically made their cardiology appointments on the same day at the same time, with the same doctor. Bless my heart.

Act One of the Donna and Dora Traveling Road Show began in the clinic waiting room.

As the wait grew longer, the Moms’ patience grew thinner. They began to express their frustration loudly and vocally, their boiling disgust spilling onto the entire medical profession (excluding optometrists and pharmacists, of course).

Mom pointedly explained to everyone present how she had almost become a nurse, but thank goodness had come to her senses. She had, in fact, bought the white shoes, stockings, dress and hat ensemble that all good nurses of the 50’s wore and had actually worked two entire weeks in the hospital. She explained how her budding career as a nurse came to a screeching halt when she was asked to bathe an elderly male patient. After she had modestly dabbed his chest off with a wet washcloth, he removed the towel across his hips and asked if she minded washing his...uh, junk. That was when Florence Nightingale threw the washcloth at her patient and walked out of the room. And continued walking right on out of the hospital.

But HAD she become a nurse, Mom explained to us all, she would never leave her patients waiting a whole hour in the waiting room. How. Rude.

Dora agreed, mumbling how she made it all the way to her wedding night without ever having to see a man’s junk, much less, wash it.

Finally (thank you Baby Jesus) we were called back to the examining room. Carrying three purses while leading two Moms through the maze of halls was not unlike herding cats. Slow, shuffling, noisy cats. With 45-pound purses.

Dora went through the battery of tests first. As Mom watched the nurse place electrodes on Dora’s chest for an EKG, she told us how much she had always envied Dora’s greatly endowed boobage. But not so much any more...

Dora bragged to the the nurse that her EKG would be better than my Mom’s, because she had never been a nasty smoker and everyone knows that smoking affects your heart. And makes your breath stink. And probably kept your boobs from growing. According to Dora.

After the tests, the exhausted nurse gave both Moms a copy of their individual lab results.

Dora looked at hers in confusion and said, “I never did know what a cholesterol was.”

“Oh you have one.” Mom told her, helpfully. “Everyone has a cholesterol.”

Finally, the doctor came in and attempted to give each of them a good report. I felt like an interpreter at a UN Summit Meeting, between the heavily accented Arabian doctor and the stereophonic babbling Moms. He seemed to feel safer addressing Dora. Especially after Mom told him she didn’t want any more tests done. Ever. “Might I ask why?” He politely asked.

“Because, hey…you gotta die with something, right?”

“That’s right Mrs. Cooper.” He replied with his eye twitching.

Two hours and thirty minutes it took us. One hundred and fifty minutes to essentially learn that smoking will make you flat and that all God’s children have a cholesterol.

But being around these two Moms of mine...with their indomitable spirits and wacky humor...best 2 ½ hours of my week.

Even as they frazzle my brain, they fill my heart, and make my belly ache with laughter. I count it nothing but honor to stand with them as they stand together, united in their fight against the fast fade, connected forevermore through their grandchildren, great-grandchildren and generations of Cooper-Haneys to come.

I didn’t need no stinkin doctor to tell me their hearts were good. Both my Moms have the Very Best Hearts. And my own is grateful for every day they are still with me. Duct tape, bailing wire, and all...they bless my heart, indeed ♥

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He washed MY feet

Mothers of boys…we see our sons in their most vulnerable moments. We’re the ones they come to when they are sick, when they get hurt, when they’ve had a broken heart or a bad dream.

And because we’re the ones who see them with their guards down, it makes it harder for us not to over-protect and over-manage. Hard to keep ourselves from going before them to make the crooked paths straight.

We alone know the heart of our son, the heart that grew right under our own, in a way nobody else ever will.

This is why it is almost impossible for us to look at our son and see a man. Even if he has hair on his face and an apple on his Adam, we still look through those grown-up eyes and see the breakable heart of our own little boy.

Instead of the 27-year old man, we see the 4-year old little guy that we dropped off for his first day of preschool. The one that walked off sadly with his teacher, tugged on her hand to stop, then turned around to look back at me. As he looked me up and down with all the solemnity of a judge, Jacob's parting shot was: “I just wanted to remember what you looked like...”

Letting go is hard.

It’s been even harder with Jacob. Partly because he’s my baby, partly because he’s always been the sensitive one, and mostly because he’s traveled down a long and crooked road that only he could finally make straight.

I’ve learned so much from Jacob. As a little guy, he was my peacemaker…the one that always wanted everybody together in the same house in the same room singing Kumbaya and passing out cookies. He has always seen the best in everyone and everything around him. Every meal that I cooked was the best one he had ever eaten, every song his brother taught him on the guitar was the best one he had ever heard, every ballgame he and his Dad played was the most fun ever.

