Tuesday, December 5, 2017


So this is it, you guys. This is how it ends.

One day you're young and perky and able to bend forward far enough to shave your own legs and you feel like it's always going to be this way. Like those stories you heard growing up about a grandma who went outside to get the mail but tripped on the hose broke her hip and died were just crazy talk. And you're going to be different. You're not like other grandmas. You're the special kind of grandma who will never need to trombone when you're reading a menu and who people think is the mother of the baby you're carrying and say when they're your age they hope they look half as good. The kind of special grandma who, when you feel like it, will have the option to get into shape and start running marathons and can hold your grand baby without your arms shaking and your body will always produce hair and hormones and red lipstick will be your forever friend. THAT is the kind of grandma you're going to be and you just really feel sorry for all of the normal grandmas out there who did something wrong along the way which is why they find themselves in such a sorry state—those poor dears.

But then one day you wake up in agony because you threw your back out turning over in bed and you realize that you are, in fact, not the special kind of grandma, but are, in fact, going to have to wake up your husband to help you get to the bathroom.

Here's some of what we've got going on here:

Daily medication for migraines.

Aging eyeballs, but not the way normal people's eyeballs age. Nope. See, mine still see close up but can't focus once I look farther away unless I give them a few minutes to pull their shit together.

High blood pressure, which I always insisted was anxiety induced because every time they checked it I was at the doctor where they nearly killed (weighed) me, then told me to "scoot your bum down to the end of the table aaand relaaaaxxx..." So is it any wonder? But then after years of daily indolence, Dr. Peppers and doughnuts, anxiety induced turned into me induced.

Hiatal Hernia which is a displaced stomach with some kind of hole or tear or fissure or I really don't know what but what I do know is it is responsible for SONIC BOOM burps, lots of stomach aches and the inability to take a swig of water in the middle of the night. Or in the morning. Or in the afternoon or really any time on a clock.

Herniated (bulging) disc with nerve impingement. Didn't even feel the needle they stabbed into my foot.
Sciatica. Could barely drive without screaming.
Achilles Tendonitis in FREAKING BOTH FEET. I don't want to talk about it.

But what I do want to talk about is these bumps all over my body but mostly on my legs that just kind of appear every few days with no explanation of where they came from or where they're going but with all their belongings strapped to the top of their car and a beach bag on their arm clearly intending to stay a while as it seems my middle aged body is ocean front property and my vanity is paying their taxes.

So THAT is where I find myself.  And as I hobble out to the mailbox eating a fistful of pills, pale pink lipstick feathering away from my thin lips and avoiding the tangled hose, I realize I am a normal grandma which means, according to my logic, I must have done something wrong. But I'm even more sure I did something right to be blessed with doctors and husbands and aging friends and beautiful grand babies and nude tone pantyhose and Kate Spade purses to journey with me to the bitter end.

Speaking of grand babies, I present to you all LYDIA EVE BINGHAM and her eyebrows. She's my favorite...for now.

Tuesday, April 25, 2017


A couple of Sundays ago, while singing praises with the choir, I tried to make loving Easter eye contact with my children. However, against my warnings, they were in a relationship with their smart phones so they didn't even notice. But as it turned out, they had a very good reason for being on their phones as our east coast kids had texted that they were on their way to the hospital TO GIVE BIRTH TO OUR VERY OWN EASTER CHICK!

I busted out of the chapel doors, dialing their number and apologizing to Jesus for the interruption while I raced outside. Sure enough, there were contractions involved and everything and they said they'd let us know what they found out. Well, that was as good as a birth announcement, so I made it official! Even going so far as to announce loudly and confidently to every. single. person. I. came. in. contact. with. that "UNTO YOU IS BORN THIS DAY..." and yes it is three weeks early but she went in for her exam a couple of days ago and she was dilated to a three and 80% effaced and I'm sorry that your grand baby is due this week and there are no signs of labor you have my pity but we've clearly been kissed by angels and oh my heck I bet she looks like me and I'll probably call the airline as soon as church is over and you know I just had a feeling something special was going to happen today and I bet she's already been born and they're putting a bow on her full head of hair right now and that's why they haven't returned our calls or been responding to texts and this is so exciting so STOP YOUR LESSON SO I CAN STAND ON THIS CHAIR AND FIELD QUESTIONS BECAUSE THIS IS BIGGER THAN ANYTHING YOU'VE PREPARED!!!"

By the time church ended, they were back home.

Son of a.

So we went about our labors (no pun intended) and tried to carry on as we had before, except for now she might as well have been three weeks late than early, because the shot had been fired and our baby runner was still just standing there on her mark while aaallllll the others were dashing past to win smocked dresses and minky blankies.

Dang chill baby.

Every day we ask and every day same story—No Baby—reported with a subtle undercurrent of seething, hemorrhoidal rage that only a woman sent home undelivered from the hospital understands.

Then a few days later, Madelyn had a new story to tell.

She had made herself a tasty peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner, and it just wasn't sitting well. For hours into the night, she dealt with acid, walking around, rearranging and fluffing pillows, hoping for some relief. Finally she decided she should go throw up. Just a little bit, you know. Like maybe a "smidge" would do it, as vomit is measured. So she dropped her head over the sink—no sense wasting a full flush on a smidge—and proceeded to retch until her painted toes came popping out of her nose holes.

She completely filled the sink. And covered the mirror. And most of the countertop. Apparently her stomach had been saving up for something special, and this was it.

It was a puke to be reckoned with, no smidge about it, and her nine months pregnant body couldn't contain...well, most anything...thus, she had to strip from the waist down if you know what I mean. So she's standing there, half dressed, stomach and bladder emptied out, and completely overwhelmed with vomit, then realizes somebody has to clean this up. And as all mothers eventually learn, she's it.

She tries rinsing it down the sink. The sink clogs. Of course the sink clogs. So she grabs the only thing she can find—a Star Wars cup—and starts to scoop and transfer cupfuls of puke from sink to toilet.

She's trying not to breathe, her hands are covered in spew and she cannot believe that none of this has stirred the sleeping man in her bed.

When she's all done scooping, transferring, wiping and cleaning, she flushes victoriously.

Toilet starts to overflow and clogs. Of course it starts to overflow and clog.

And that was it.
Her breaking point.

She starts to bawl...and curse...and does the only thing she can do in between sobbing swearwords, which is grab the cup and start re-transferring puke from toilet to sink, hoping to attain the perfect ratio of vomit, toilet paper and water. During all of this, she hisses to the heavens, "ALL I CAN SAY IS, THIS HAD #$%^&#  BETTER GET THINGS GOING WITH THE BABY!"

But as it turns out, she was less pregnant than she had been a week ago. The doctor's actual words were, "No progress." But she swears she heard, "Looks like your cervix is closing back up again. Weird."

Anyway, if you got this far in the story, you deserve some chocolate, so go get it while I finish up. The moral to the story is this; It can always get worse. And often does. Also, toilets can't be trusted to do their job. And probably even more important; husbands can sleep through anything.

And I mean aaaaannnnnyyyyyyythiiiinnnng.

Madelyn is far more beautiful than any soon-to-be mother has a right to be.