Friday, February 12, 2016

Blow Out the Candles, Boy#2!


Abraham Lincoln.

Charles Darwin.

Boy#2.

Yes, it seems right that they would all have birthdays on the same day, these smart, innovative, handsome men. Also, add Robert Griffith III to the list because he and Two shared the football field while they were at Baylor together. We won't split hairs by noticing that RGIII was throwing the ball and Two was carrying a tuba, and that it's highly unlikely the Heisman Trophy winner worried as much about Two's embouchure as Two did about RGIII's ACL.

Anyway, I am up to my ears in alligators these days with deadlines and on-campus administrator interviews and all kinds of accompanying shenanigans going on, so this post will be short, but I encourage you to go back to read Two's birth story which was published in the early days of this blog. I take pride in pointing out that this post still embarrasses the Boys more than any other of the 1,043 posts I've written.

Just doing my job, sons.

And happy birthday, Two!

Tuesday, February 9, 2016

Update! Update!

He skedaddled over here from over there
I've left you hanging on two very important events that have happened in the last nine days. I'm sure you have been refreshing this spot hourly in hopes of hearing how the Friends of the Library received my presentation last night, and also wondering about my reaction now that we knew if Lord Grantham and the hospital would intersect.

I will save the Downton Abbey update until last so that if you are not caught up with the last two episodes, you will have time to close your eyes, because SPOILER ALERT!

But first, the Friends.

Oh, my gosh, people, it was so much fun. This was the best audience ever, and because I had packed it solid with some of my favorite people, they laughed at the right places and aaaah-ed at the right places, and just generally treated me with love. They speculated that, since I was the third choice to speak, first choice would have been almost too much to bear.

However, I was not the best speaker of the night. That honor belongs to our children's librarian, Miss Jo, who in addition to being the daughter of one of the Boys' very favorite teachers, is exactly what you would choose if you could order the perfect children's librarian. She's funny and warm and unflappable and has the most wonderful laugh. And as part of her report to the Friends she uttered the following sentence, which was better than any single sentence I have uttered, ever:

"I booked a ventriloquist today."

Mic drop, done.

*****
Okay, you have been warned about the DA spoiler, so from now on I take no responsibility for revealing a televised moment that was...I don't even know.

Lord Grantham, who has been wincing about his innards ever since the utterly boring hospital plotline began, NEEDED A HOSPITAL! IMMEDIATELY!

Who could have known? Oh, yes, I DID!

What I didn't know was the sheer volume of blood that would make that hospital necessary, and the spewing thereof that would utterly ruin Cora's dress. I know that final fact because I read the enlightening and hilarious story in Vanity Fair that contains the following paragraph:
Because it was a very complicated sequence to film, and because it relied on Bonneville’s human-blood-spewing power—“He just has a capacity, Hugh, and can hold a huge amount of liquid in his mouth”—rather than a special-effects pump, there were variables. And although the costume department had prepared table-setting changes and costume changes for Robert, Isobel, and Mary (the last two of whom were sitting on either side of Robert), they soon realized they had not adequately prepared for Bonneville’s herculean hemoglobin ejection capacity.
Really, go read that article. It is almost as comical as the looks on everyone's faces when the bloodbath began. They obviously didn't realize it was going to be a literal bath of blood, but it was.

And I called it!  

Friday, February 5, 2016

Truth in Advertising


A couple of weeks I got a phone call from a friend. She's a wonderful, wise woman who is in a women's group with me and she's also a Friend of the Library in Small Town. I don't mean she's a friend of the library (lower-cased) as I am, in that she loves the place and regularly takes advantage of its teeny-tiny late book fees to take a month to read an English mystery novel. I mean she's a Friend of the Library (upper-cased) and has an official card to prove that she has paid her dues to the library's fan club.