 

Jacob has always seen life in extremes…from the brightest hues of the rainbow to the darkest grays imaginable. For him, those days that weren’t The Very Best, were almost always The Worst.

To experience life so deeply is both a blessing and a curse. To be born with a heart so empathic that it never stops feeling must be both wonderful and terrifying. I never really understood depression until I had to watch my young son struggle in its grips. I never realized how far one would go to escape those dark feelings, until he almost escaped too far.

We’ve been through a lot, my Jacob and I. Much like any parent-child relationship, not all of it has been pretty. But we’ve never given up on each other. No one could love him more.

++++++++++

Last Saturday, I was kneeling on the floor beside the Dickman’s chair, looking over his shoulder as he read about me making fun of him in my last blog. As we were laughing together, I felt something cold and wet touch my feet. I swung my head around to see Jacob on the floor beside me, washing my feet off with a paper towel.

Let me repeat myself: Jacob was washing MY feet.


To fully appreciate this act of kindness, you would have to know what ugly feet I have. My feet are Fugly. Truly. My own Mom once told me that my feet looked like they had worn out three bodies. My husband tells everyone that he married me IN SPITE of my ugly feet. I have bunions. I have callouses. I have cracked heels. I even have a spot on the bottom of my right foot that occasionally grows a tiny hair, but we’ll save that for another story.

“What in the world are you doing? Are my feet really THAT dirty?” I said to J.P. in surprise.

“Nah, they’re not too bad. I just wanted to wash your feet.” He replied.

Distracted by my husband’s hysterical laughter as he watched another video of his sedated self…I paid my son little heed. Until a few moments later, when I felt him gently rubbing lotion onto my now clean feet.

“Seriously, dude…lotion?” I said.

“Yeah. Your feet are really dry. This will make them feel better.” So said my handsome manservant.

Again, without much thought, I turned back to my laughing husband.

++++++++++

Later that day I pulled up to Jacob’s new apartment. He and his Dad had begun moving him in and thankfully, I had timed it just right so there was nothing heavy left for me to carry up the stairs. As the guys were busy doing manly stuff like putting bed rails together and hooking up cable, I puttered around in his tiny kitchen, trying to not to wonder what might be growing in a half-empty bag of flour that had survived six weeks of storage in a horse trailer.

No sooner had we moved him in, than he was ready for us to be on our way. As I walked back down the steps of his apartment he called out to me and I turned around.

“Mom…? Thanks. I really mean it. Thanks for everything. I know I’ve put you through a lot. That’s why I washed your feet this morning.”

“Well, baby…that was really so sweet of you. But I’m sure you washed my feet because they were hideous and your OCD just couldn’t stand it.”

 

“No, Mom. I mean…yeah, it started out that way. I got a paper towel to wipe a smudge off your foot. But then I thought about how Jesus washed his disciples’ feet and I wanted to do the same for you. I couldn’t find any oil, so I just used lotion. I wanted to show you that I’m sorry. And that I love you.”


I looked at this beautiful man that was once my little boy.  I really looked at him. And suddenly all I saw was the man, standing strong and vulnerable before me. His tender heart shining out of blue eyes full of hope...hope that I would understand the importance of the gift he had given.

Finally, I saw.

I walked back up the steps and hugged him. I wrapped my arms around this son of mine who had been through so much, who had fought so hard to stand right where he was standing. I told him I was sorry. That I didn’t realize at the time just how precious a gift he had given me. But now? I got it.

As Jacob’s mother, there is nothing that I’ve ever done to make me worthy of him washing my feet. Even so, I got it.

There I stood - just like Peter – confused and unworthy.

And there he was - being Jesus - giving the purest of gifts in the most humble of ways.

As I was driving away, I glanced back one more time and took a long, appreciative look at the man standing on the stairs. In that moment, with a heart filled to bursting...I just wanted to remember what he looked like.

Going Down Tobacco Road With A One-Way Ticket To Paradise

After so many years together, it's safe to say that my husband and I have few surprises left for each other. That's why it was such a shock to see an entirely new side of the Dickman - one I had not known existed - when he underwent an Upper and Lower GI last year.

Other than giving birth to a kidney stone and, oh yeah, a recent unfortunate case of the 'Kneesles' which developed from a dog bite to the knee ---> (hahaha), Dickie has always been disgustingly healthy.

