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Odds and Ends

June 18, 2015

Thursday already! Time is alternately zipping by and dragging along.  It zips by when I’ve got ten things to take care of and about 10 minutes in which to take of them. It drags when I unstrap my boot for the first, third, and fifth set of deep knees bends I’ve got to do every day for twenty minutes at a clip. Without fail, every time I sneak a peek at the timer, I’ve got seven minutes still to go.  You can find a lot of fun things on the web in 20 minutes, five times a day, though.  Here are the odds and ends that piqued my interest.

1.  This necklace.

I have had SUCH terrible customer service experiences every time I go into the Anthropologie at Stony Point that I just avoid it.  I was, however, out of town and decided to check out the Anthropologie at the mall close to where I was staying.  I saw that sweet dress on a mannequin and decided to try it on.  Have you ever had a shopping experience where you just get totally giddy and giggly because something fits, looks cute on you and the price is right? Me, in this dress, hit all the marks.  Too bad the salesperson couldn’t be bothered to do her job when I asked for an alternate size. Her eye roll was so epic, another clerk had to hit on the back to get her eyes back where they belonged.  In any event, I got the dress, but didn’t notice the necklace until I was checking out the website later on.  Definitely going back for that — with my expectations for decent customer service down around my ankles.

2. You know who does have great customer service? Nordstrom.  The Hubs and I had a black tie affair this past week-end that left me scrambling for an appropriate dress to not only make me look glam-tastic, but cover up the boot. Nordstrom delivered and they hooked me up with a rush job on the tailoring.  When I brought the dress in, I made sure I had my shoe (really, just one) and whatever foundation garments I was going to wear.  Yes, that means Spanx.  I’m pretty sure I’ve blown out the pair of Power Panties that I scooped up from the hosiery department, so I went up to the lingerie department and put myself at the mercy of the clerk.  I told her what I needed: maximum streamlining, no VPL, lift the can and flatten the tummy.  She handed me these:

Cue the hallelujah chorus.  These things are AMAZING!  And I totally get why there is a difference between location and price point.  Not all Spanx are created equal. If you want that maximum sucking in effect, you’re gonna pay for it.  I totally get that now. Oh, and evidently this pair has razor cut legs (as opposed to non-razor cut legs on the others?) officially making me a total bad-ass.

3. While things were firing on all cylinders as far as my shapewear and dress were concerned, there was a bit of tense moment when it came to make-up application.  I’m usually good with mascara, concealer and a little pop of lippie.  For special occasions, like the one we had, I have to dip into my bag of tricks and pull out my eyeliner and a steady hand.  I’m eyeliner application deficient. I was absent the day that lesson was shared.  But, like a good proper prior planner that I am, I had a heart to heart with Pinterest and tried to figure out some goof-proof applications.

So, about this. . . not so much. I ended up free-handing it with moderate success.  I did learn that you should do your non-dominant side first so that you can match the dominant side with more precision!  The more you know!

4. This whole Rachel Dolezal thing makes my hair hurt. I’m happy to discuss (face to face) why I think her actions are completely and thoroughly unacceptable. What I won’t do, however, is tolerate rude, close-minded comments that call into question my ethnic background.  Don’t ask me for my receipt or cock your head at me as if doing so will spell out who sits on the branches of my family tree.

5. And in other news, this happened.


Odds and Ends

June 3, 2015

We’ve had a deluge of rain the past few days, which means, we’ve been keeping it close to home.  Keeping it close to home means I’ve been wearing my “cruise director” hat in addition to chef, chauffeur, and concierge.  By the time little heads hit the pillow, it’s all I can do to keep my own eyes open for a little quality time with me, myself, and I.  Of course, rather than be productive, I curl up to the lava like heat of my laptop and surf until I am deliriously in need of sleep.

Read More

So What Had Happened Was. . .

May 22, 2015

Well this sucks. . .

There’s really not much more to be said about it than that.  I’ve been out of pocket for about five days, trying to get myself, the kids, the household back on track after an unexpected trip (and prolonged stay) at the hospital.  Truth be told, I don’t like drawing attention to myself, but when I found out that there wasn’t going to be an quick in and out trip to the doctor, I decided to post a screen shot of my hospital bed to give folks a heads up.

So here’s what had happened. . .

You all know that I’ve been doing my best to lay low after this last tendon re-tensioning surgery. I’ve watched so much tv. I’ve surfed every corner of the Internet. I’ve sat around with my leg propped on pillows and let life continue on around me, a human rock letting the river of everyday rush and tumble over and across me. It’s been a challenge, to go from 60 mph to about 10 mph, but I keep telling myself, “If you do this, you’ll heal better, faster, stronger. Suck it up. Suck it up.” So I’ve been doing it.