This fan club meets monthly and my friend was in charge of the program for February. I'm going by memory here, but here's how her call to me went:
"I loved the program Other Friend gave to our women's group, and I asked her to do something like it, but she's going to be out of town, so I asked Another Friend if she could do it but she teaches on Monday nights, so I was wondering if you could do it?"
Now wait--before you rush to the conclusion that I must have been highly incensed to have been chosen based on the stepping-down-the-rungs-of-the-ladder method of selection, rest assured that I could have not been more delighted. Being the first choice is a LOT of pressure. That means the inviter thinks you are the very best, the top notch-est, the cream the cat licks off its whiskers. Being the second choice means you are a heartbeat from that exalted state. But being third choice? That's being Alexander Haig and rushing in to the White House press room to say "I am in control here!" and people looking at each other and saying "Uh, no, you are not."

So it's absolutely no pressure at all, but is a lot of fun because the Friends of the Library are the bim-bam-bomb and many of them are also MY friends.

At least I thought it was no pressure until I saw the promotion for the meeting, which is being published in Small Town's newspaper, and in the Chamber of Commerce newsletter, and going out to all of the dear Friends.
"The program this month, 'Love and the Written Word,' will be presented by MomQueenBee, (what I do for a living) and author of the blog 'Empty Nest Feathers.' In honor of Valentine's Day she will be sharing aloud with us several of her written pieces on love and relationships, including a short story and a number of her poems."
Oops.

It reminded me of the picture of Young Bride, which I've published in this space before. The girl clutching her stephanotis-studded bouquet and gazing dreamily out the window? Well, she's technically me but not in a way you would recognize. There is no truth in advertising here. Add 30 years, ermphityjangle pounds, some wrinkles around the eyes and sensible shoes, and it starts to look like me.

The meeting notice, while technically me, needs to be slightly rewritten since it appears to be someone who knows something about love and the written word, and has written a short story, and has completed a poem that does not include the word Nantucket.
Friends of the Library, please come to the meeting Monday night. MomQueenBee will be reading the most wonderful story about love (which she did not write) and her favorite love poem (which she also did not write) and then she will sneak in a few of her sensibly-shod-and-wrinkly-but-all-her blog posts. Also, she does love your group, and the library so please welcome her with a smile and a hug. 
 There. Completely true.

Wednesday, February 3, 2016

Happy Birthday, Boy#4!


As I write this, I know exactly where I was 24 years ago this moment.

Exactly.

That's because one does not forget the sensation of balancing on one of those no-sided medical gurneys with Husband on one side, the Best Nurse Ever on the other side, the Best Doctor Ever peering north at me over the lumps-of-flesh-formerly-known-as-my-feet, and the entire staff of a couple of floors of Wesley Medical Center gathered around.

I do not exaggerate. Ordinarily the slot where that gurney was parked would have been curtained off from the next gurney's slot, but there were so many people packed around my bed that all the curtains had been drawn back to give a better view. (That next door gurney, fortunately, was unoccupied.) There were nurses and interns and residents and a stray doctor or two and all were seeing me at my very best: Hugely, enormously, unbelievably pregnant, in one of those gowns that provide easy access for medical procedures and absolutely no privacy for the wearer.

But unlike the rest of my life, when I'm a pretty modest woman (Boy#1's high school civics teacher asked if I was Amish. No, I'm not kidding.), I was okay with all of those folks being around me in this state of exposure because I was beyond excited. I was about to give birth for what I knew would be the final time.

This baby, wanted and loved even before he was conceived, would be the caboose on our train of kids.

And while I had often said I would never stop wanting just one more baby, I was okay with that. I was in the oh-so-charmingly-named "Advanced Maternal Age" category with this baby, and that meant more testing and more worrying. The three Boys already in the House on the Corner were all under age five, so I had felt creaky and tired for much of the previous nine months.

Now, though, in an appropriately dramatic exclamation point to the gestational stage of my life, Child#4 had, sometime between my final prenatal exam on Friday and my induction on Monday, flipped 180 degrees. The baby's head was cradled next to my heart, which is a lovely metaphor for motherhood but a lousy position for birthing.