As you might expect, his experience with hospitals and medical procedures has been very limited. In fact, prior to last year's scope, he had never been under any type of anesthesia or sedation.

Suffice it to say, he really didn't need to take the pre-procedural Go-Lightly, cause he was pretty much scared sh*tless.

And take it from me, fear is not an emotion that the Dickman wears well. Thankfully, he is a man of few fears. In fact, except for roller coasters and PMS'ing women, the only thing the Dickman is afraid of is...needles.

So, what do you get when you combine a deep-seated needle phobia with an overt need to be in control? One Crappy Patient. Which in itself is surprising, as Dickie has always excelled at most every other thing in life. Except chewing gum and threading needles. And maybe a few other little things. (You can email me for a complete list.)

The main problem is - just like every other male of the species - the Dickman wants to be in the driver's seat. Both literally and figuratively. Whether driving an actual car or guiding an actual surgical tube through his own orifice(s). He does not like giving over control.

In spite of it all, he survived the dual-ended scope. In fact, Dickie was awarded an A+ on his butt scope, which to my understanding is the same as saying he is, I mean...has...a perfect butthole. As for the Upper GI, the doc recommended that Dickie undergo a follow-up scope this year. In my opinion, this was prescribed simply because Loopy Dickman is so darn entertaining.

Seriously, there is nothing funnier than the Dickman under the influence of the conscious sedation drug,Versed. In all the many fun-filled, rip-roaring years of my marriage, I have never laughed harder at anything or anyone than Dickie post-scope.

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A few weeks back I was in the process of filling out my WOTY (Wifey Of The Year) entry form when Dickie called to let me know he had scheduled his upper GI scope.

Don't judge me, but I can't tell you how excited I got in anticipation of seeing Dickie under the influence once again. I was especially excited because this time I would be prepared. This time I was taking a camera to record Dick on Drugs for all posterity and his grandbabies to see.

[Is that wrong? Go ahead and nod your head yes, I really don't care. Because in all my excitement of getting to laugh at my sedated husband, I forgot to send in my WOTY entry form.]

I'm not sure why Dickie has such a crazy reaction on Versed. I've had the same drug and do exactly what I'm supposed to: sleep like a baby in between short wake-ups to ask "Is it over? Am I okay?".

But no, not the Dickman. Not only does he refuse to relax and go to sleep, he won't shut up. And his personality changes into a character that can only be described as a combination of his Uncle Harold shooting the bull with a bunch of guys outside the Borger Bulldog bus barn and former president Bill Clinton holding court at a summit meeting.

I submit Exhibit A...the Dickman in the early throes of mindless utopia as he begins to channel President Clinton, his voice in sincere meeting mode:



Throughout the entire debacle, Dickie remained very fixated on his Diet Dr. Pepper. Here he is trying to figure out the existential meaning of a Dr. Pepper gone flat while going down Tobacco Road with a One-Way Ticket to Paradise:



And my very favorite...more Diet DP deliberation mixed in with a little French lesson amid declarations of true love:



Yeah, sure I'm gonna let you drive home. You can't even operate the bendy straw in your drink can.

When the nurse had enough of the Loopy Dickman, she came in and asked who he was going home with. In all his virile glory, Dickie assumed the nurse was hitting on him. (Another weird side effect of the Dickman on Versed...he suddenly becomes irresistible to nurses, but only in his mind. Bless his heart.)

Thankfully, he still liked me best, and not just because I was the one taking him home.

Finally, here he is...happy to be going home with me, a special child of the universe:



I might add that before we left, the doc came in to talk to us and gave me some Good News and some Bad News. The Good News was that Dickie had checked out fine. The Bad News was that he wouldn't have to have another scope for three years.

"What??" I said, "I have to wait three more years to enjoy my husband on Versed again?!" "'Fraid so, Mrs. Haney" the doctor said...then skedaddled away.

Oh well - look at the bright side. With a three-year hiatus, I might actually have a shot at winning Wifey of the Year.

REMEMBERING 9/11

Flashbulb Memory (noun) a memory laid down in great detail during a highly personally significant event. These memories are perceived to have a "photographic" quality. For example, a great many people can remember exactly where they were when they heard of the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001 or the assassination of John F. Kennedy or John Lennon. (Webster)

With both sons away at college and my husband in Philadelphia on a business trip, that Tuesday morning in September was unusually quiet and peaceful in my little corner of the world.