Last Thursday, I finished the last set of 20 deep knee bends I’m supposed to do 5 times a day.  This is what my workout regimen has become — deep knee bends.  When I was done, I sat down to wrap my ankle in an ace bandage.  Things felt a little warm to the touch and when I finished with the wrap, I noticed that my hand smelled a little funky.  Chalking it up to sweaty feet, I got ready for bed and forgot about it. Friday, I kept noticing that things were a little tender on my ankle and that the smell was not necessarily coming from my feet but from the surgery site.  Have I grossed you out completely? Because of the angle of the incision, I couldn’t really see anything. I tried, unsuccssfully, to snap a few pictures with my phone.  I ended up waiting for the Hubs to come home that evening. I said, “Um, I need you to take a look at something,” which, if you’re ever asked that, usually doesn’t bode well.  Ever the poker face, the Hubs got down, took a look and said, “Yeah, that doesn’t look right.”

Subconcsiouly, I knew something was wrong, but I was in denial.  I called a good friend of mine who is a wound nurse, sent her some photos and was not surprised when she said I needed to call my doctor.  Let me set the scene for you. It’s Friday afternoon at 5:30.  I had planned to have a little quality time with the Hubs, had been looking forward to it all week. I’d laid out a nice little spread:

wine, cheese, fruit, salami, snacks,

Enjoying a little wine and goodies with my best guy. . .at least I was planning to. .

My doctor is based out of Baltimore. His office closes at 4:30. Nothing good is going to come of me calling, but I do.  The doctor on call is very genial, very concerned. He gives me his personal cell number, instructing me to take photos and send them along.  After a series of exchanges and a few harried calls, he tells me not to eat anything else and asks me how soon I can get to the ER. In Baltimore.

[insert expletives of your choosing here]

By now, it’s approaching 7pm. The kids are zoned out in front of the TV. My wine and crackers are an afterthought.  The doctor’s text message — “Don’t eat anything else. We’ll prep the OR just in case, but get to the ER as soon as you can. Tell them I’m expecting you and if you have to wait more than 2 minutes, we’ll fire everyone who stands in the way.”

Well, damn.

I don’t know if I should be impressed with this level of patient care or worried that something is seriously wrong that requires this kind of bad-assery. We get my mom to the house, throw some clothes in a bag and hit the road. It’s now 8pm.

Traffic on the 95N corridor at 8pm on a Friday is fuster-cluck. We make it to Baltimore by 11:30 and I’m in triage by 11:45.  No one got fired.

A new doc comes in, a self-proclaimed minion of my doc.  She’s young, whip-smart and the type of person I’d like to be friends with under completely different circumstances.  She’s got my doc on the speakerphone, running down everything she sees, everything I’ve told her.  She’s snapping photos, texting dimensions and referring to my doc as Batman because 1) he never sleeps and 2) he’s just that awesome.

I’ll spare you the details of what went down in the ER.  Suffice it to say, I didn’t have to go to the OR (hallelujah), though I would have much preferred being knocked out than being stuck like a pincushion.  Lidocaine is no friend of mine; the treatment was worse than the cure.

By 4am, I was patched up and wheeled to a room.  The Hubs was almost delirious from lack of sleep. Despite the morphine, lidocaine, and adrenaline, I could have run laps up and down the unit.  Awww, running laps. . .how I miss it. A parade of nurses came in to check vitals, hook me up to IVs, assess this, that, and then some before leaving us to contemplate all of what happened.

What had happened? A post-surgical infection — not uncommon — has started percolating at the distal end of my surgery site.  It wasn’t because of something I did or because of something I didn’t do. It just happens.  Unfortunately, it happened to me.  Fortunately, we caught it before it blossomed into something really nasty.

By now, it’s Saturday morning around 8am. My surgeon comes in, along with the doc on call and the ER doc.  more assessments. More poking, prodding, and palpating.  After all the ministrations, we were left with some instructions to just “hang tight” while they ran cultures to figure out what exactly they were dealing with.

hosptial, recovery, tendon surgery, surgery, IV

Well this sucks. . .