We discovered this when the Best Nurse Ever couldn't find the heartbeat. I wasn't worried; I knew the baby was alive because I was being kicked in the bladder with great regularity, which, come to think of it, should have tipped me off that the head was not leading the way toward the exit. So BNE began prepping me for a C-section and let the Best Doctor Ever (who was performing a surgery while he waited for me to get a move on) know that he would be going into another surgery.

"Hold up on that C-section prep," the word came back. Best Doctor Ever was going to try to an external cephalic version, a movement also known as "turning the baby."

This prompted a whirlwind of excitement on the labor-and-delivery floor. Even though this was a major medical center, Best Doctor Ever apparently was the only obstetrician in Big City who had been trained in this procedure and I was the perfect candidate (multiple pregnancies, not in active labor, etc.), so everyone wanted to watch. Woohoo!

We had to a bit as Best Doctor Ever cleaned up from the previous surgery and everyone else jockeyed for front row seats, but when he arrived BDE was most reassuring.

"You know I'm not going to do anything that will put the baby or you in danger, right?" he asked me. "We're going to give this one shot, and if it doesn't work, we'll go for the C-section."

And with that he stepped up to the side of the table, put one hand on the baby's head and one on its butt, and pushed them counterclockwise. It didn't take long, maybe 10 seconds, and suddenly his hands slid off the baby's butt--the tiny body was back where it should be for a non-surgical birth. The residents standing on chairs cheered.

A couple of moments later I was on my feet walking down to the delivery room (the medical pros weren't taking any chances that the 180 rotation would turn into a round trip back to breech) and six hours later, Boy#4 was born.

I've wondered from time to time if it was this dramatic entrance into the world (with such a great cloud of witnesses) that prompted Four's aversion to the spotlight, but I'm pretty sure it's just his nature to love his friends and family more than being the center of attention. Still, he will play a piano on the street just because his mother wants to take a picture of him doing it.



Happy birthday, Boy#4. You were worth all the dramatics.


Tuesday, January 26, 2016

I've Figured It Out!

How I plan to spend my retirement. Image Credit

You guys! Pay attention! I've figured it out!

You all are Downton Abbey fans, right? Because of course you are. On Sunday nights you're plopped in front of PBS to see what is going to happen with the so-rich-they're-miserable-but-occasionally-happy Crawley family and their cadre of so-poor-they're-happy-but-occasionally-miserable staff.

You have wanted to shake the exasperating Lady Mary, who is the master of the eyeroll, whether she is irritated,
Image Credit.
or being coy.
Image Credit.
You also have wanted to shake sad-sack Lady Edith although she has moments of perception that are spot on.
Image Credit.
And now that it is the final season of this series and it needs to bestir itself to start tying up loose ends, you have to admit that you DO NOT GET IT. Why in the world is so much time being spent on the most boring plot line in the history of plots, which is to say, the take-over of the village hospital by the government, or something like that.

This plot line is the worst. The. Worst. It's even worse than Anna being accused of murder, or Bates actually being imprisoned because of murder, or SHUT UP, DAISY!

Sunday night, though, I figured it out, and actually did a ladylike fist pump and yelled "Tallyho!" That's because I saw this guy wince, not once but twice...
Image Credit.
...and a light bulb went on in my self-indulgent little aristocratic brain. (I felt just like Edith did when she found realized that she should fire that editor, which is to say, "Huh. Why didn't I realize this earlier?)

See, the hospital plot line is going to intersect with those two winces. Mark my words now, because either the hospital will be really good and save Lord Grantham's life when it turns out he has a debunkerizing carpatangle  (or whatever) that must be removed IMMEDIATELY, or the hospital will be really bad and Lord Grantham will die.

That is why the hospital plot line exists, and you read it here first.

We undoubtedly are going to have to wait several more weeks before this situation resolves itself because Downton Abbey moves with the stately pace of plow horse, to give us plenty of time to stare at the dresses and the food and at Lady Mary's eyebrows, which, by the way, have their own Twitter account.