I made it all the way to the hospital before I was alerted to the catastrophic events unfolding in NYC. Walking into a patient’s room to begin therapy, the unbelievable images on the television slowly seeped into my brain. I calmly excused myself and went to the therapy office, where fear and confusion had erupted among my young co-workers. I distinctly remember one therapist on the phone, sobbing to her mother, telling her over and over how much she loved her.

Another young student was sitting quietly in shocked silence as hot tears streamed from her disbelieving eyes. I wrapped my arms around her in motherly comfort, having nothing else to give her. There were no words, only the unspoken understanding that everything had suddenly changed.

I looked up to see my boss searching the room, watched as his eyes settled on mine. He came over to me and with great concern asked if I had spoken to Dickie. I did not know what he had just learned. That a third plane had exploded on impact right outside of Philadelphia.

In spite, or perhaps because of the horror that had filled the morning, I hadn’t given a thought to the fact that my husband might be so close to the tragedy. I told my boss that Dickie was supposed to have flown out of Philadelphia earlier that morning. He said, “You need to call him, Robin. Another plane just went down.”

As I heard his words, I stopped for a moment to check my heart. My heart has carried Dickie around inside for so many years, I knew there would be a physical change in rhythm if he were not okay. Even so, he had never felt so far away.

It took awhile to get through to him. All circuits were busy. When I finally heard his sweet, ‘Hey, baby…are you okay?”, I felt the world shift shakily back onto its axis. Beyond being frustrated and helpless – and oh so sad – he was okay. All flights had been cancelled, all rental cars had been rented. On the day of the worst tragedy in history, he wanted nothing more than to be home with his family but was powerless to do anything but return to his hotel and wait.

In the hours and days that followed, my time was either spent in front of the TV or on the phone. There were endless conversations with my sons, with my mother, and with Dickie, who was slowly going crazy trapped in his hotel room. All of us shared our frustration and our fear, hopelessly trying to make sense of a senseless act, trying to find words of reassurance. With each image of Ground Zero, of the Pentagon, of the field in Pennsylvania, we all felt the impact of those airplanes like a punch to the chest. We shared in the unspeakable grief for the thousands that had been impacted directly.

I remember calling my 93 year old grandmother who suffered from dementia and had a hard time figuring out the world on a good day. I called my Flodie at her supervised group home, just wanting to hear her precious voice. Her caregiver answered and said my grandmother was agitated, but fine. As soon as she heard my voice Flodie excitedly said, “Robin, I think something bad might have happened.” I said, "Why do you think so?” She replied, “It was on TV...somebody made a mess.”

“I think you’re right, Flodie,” I said. “Somebody made a big mess...”

Two days later, Dickie was able to connect with a friend from Amarillo who was also stuck in Philadelphia. They had somehow secured one of the last rentals to be found and drove straight through to Texas in 22 hours.

With Dickie safe at home, I was finally able to release my feelings - on paper. This is the letter I sent to my sons:

===========================================

September 15, 2001

Lucas & J.P.,

What a week! You guys don’t know how many times I’ve wanted to pick up the telephone during this past week just to hear your voices, and how thankful I am to God that I was able to do so. Part of me wanted to have you close to me at home; but most of me felt peace knowing that you were at ACU, praying in Chapel, praying in groups, praying all alone for our people and our country.

What has happened this week affects all of us deeply. Beyond that, the results of Tuesday’s Terrorism will have a profound effect on My Grandbabies-To-Be. I thank God that my sons have had the privilege of making it into manhood without directly knowing the threat of war. No matter what the near future may bring as a result of this terrorism, I believe that both of you are mature enough and strong enough in your faith to deal with it. But I’m selfish enough to admit that it really infuriates me that My Grandchildren will not be able to grow up with the same sense of security. And I can’t help but wonder what kind of world they will inherit…

I’d like to think that there will be ‘trade-offs’. My little blue & green-eyed (brown-eyed?) Grandbabies will be born into a nation left with obscene scars that were unimaginable to us less than one week ago. But they will never grow up taking their freedom for granted, as our generations have done. My Grandbabies will never think that it’s ‘corny’ to sing the national anthem or question the tears that form in the eyes of their parents and grandparents when we hear their sweet voices singing of the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave. The words to the Pledge of Allegiance – One Nation, under God - will never be empty words, but words of promise and hope to My Grandbabies. Most of all, I believe that My Grandbabies will grow up depending on God with their every breath, not just in times of chaos and trouble. I believe that their faith will be stronger, their hearts will be softer, their pride indestructible. I’m sad that some asshole from Afghanistan has shaken the physical foundation that I believed would remain intact for My Grandbabies. But I thank God that they will grow up in a world whose eyes have been opened, and whose spiritual foundation became renovated, reconstructed and reinforced on 9-11-01.