I was more than ready to go home, figuring they’d done everything but hand me some antibiotics.  However, that wasn’t going to happen. They had to know what exactly they found in order to know how best to treat it. Okay, I can understand that.  I’ve had enough anatomy, physiology, and biology to know it takes time to grow cultures.  My doc says, I should be home on Monday.  Not ideal, but manageable.  He talks some more before concluding that Tuesday will probably be the earliest that I can leave.  Wait a tick, he just added a day.  He says, “I’d rather add more days, then let you go early.  Then I look like a hero.  If I say you can go early and then it turns out we have to keep you, then I like a doofus”. His words, exactly.

So, I hunker down  and wait. And wait. And wait.  It is the absolute worst. I try to think of all the silver linings that I can:

  • I’m getting the best medical care.
  • The kids are taken care of.
  • The Hubs is with me.
  • I’ve got great docs.
  • We caught it early.

It’s a small consolation, but I’m really trying to stay positive.  Sunday comes around, with another parade of nurses and doctors.  The information is the same: “We’re still waiting on the cultures to come back from the lab.”  More waiting, more hospital food.  Monday morning. No news.  Monday afternoon, no news. Monday evening and a new doctor, this one the head of infectious diseases.  Great. He says what they know it’s not.  He tells me what they think it is, but he can’t know for sure because, guess what? “We’re still waiting on cultures to come back from the lab. ” at which point my demeanor changes considerably.

My face when the docs came in again to tell me the cultures were still not back from the lab.

I start peppering this doc with information and questions based on everything that I’ve heard so far and everything that I know about anatomy, systemic infections, and bacteria infections, which is considerable. I spoke clearly, concisely, with my words dressed in displeasure, dissatisfaction and impatience.  The Hubs was sitting in a chair working on his computer just letting me skewer the doc, despite my looking over at him like, “C’mon, Tito! Back me up, here!”  No matter.  I handled it just fine and let Dr. Infection simply repeat that we’re waiting on the cultures.  I should have told him not to come back in unless he had cultures in hand.

Tuesday morning. 7am. The doc on call came in and guess what he said? Yup. Not back yet. I ask if the lab is actually in the building or if they’ve outsourced it.  He doesn’t know, he just knows there’s a lab in the hospital because he’s been in it. How reassuring.  I ask how, with no labs back,  Dr. Infection could tell me what he thinks and what he knows about my situation.  Doc on call says, “Well, it’s like trying to determine if this thing is Asian or Caucasian.  We know it’s Asian, but we need to figure out if it’s Japanese, Chinese, Cambodia, or Filipino.” Then he apologizes for that terrible analogy.  Since he’s feeling contrite, I hit him with the fact that I missed V’s birthday yesterday, and that I’ve got two other kids at home that need my attention.  Nothing like a little guilt to grease the wheels of the culture lab.

Tuesday morning. 11am.  word on the street is that the cultures are back, but not yet in the computer.  I’m seriously about to disconnect myself from the IV and run the daggone samples myself.  Tuesday afternoon. Dr. Infection come up with some information. They’ve figured it out. They can write a scrip instead of running a picc line (excuse me? that was under consideration?). I have never moved more purposefully in my life. I started folding up my stuff, packing my bag. Hell, I even made the hospital bed and folded the extra blankets.  I was so done and ready to bail.

By 4:30, I was being wheeled down to the lobby.  I felt like a mole, coming out into the sun for the first time in five days.

So here we are. Trying to put things to rights after having been away from the helm. I’m beyond grateful for my parents, my friends, my girls, and my husband for all of their help and support. I’m so thankful for everyone who has checked in on me, who has offered to help in some way.  Truly, just checking in has been the biggest balm in this entire situation.  I’m thankful that my leg is still attached, that I’ve got the right combo of medical intervention to keep it that way. I’m back to taking it slow.  Dialing it down even more from 10mph. I’m at like 7mph, maybe even 5!  Not ideal, but like everything else, you’ve got to put in the work to see the results.   In this case, the work is actually refraining from work.  Funny how that shakes out.


“Maggie Sinclair” Giveaway!!

May 20, 2015

How lucky are we?! Natural beauty blogger, naturalista, mom to a super curly cutie, and all around awesome lady, Gina, at Natural Belle, is hosting a “Maggie Sinclair, Will You Please Fix Your Hair?!” Giveaway via Instagram.

Gina (@naturalbelle) has one signed copy of “Maggie Sinclair, Will You Please Fix Your Hair” by Hilary Grant Dixon and illustrated by Gabrielle Howell to give away!
“Maggie” is inspired by Hilary’s real life experiences, showing how a young girl uses her creativity and imagination to celebrate her amazing hair all while sharing a lesson about self love. Definitely one for your little ones book self.