Don't believe it? Here. Enjoy. And try not to feel too demoralized when you realize that Lady Mary's clothes are better than your clothes, Lady Mary's bedroom is more beautiful than your bedroom, and Lady Mary's eyebrows are better tweeters than you are.

You should have been born a Crawley. (Just not Edith.)

Friday, January 22, 2016

So You Hated Uncle Katt? and Other Orts



Boy#3, who was 9 years old; Boy#1, 15; Boy#4, 9; Boy#2, 13.
The picture that starts out today's collection of snippets has nothing whatsoever to do with the snippets. It's just one of my favorite pictures, and if we all are going to be inundated with snow*, this should warm us up. Here the Boys are pausing between free-falls that year we went ziplining in Costa Rica.

Does that sound snooty? Did you get the impression we do things like this all the time? It wasn't meant to be, and we do not. It was The Vacation of our years as a nuclear family, when Husband and I took our sons back to where I had lived in Costa Rica and introduced them to my family there. I had not thought it would be 20 years between when I finished my Peace Corps service and when I was back in country, and this was a dream come true. I smile every time I look at this picture.

Also, if you ever have the chance to zipline, DO IT.

*****
Thank you all, so much, for the concern after my last post in which I mentioned I had fallen off my chair. I am fine. The fall was fairly spectacular in its flailing-around-ness, but only a few inches to the floor. Kind of like this:

But without the pushups. Also, without going viral on YouTube, so I consider that a win.

*****
You guys! After I wrote about the horrifying Uncle Katt a few days ago, Boy#2 sent me this link.

The whole story is here
I feel as if I accidentally opened the door to the underworld.

*****
But let's end on a happy note. That note would be cinnamon, with hints of clove and orange peel, and it's my new favorite thing.

Here's the website
One of my siblings put a can of Caribou Hot Cinnamon Spice tea in our family Christmas exchange, and you cannot believe how delicious this nectar is, or how comforting when you've been sitting in a really, really, really cold office all day. Or, I guess, if you are on the east coast and facing the prospect of 36 inches of snow.

Stay warm out there, East Coast people.


*We aren't actually being inundated with snow here. It's just that the media never pays any attention to our storms, so I'm crashing the party of the one in the East.

Tuesday, January 19, 2016

Learning From an Egg

Free coloring pages!

Here are the questions I have about Humpty Dumpty:
  • What was his mother thinking when she named him? Was she never in junior high, where odd names are snicker-fodder?  
  • What was he doing sitting on the wall? Was there a parade passing by? Was his self-esteem so low that he didn't realize that as an egg with shoes and a bow tie he was more of an attraction than clowns on motorcycles?  
  • When HD called for first aid, wouldn't it have been better to bypass all the king's horses and go straight for all the king's men, given the no-thumbs issue that is inherent with equines, not to mention lack of pockets for Band-Aids? Didn't the stomping around of all those hooves make him nervous?

Anyway, I started my morning by with a great fall, albeit it out of my office chair rather than off a wall. This is because my office at Small College is REALLY, REALLY COLD today and I was trying to plug a space heater into the one available outlet, which is located behind my desk (historic buildings are charming but not always convenient), and in doing so leaned so far forward that my rolling chair exited west while the rest of me exited east. 

Unlike Humpty Dumpty, I did not need to be put together again. When I assessed the damage (after looking around to make sure no one had noticed and being thankful that the guy in the next office had his earphones on because it really was a fairly great fall) the only damage was an impressive tear in the back of my tights, way above the hemline of my skirt. 

I plan to be especially careful when I drive home for lunch. This is the accident my mother warned me about, the one in which your underpinnings do not reflect your true meticulous nature.

So female EMT friends in Small Town, if I should happen to need ambulance transport for any reason today, could you do me a solid? Get me out of those tights before we reach the hospital. Otherwise all the king's men couldn't put my ladylike reputation again. 

The king's horses, needless to say, would be useless.