I challenge you both to be an active part in helping to bring our nation back to God. I want My Grandbabies to know and believe in foundations that can’t be broken apart by cowards and unbelievers. I challenge you to stay strong and keep the faith. You are My Baby Boys and I love you both more than you could ever know.

Mom
Psalm 46

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Ten years later…I now have three of those blue-eyed grandbabies. Three beautiful souls full of innocence and hope, who are not yet old enough to understand the monstrous evil unleashed upon our nation a decade ago.

The fact that Islamic terrorists wanted revenge is not what is important for them to understand about 9/11. What I hope they will understand is the amazing bravery of the First Responders; how everyday people turned into heroes; how we should never take our liberties – or our life – for granted. I hope they come to realize that in spite of the best efforts of a cowardly band of terrorists, we still remain the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave.

Most of all, I hope they will grow up to be the kind of people that speak these words as a prayer...that will whisper or sing or shout these words with a hand proudly placed over a heart filled with faith:

GOD BLESS AMERICA.

The Griswolds Do DFW - 3G

When my sons were small, family vacations primarily consisted of trips to meet up with other dysfunctional relatives for reunions. Being there was fun. Getting there...not so much.

On those long trips I spent the majority of the car ride twisted like a pretzel in the front seat, either answering the whine of "When will we be there?" ad nauseam or playing referee between my two sons while they committed such atrocities as breathing on one other. After endless hours of listening to cassette tapes of 70's music, we would fill the void by playing such lively games as 'I spy something...' and 'Slug Bug'.

It's safe to say our trips pretty much mirrored those of the Griswold family --- me screaming at my sons to "get along and act like you're having fun!" as they managed to dodge my blindly swatting hand with ninja-like skills of evasion. Oblivious to the drama, the Dickman never missed a beat while drumming Inna Gadda Da Vida on the steering wheel.

I'm sure it was his fond memories of those trips that gave Lucas a moment's hesitation when we offered to wisk two of his perfect children off for a quick trip to DFW. The fact that we were only staying one night weighed heavily in our favor. (Because really...how much could we warp his babies in just two days?) He agreed to let us take his little darlins on two stipulations: 1) that we take his brother Jacob along for a chaperone, and 2) that we drive his family van, equipped with 5-point harness safety seats and a custom DVD player.

Good call, Lucas.

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DAY ONE

Can I just say that nothing makes a five hour car trip with young children easier than hypnotising them by playing Blue's Clues on a loop? Today's vehicular DVD players are the equivalent of our generation's practice of dosing the kids with Benadryl and singing 14 rousing choruses of "99 Bottles of Beer".

(Road Trip Nirvana)

Even the lull of the DVD couldn't completely calm the buzz of excitement in the car headed down Highway 287 for Six Flags. Call me crazy, but no matter how many candles wind up on my birthday cake...Six Flags will always be one of my favorite places.

And here I was, taking two of my favorite short people to one of my favorite places. Perhaps such overt excitement was to blame for my shortsidedness in forgetting a few unfortunate morsels of information: not only were we hitting Six Flags on one of the hottest days in Texas history, but both my body and I had aged at least 15 years since our last trip to Six Flags.

It was shocking to find the only people older than Dickie and I who worked at Six Flags were the park maintenance people. When did that happen?

As for the heat...we found that sweating every last drop of moisture from your body pretty much takes care of having to tinkle in a public park restroom.


Other than making sure we never missed a drop of mist, our other strategery for staying cool was to sit quietly on the the exhausted backs of the painted ponies running in circles under the shaded carousel...

...or to loiter in the air-conditioned gift shops until Mandie or Mattman started licking the candy.

Speaking of licking...it was worth the price of admission to discover that age does not diminish the delightful taste of a Pink Thing! But disheartening to remember that a three-digit temperature combined with amusement park food combined with roller coasters is a surefire recipe for disaster. After all, these rides were specifically designed to extract vomit from kids filled with Pink Things and curly fries.

Or more precisely, adults filled with Pappasito's mexican food.

(Not the vomit-inducing ride.)

(Nope, only smiles, no vomit.)

[By the way, there was not a single group shot taken, because two of us always had our hands full of kid and the other one couldn't find a reliable person that did not look like a camera thief. Very large people squished into tiny spandex garments do not evoke fuzzy feelings of trust.]