To enter:
1.  Follow @curly_girlie78
2.  Repost this image in your IG and tag @curly_girlie78 and @naturalbelle using the ‘tag people’ option. Comment below when you’re done! [please@comment ‘private’] if your account is set to private so you can be followed and your entry seen.
This giveaway is international. @curly_girlie78 and @naturalbelle are not responsible for any customs charges or items lost in transit. Giveaway ends Sunday 24th May 2015.
Good luck!

The Top 10

May 11, 2015

When you’re wearing a multi-strap, black and metal orthopedic boot from your knee down, people are genuinely curious to know what happened to you.  It’s not like you’d voluntarily slip into a boot for grins and giggles.  After having worn a boot from September to February in 2012, I was ready to set some matches to it when it outlived its usefulness. Fortunately (I can’t even believe I just typed that), I didn’t, because here I am. Wearing it again.

I’ve been stumping around — yes, stumping, because that’s the sound I make as I navigate around the house, the grocery store, and Target — being met with heartfelt concern and question.  Trying to explain how while I had surgery in April, I actually lacerated my ankle in September of 2012 is time consuming and frankly, more information than anyone really wants.  I need to come up with some short, to the point explanations for why I have the boot.

Here’s what I have so far, but I welcome any and all suggestions. The more outrageous, the better.

1. Got run over by a Target Cart during the Lilly for Target frenzy.

3.  Workout related injury, Option 1: Thought I was on “So You Think You Can Dance”, when I was really just in Zumba.

3. Tried to re-enact the finale from Dirty Dancing with the Hubs and #failed.

4. Tried rafting in the James and #failed.

5.  Went running with the bulls and didn’t run fast enough.

6. Bought a Groupon for a trapeze lesson and got tangled up in the harness.

7. Thought I was Black Widow, tried to re-enact some of the fight scenes, and #failed.


8. Workout related injury, Option 2: Zigged when I should have zagged during Cardio Burn.

9. Thought I was Gabby Douglas, but forgot to stick the landing.

I am one with the beam. I am one with the beam.

10. Bitten by a dog while delivering Girl Scout Cookies.

Not Doing the Most

May 4, 2015

I have a new approach to recuperation.

Seeing as this my third time at this dance, it occurred to me that I need to do things differently in order to get back to to 100%. The first go-round, in 2012-2013, I followed what my doc said while I was wearing the soft splint and the hard cast.  I used the crutches. I went up and downstairs like a toddler — on my backside.  I didn’t put any weight on my leg at all.  September of 2012 through February of 2013, that was my life.  Then I got a walking boot, and the sweet taste or mobility was intoxicating.  I walked all over the place, doing the most, like normal.

That probably wasn’t a good idea, but at the time, what did I know. The doc had surgically repaired me. The physical therapists had pulled me and pushed me.  My leg was still attached and I was walking.  Why shouldn’t I get back to business? I was running my household again, full steam ahead. I started planning a trip to Vegas with my girlfriends.  Things like #FOMO were for other people.

Several months later, I began to notice that the site of surgery was a little puckered. It didn’t feel like things are sliding smoothly when I would point and flex.  My leg ached a bit, but nothing that was intolerable. I called my doc to ask his opinion. He wanted to see me and have a look for himself.  He didn’t say specifically, and I’m not even sure that this is the case, but maybe I pushed myself too hard, too soon.  The tendon was moving, but the movement was impeded.  Normally,  organs and tissues in your body are able to smoothly shift around each other due to their slippery surfaces.  Your stomach and intestine are static in your gut; when you move, they move due not  only to the fluids in your body, but also the slippery surfaces they possess.  So, when you’re injured or if you have surgery, adhesions can form and prevent this movement.  For some reason, I see adhesions and think “glue dots”.  Glue dots have been sprinkled all over this lacerated tendon.  The way things healed, the tendon and the underlying (or in this case, overlaying) skin was sticking together.  It was moving, and when I pointed and flexed, the entire scar would pucker and shimmy.  FYI: you’re not supposed to see that.

We talked options, my doc and I.  In all honesty, I believe that my doc did what he determined to be the best course of action for me, for my situation and for his ability.  I don’t blame him for anything. Point of fact, I still sometimes blame myself for being so careless with the glass pitcher that got me into this jam in the first place. That’s another story for another day (and probably another type of doc).  In any event, my doc suggested another surgery, less invasive this time, to clean things up and help the tendon slide more smoothly.  So, of course, my first question was, “What about my trip?!”

Hey, there were deposits on the line, people.