We finally sweated through all our dignity and made a beeline for the most invasive water ride we could find. It was powerfully refreshing to get drenched with gallons of stagnant water.

And nothing short of empowering to realize that nobody even notices if you got scared on the ride and peed your pants...


Just 5 hours, 4 sausages-on-a-stick, 3 Pink Things, and 2 glow-in-the dark headbands later, we were forced to leave when our chaperone blew chow on a Tilt-N-Hurl ride in Gotham City.

As we drove back to the hotel, we reviewed our fun-filled day amid the smells of vomit, fried foods and urine. We unanimously agreed: A Good Time Was Had By All.

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

DAY TWO

We awoke the next day somewhat recovered and ready for Part Deux of our Great DFW Adventure. Our little gang of five divided into teams of gender as the boys dropped Mandie and I off in front of the obnoxiously pink American Girl Boutique...

(Finding my tiny G-girl in this photo is like Finding Waldo.)

I'm not ashamed to admit it. I got almost as excited as my 5-year old Grand-girl when we stepped out of the real world and into the land of doll utopia. We walked through showroom after showroom looking at displays selling everything a doll could ever need or want. From the skin of her plastic torso to the wardrobe of her real-life girl/mommy - here it was. Estrogen on crack.


Maybe it's because I've lived most of my life in a man's world, but when I got past all the PINK --- I couldn't help but be a little in awe of this oh-so-girly store full of everything a doll lover could imagine --- and then some. For example, here is American Girl's answer to what one should do with a doll while answering the call of nature:


Meanwhile, the boys combined their collective testosterone and marched themselves right on over to...the Galleria shopping mall. Okay, in all fairness, they did manage to hang out with some ferociously wild animals...




Packing so much fun into a two day trip was nothing short of exhausting, for 3 year olds and 50+ year olds, alike. I anticipated hearing nothing on the long ride home but the sound of gentle snoring (hopefully not from the driver). Instead, what I heard was "Can we watch Blue's Clues again?".

As we drove through Quanah, I found myself humming "99 bottles of beer" and scavanging in my purse for a Benadryl.


Blue's Clues, aside, I loved every sweaty moment of our Most Excellent Adventure. Traveling with grandchildren is much more fun than traveling with your own children. Nobody has to act their age and everybody gets to have a great time.

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

When we finally pulled into Lucas' driveway, turned off the DVD player and unhooked the harnesses...we all bailed out of that smelly car with hearts and souls stuffed to overflowing with memories.

And that's important.

Cause you never know when you might need one of those memories - or at least a green balloon - to carry you along this roller coaster ride of LIFE.

We don’t stop playing because we grow old;
we grow old because we stop playing.
~ George Bernard Shaw ~

Crossing Over

I walked out of the airport and into Dickie’s arms. I pulled back to look at his face and saw my sadness and fatigue mirrored in his beautiful blue eyes. “How is he?” I asked. “Do you think it’s too late to go see him?”

“Aw, Robin…you’re tired. I’m tired. We can see him in the morning. Unless you want to go now. Do you want to?”

“Yes”, I replied. “I need to go now”.

We walked into the hospice room and I went straight to Richard's bed. He was lying quietly, staring off into space. I leaned over him, gently embracing his shockingly thin shoulders. I put my cheek next to his and whispered in his ear “So, this is what happens when I leave town for a few days?”. He gave me a ghost of a smile and asked if I had a good time. Embarrassed by my tears (I should be at least as strong as he), it took me a minute to come up with a smartass answer.

We spoke of things both trivial and monumental. We spoke of doctors and soup and Last Wishes. His effort to remain strong and stoic was remarkable. The only crack in his tired armor came when he spoke of his loves – Vicky and Michelle. We laughed about his hiccups. I hugged him goodbye and told him I would see him ‘tomorrow’.

Eight hours later we got the call that he was fading quickly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There is nothing more sacred than being present during the passing of a loved one. For whatever reasons, I have spent more last moments with loved ones than I care to count. It has happened so often that my brother lovingly calls me the ‘angel of death’.

Letting go of someone you love is never easy. The finality of that last goodbye - our last physical connection with someone who has shared our lives - is heartbreakingly sad. Every single time. There is that human part of us that never fails to confuse dying with the finality of death. There is always that momentary blindness in our cloud of grief that forgets dying is nothing more than a transition into a deeper form of life and a more perfect way of living.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
His eyes were mostly closed, his breathing pattern erratic and slowed. I kissed him on the cheek and told him I loved him. He squeezed my hand and rasped his love in return. I thanked him for being my friend. I told him that today seemed like a good day to go to Heaven. I asked if he would talk to Jesus about sending some rain our way. I’m selfish like that.