I had reached out to him in enough time that even with a few scheduling snafus, I was back in the OR well in advance of wheels up for Vegas. The surgery itself, while it did require anesthesia (bye-bye, brain cells), the recovery was significantly irksome.  I made it to Vegas and had a great time.

So, between then and now, it had been business as usual.  I continued to do everything that I’ve done before, until the aching returned. Until I fell that November day. Until I realized that I needed to have a doc take a look.

Here we are, three weeks post-op.  The first two weeks, I did nothing but lay up in the bed, my foot swaddled from knee to ankle in gauze and ace bandages.  My mother-in-law came for a week to help with the girls and to make sure I was cared for.  My parents came for several days. The Hubs worked from home for several days.  It literally took a village, which surprised me and awed me.  That it would take scheduling, planning, and a literal team of grown-ups to manage what I do everyday. . .that’s kind of amazing.  I was am truly thankful for all of the support.  I must admit, though, I watched enough television and surfed the Internet to last me a very long time.  When my follow-up appointment came, I could not wait.   I got my walking boot about a week ago this coming Wednesday.

Jumping back into the fray now that I have a boot isn’t an option for me this time.  I don’t plan on having any more surgeries on this leg, so I’m following my recovery instructions to the letter.  Deep knee bends five times a day for 20 minutes at a time?  Bring it.   Bear weight as tolerated.  Done.  I make one excursion or do one activity that involved being on my feet, once a day.  After that, I’m sitting down with my leg propped on some pillows.

Today, I dropped the girls off at school and then went to Target for toilet paper.

Then I came home, popped V on the floor with some Play Doh, and put my leg up on a stack of throw pillows that, three weeks ago, would have gone HAM over if I’d seen them anywhere other than the sofa.

Incredible feats of strength? This right here. Not doing the most.

Of course, this is only day 1.  Check back with me at the end of the week.

Monday, Monday.

April 27, 2015

Back to the grind.

I’m two weeks post-op. My one job is to rest.  I’m doing my best to be patient while things percolate under the bandages, but I’d be lying if I said I haven’t tried to still be SuperMom.  For the past two weeks, I’ve been delegating tasks, coordinating schedules, and running my little empire from the prime real estate that is the sofa.  There have been quite a few times when I’ve had to pull an Elsa and just let stuff go. Like when I came downstairs for the first time after a week of bed rest and found the entire first floor looking like the bottom of a backpack on the last day of school.

I am, however, trying to keep things in perspective.  These past two weeks, as well as the next however many it will take to get back to business, are  just a paragraph in this particular chapter of my life.

That’s kind of deep.  It’s also one thing to say and quite another thing to believe it.  I’m working on it, though.  I remind myself to breathe. I remind myself to patient. I remind myself to be a little kinder to myself than I was yesterday.  I make plans.  I pin things to my boards. I organize.  I re-post things on tumblr.  I make lists. I read blogs. I read books. I make more lists. I take selfies.

I’m outlining the next chapter.

  • I’m so ready for summer clothes, but I need to figure sort out what I’ve got from last season.  I stumbled upon this website and now have a plan.
  • This would be great in my room, once I’ve completed my wardrobe capsule.
  • Spending an inordinate amount of time on IG has introduced me to a number of cool bloggers, motivational words, new hairstyle ideas, and lots of pictures of cupcakes.
  • Mmm, cupcakes.
  • And lemonade filled mason jars with a little whimsy poking out of the top.
  • And of course, something to read.





Not Exactly What I Had In Mind

April 21, 2015

Last Monday, I went in for my surgery. Up until they wheeled me into the operating room, I was wondering aloud if even doing it was a good idea.  Not because I didn’t trust my doctor or because I was thinking that my discomfort was blown out of proportion. It was because there was so much that had to be taken care of for the household to keep spinning while I recuperated.  A cost benefit analysis was making things look bleak. I spent the days prior to surgery prepping the house like I was going away for a walkabout or something.  Meals were made and frozen. Copious amounts of laundry were washed, folded, and put away. Playdates were lined up and carpools were arranged to get little biscuits from A to B.  It was a herculean task  — proper prior planning and all — for what I anticipated to be a week to ten days, but I used to be a Girl Scout, and like they say, “Always be prepared.”

9:30am on the 13th was go time. I remember the OR nurse telling me to get my bare buns up on the ironing board sized operating table. I remember the anesthesiologist saying she’d give me something to relax. When it got flushed into my system, it burned like alcohol on an open wound. I remember her voice above me saying, “Oh! Hang on, I’ll fix that.”