Moments later, we gathered around Richard as he rested peacefully in the whirlpool. The lights were dimmed, the bubbling of the water calming and tranquil. It took me a few moments to hear the music playing softly in the background. It was a song that had carried me through some of my hardest days…a song of hope and grace. I gently placed my hand on Richard’s chest, feeling his precious heartbeat as I softly sang along…

Amazing grace
How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost, but now I'm found
Was blind, but now I see

His pulse beneath my hand grew fainter and I knew I was standing in the presence of sacredness. My tears overflowed as I celebrated Richard’s arrival in heaven.

They say our hearing is the last sense lost. With one foot in a hospice whirlpool and one foot in heaven, these were the words that sang Richard home...

My chains are gone
I've been set free
My God, my Savior has ransomed me
And like a flood His mercy rains
Unending love, Amazing grace

Rich...I know you've already found your Little Piece of Heaven on the other side and are no doubt fishing. Just a reminder - after you pull in a few big ones - don't forget to check on that rain for me, friend.

Richard Wallace
6/28/1951 - 8/22/2011

ABOUT THOSE BLUE-BUNDLED SUPERHEROES...

I am but another middle-aged woman with shrinking ovaries bumbling my way through life, figuring it out as I sashay down the cobblestoned pathway before me. Thankfully, along the way I have discovered that wisdom does indeed come with age. And though I still have much to learn, there are a couple topics of which I have researched extensively and consider myself to be somewhat of an authority. One is chocolate. The other is boys. (By the way, it’s nothing but a coincidence that they both have nuts.)

My love for chocolate – even nutless chocolate - needs no explanation. So let’s talk boys…

[PLEASE NOTE: When I say ‘boys’, I am referring to ALL boys…old and young, big and small, hairy or bald. Because for the most part, they are basically the same with just different heads. Few of them ever really grow up.]

As a female who has spent the majority of her life surrounded by more testosterone than a Texas bull breeder, I am here to tell you:

BOYS ARE DIFFERENT THAN GIRLS.

Gender neutrality be danged - it is the truth. And while the differences between ‘us and them’ are many and mighty, I would like to offer up just a few personal observations. Offered of course, with love and celebration (and no small measure of bafflement) regarding those noble carriers of the Y chromosome.

BOYS ARE NOT AS CLEAN AS GIRLS.

Makes sense if you think about it. Males - as Hunters and Gatherers - were genetically designed to survive life in the wild. Though it worked well for Tarzan, it can be a bit problematic for a Mom whose biggest job in life is to morph a wildass manchild into a socially acceptable human being. The nastiness begins early on, and manifests itself in their stinky bedrooms. A small boy’s bedroom smells a lot like wet puppy dogs and rotting goldfish. As they grow older, the smell ripens into something resembling moldy bean burritos and petrified cheese balls, with a heavy dose of smartass thrown in. Perhaps their nastiest habit of all is the vast amount of time they spend scratching themselves and adjusting their crotches. (Which is important to keep in mind whenever they ask to share your potato chips.)

If you leave little boys with big, supposedly responsible boys...when you return home you will find all of them laying around in their underwear, scratching themselves while watching Season 2 of Swamp People and sharing a bag of potato chips. And regardless of their laundry skills, they’ve likely been wearing those same underwear for days. Many days. Turns out, boys do not consider their underwear to be dirty until they have been worn frontwards, backwards, right side out, inside out and upside down.

I know it’s discouraging, but there is hope. If you start when they are very young, they are somewhat trainable. For example, they can be taught to lower toilet seats, refrain from eating boogers, and to never ever fart in an unairconditioned car. Ultimately, it’s an exercise in futility to even hope to exact lasting change on the male of the species. Unless of course, he is wearing a diaper.

BOYS ARE LESS CONCERNED ABOUT APPEARANCES THAN GIRLS.

With the exception of weird male outliers like David Hasselhoff…most boys hate to dress up, care little about fashion trends and believe that wearing plaid instead of a gray t-shirt is a fashion statement. One of my brothers, who shall remain nameless (but whose name rhymes with ‘belly’) has owned only one dress jacket his entire adult life. He lovingly refers to it as his Funeral Jacket. The pockets bulge with memorial cards from every single funeral he has attended over the past 15 years.

Then, there are shoes. Boys only need three pairs of shoes: athletic, dress and casual. Actually, two pair will do, as athletic and casual often serve the same purpose. In their favor, guys never lose sleep wondering what shoes might go best with their new salmon-colored shirt. A moot point, because most guys are a bit color blind. Or even if they see colors perfectly well, they will never be able to pick 'Salmon' out of a box of Crayolas. Ecru either, for that matter.

Also in their favor, boys are much more secure about their bodies than we are. And much more sane. They would never subject themselves to a Brazilian wax or walk about in 4-inch heels or shoot themselves up with Botox.

BOYS WANT TO BE OUR HEROES.

In their heart of hearts, all boys wish they could fly like Superman. They love Superheroes and spend their entire lives working on their unique secret power. A guy never feels more manly than when a helpless female brings them a jar to open. Somehow, in their minds, opening our jars is equivalent to us pushing out 8 pounds of baby for them.

They want to be needed. They need to protect, and are always on guard for things that go bump in the night...or even crickets that go chirping in the night. There's not a cricket on the planet that doesn’t quake at the name of Dickman – The Mighty Cricket Hunter. The Dickman once engaged a cricket in a 45 minute hand-to-hand combat. Seriously...for 45 minutes, in the middle of a moonless night, using his son's radar gun for a flashlight, my nekkid husband fought a duel with a defenseless cricket hiding in the bottom of my closet full of shoes. That’s an image that will forever be engraved upon my mind.

BOYS LIVE IN FEAR OF KRYPTONITE.

Grown-up boys will never ask for directions. Admitting they could be in any way directionally challenged is a sign of weakness punishable by possible revocation of the Man Card. Moreover, any car trip involving a male driver – excluding funeral processions - will immediately turn into a potential NASCAR audition. The clock starts ticking after leaving city limits with nothing less than national speed records at stake. I have experienced being the only female traveling in a car full of boys who were in such a race against the clock that they limited my bathroom breaks to towns that began with the letter ‘P’. Of course I was agreeable to the plan. I only peed in Plubbock, Post and Psnyder on the way to Pabilene.

BOYS LOVE TO FIX STUFF.

Although they act all bothered, they really like it when we break stuff around the house because it gives them a chance to show off their ‘fix-it’ skills. Preferably using only duct tape and/or WD-40.

BOYS ARE GOOD WITH REMOTES, BUT NOT SO GOOD WITH WORDS.

I read somewhere that women use around 20,000 words each day, compared to men’s use of only 7,000 words per day. Their word shortage makes it even more important to be succinct when they verbalize their innermost thoughts. Thoughts such as: What’s for dinner? Where’s my glasses?

There are three occasions in which the male species is rendered virtually deaf:

1) when watching anything involving a ball on TV;

2) the first 20 minutes after coming home from work; and

3) when they hear the dreaded words: We.Need.To.Talk.

They are marginally capable of communicating while playing video games, but it will be your fault if they lose. And just so you know, they really don’t want us playing video games with them. In actuality, they are playing the video game to escape from us.

It goes without saying that they must maintain control of the remote at all times. Which is fine. It’s really such a small concession for us to make, when they have control of so little.

Face it girls, with the combination of fewer words and almost no intuition...they will never be able to read our minds. Furthermore, any correlation between what you meant and what he understood? Purely coincidental.

BIG BOYS DO CRY.

In reality, boys are by and large much more sensitive than they will ever admit. Their feelings can be hurt. Their hair-covered muscled exteriors protect a mushy inner core of vulnerability. Boys of any size can be brought to their knees with nothing more than a simple, heart-felt compliment. Even superheroes need compliments.

BOYS…they are loud. They are messy. They are strange. They love weird stuff like dinosaurs, beef jerky, barbeque tools, fart jokes, flashlights, graphic equalizers, peeing in the snow, and crushing soda cans on their foreheads. They test the limits. They will melt your heart one minute and will shatter it in the next. But without a doubt they are God’s most wondrous creations.

My life has been blessed beyond expression to be surrounded by an abundance of handsome princes. Although I’ve learned to fake an interest in bug guts and a fascination with car parts, I’ve never had to fake my adoration for those funny, charming male creatures. I love them, each and every one...from the old balding ones who’ve still got a twinkle in their eye and a spring in their step...to the handsome hunky ones...the little guys with pockets full of treasures...all the way down to the tiny, sweet-smelling new ones bundled in a blanket of blue…

Welcome to the family, baby Max.

Looks like your brother Mason has discovered that it’s much more fun to be a big brother than a superhero ♥

"A boy is the only thing that God can use to make a man."