And then I woke up.

day one – the ride home

I’m bandaged from knee to toe. I’ve got crutches. I’ve got a collection of pills and meds that qualify for a pill minder. I’ve got pillows supporting my leg.  I’ve got family and friends supporting the daily routine of life at home.  My one job is to rest and get better.

I’m SO going to get fired.

I don’t make a good patient. I don’t have a lot of patience, either.  Staying in bed, having meals brought to me, and being told to just relax, read and watch TV may sounds like a dream, right? And considering how much I’ve been bellyaching I’ve done about really needing a break, this seems like the answer. No, this isn’t an invitation to a pity party.  This is just me being honest about life going from speeding down the Autobahn to slamming on the brakes, stopping on a dime. That’s exactly what it feel like.

I stink at being patient. I have trouble waiting for water to boil, for mail to arrive, for my nails to dry, so being told to wait 15 days to be seen by the doc to unwrap the bandages has me rocking in the corner going “buh, buh, buh, buh, buh, buh, buh.”

From what I understand, my surgery went well. I didn’t have to give up any tendons from other places in my feet in order to save the one in my ankle (yes, that was an option).  There was enough useable muscle to re-tension the existing tendon, which according to my doctor, was pretty much a wet noodle.  Think of it this way: the tendon is what attaches muscle to bone. It’s thick and stretchy like the rubber band around a bunch of asparagus.  Imagine cutting that rubber band, then trying to tie it back together to bundle up the asparagus.  The tension isn’t going to be as strong, right? That’s where I was two years ago.  Two years of wear and tear on a tendon that was already kind of weak meant whatever was going to be discovered on the 13th was probably even worse for wear.

I won’t go into specifics. I don’t really have any details anyway.  The Hubs attributes the ribbons of pain curling around my leg to the fact that the doctor “really got in there and worked things out”.  Lord, I hope so.  Already this recovery feels much different from the previous ones.  I don’t know if it’s the invasive-ness of the procedure, the weakness that was present or what, but I’m drawing upon reserves of patience I didn’t even know I had. I’m calling in chits, asking for prayers and good wishes as I readjust my expectations about when I’ll be moving under my own steam.

Did I really think after a week I’d be moving around, back to business?


Call me naive. Call me unrealistic. I have high expectations for myself, so why couldn’t, why wouldn’t that happen? Because, as the saying goes, Man plans and God laughs.

I’m not making any more plans. I’m taking it one day at a time.  I’m tamping down the #FOMO. I’m not going to stress out because the kids are watching TV. I’m not going to worry about whether or not the kitchen counters are clean and clear (I can’t downstairs to check anyway).

I’m watching TV. I’m reading books. I’m catching up on the Lily For Target madness, Britt McHenry, European migrant crisis, and the 2016 presidential race. I’m watching the birds outside my window. I’m breathing. I’m resting.

It may not be the the break that I had wanted — there are definitely no swim up bars or white sand beaches — but I’ve been given some time.  This is just a small paragraph in this particular chapter of my story. It’s not exactly what I expected, but lemons into lemonade, my friends. Lemons into lemonade. . .

In Memoriam

April 11, 2015

Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

Hi Gram

Hey, doll!

Happy Birthday!

You know you don’t need to send me any cards or anything.

I know, but it’s your birthday. Did you get the pictures that the girls sent?

With the ballerinas? I love it. I showed it to Helen when she came over to take me to the Dollar Store.

Oh really? Anything good at the Dollar Store?

I got some picture frames for the photos of the girls. I’m running out of room on the credenza over here.

You can always take down that picture of Christopher.

Be loving! How is that broken down brother of yours, anyway?

Broken-down. (laughter). The girls want to say wants to say hello.

Gramma, I-watched-a-show-and-then-we-had-chicken-nuggets-and-I-made-an-ice-rink-in-my-room-out-of-powder-and-when-you-boofah-it-goes-pbbbbtttt-and-then-you-go-sssstttt! Here’s Coever.

Heh-whoa? Heh-whoa! I wuv woo! Appa-soss! (drops the phone).

Hey, Gram, it’s me again.

Hey, doll. They are too much.

I know, I know. Listen, I know your stories are coming on, but I wanted to give you a quick call to say hi and wish you a Happy Birthday.

Okay, well you give Craig and the girls a big, ol‘ sloppy kiss.

You know I will. Happy Birthday, Gram. Love you.

Love you, too, doll.

Hilary Grant Dixon © 2020 - designed by blogzilla