Me And My Aches

So let's talk about me. Somehow I hurt my back in January and things have gotten progressively worse. I've been grunting and hunching and making sure Brett knows that things are hurting. For years I have listened to Mama and Papa Hon discuss all the ways their bodies fail them when they first wake up in the morning. The aches. The creaks. The little routine Laurie does with her joint cream to fool it into working before she really gets up in the morning. I've been waiting for this day. But I thought I had at least twenty more years of gooshy joints and bendy muscles. My back pain shocked me. And it made me mad.

As an avid non-exerciser, I created a theory whereupon any lean person with a trusty metabolism may avoid exercise until the beginning effects of middle-age, thereby ensuring that the required physical activity will be less than that of an affluent exerciser.
If I don't jog until I'm forty, I'll have to jog less far than if I had been jogging this whole time, while still reaping the same results. That's my theory. I know it doesn't work this way so keep your comments to yourself.
I used to jog consistently in high-school, back when I was a little tubby, and when I quit jogging and went to college, the pounds melted away. Since then, I have continued to waste away by no efforts of my own, (maybe it's a worm?) and have more recently decided that I'm not digging the skeleton look. I've always been plenty strong and have always been able to lift or move or do anything I needed to lift, move or do, so I considered myself a strange kind of skinny-strong and it only served to confirm my exercise theory.

A few weeks ago, my new physical therapy girl (who I just love) told me I have "tiny" glutes and a "basically hollow" core. Pardon? What do you mean? I'm skinny-strong. I'm a medical marvel!

Something about hearing a professional tell you that your legs and spine are doing the work your core should be doing, mixed with the pain I've been feeling when I move, really makes you stop being silly and pay attention. I need to strength-train or my back pain will get worse and more widespread. Aren't I too young to worry about aches and pains? Is this because I haven't been exercising? I have never even been inside of a gym. I don't really know how to go about strength training.

It's an intimidating bummer. But I've moved past that and have gotten just a wee bit excited about the idea of seeing the changes that caring for my body will make. Part of me hopes I'll beef up a little (not to be confused with "going to beef") and it really thrills me to think about how non-achy my body felt back when I was oh... well, just last year or so. At the moment I cannot jump or jog or dance and that scares me a bunch.

Mom told me that people start to fall apart around 30 but I didn't believe her because I'm not old enough to be 30. With all of this came the realization of how young 30 is even though it seems like a real adult age right up until the moment you get there. The idiots I went to school with are 30 now and they're still idiots. Thirty year olds are babies - so why do we ache? Why do we give them so much clout?
I know this means that I'm going to think that I'm equally as moronic at 40 and 50 as I do now because numbers are just labelling tactics and have nothing to do with wisdom or maturity. I feel like I already understand why 80 year-olds say they still feel young.

This is careening out of control.

Motherhood: Week 2

So far, it appears to me that motherhood may be best described as a series of disruptions punctuated by fits of bubbling adoration. You are no longer free to move about the day as you used to. (Especially in Ellen's case because she has her gut-slurping machine to lug around with her, Mr. Thirsty.) Your bathroom breaks are timed and your fuse is short.

Papa Lee went back to work this week so Mom and I are on a rotational schedule to support, soothe, and coo. Mom's morning shift with Ellen and Olivia is productive and utilitarian. They prepare for the day; tidy Liv's room, run loads of laundry, and wash bottles. My afternoon shift is much more leisurely and oftentimes serves as more of an emotional dump as most of the daily tasks have been completed and one is left with empty hours of waiting until bedtime. This part is not good for Ellen's mental state. *Note: do not confuse "bedtime" with the time that one may be allowed to sleep. 

Ellen is a prodigious milk-producer and Mom referred to her as "a happy holstein." When Ellen sits quietly in the corner to perform one of the more invasive Mom-tasks, one will quickly be delighted by the melodic rumbles of Mr. Thirsty as he gurgles and slurps, timed perfectly against the motorized purr of the breast pump, which wheezes slightly during it's release. It is a gentle percussion symphony attached to my sister by plastic tubes. 

Ellen stares off during concert times. 

When glancing towards the bassinet from across the room, one will likely see Olivia practicing her interpretive dance; one small hand, floating up over the crest of her bed, twisting like a ballerina's pirouette, and arching back down to first position. Occasionally both tiny arms rise to present the grand crescendo and then slowly lower behind their bunker. At the moment Olivia is working out how to keep her eyes moving in the same direction. Failure to do so causes unkind laughter from her family.

"The Beast has awoken," you'll hear Ellen say, "the Beast demands concessions."

Today we narrated Olivia's afternoon in our best David Attenborough cadence. This morning was perhaps one of many summits of Ellen's patience, so times were tough by lunchtime. Throughout the years I have noted Ellen's ability to remain functional in the midst of a meltdown. While I have had few in my life, during times of unravelling, I must sit still and wallow. Everything else is on hold.
Perhaps it's due to volume that Ellen cannot afford this luxury, but she carries on with her tasks as though she's not also sobbing. I admit I found it endearing today as she held her child in one arm, prepared a warm bottle in the other, and cried fat wet tears. It reminded me of a similar meltdown two years ago when she prepared and ate a hot lunch while she wept. I sat in awe of her then and offered my condolences. Today I praised her ability to multitask and pointed out that perhaps she's more prepared for this job than moms that must sit to cry. If you're interested in the kind of guy Ellen married, within 15 minutes of the meltdown's commencement, a delivery guy arrived with hot coffee and tea and pastries. Just a little something Lee had sent over to help cheer her up.

Stono pup now lives torn between curiosity and jealousy. She follows Ellen around all day and sits her hefty butt up as close to Ellen as possible. She stands in the way, sniffs aggressively, and drops soggy bones on Ellen's feet for play time. Due to her heft, it's not easy to put her on a different path. One must simply exist around Stono which is even more difficult with the threat of her getting tangled in Mr. Thirsty's interminable cord.

Olivia is painfully cute and sweet and even though Ellen says she cries at night, I have not heard more than a few whimpers of discomfort from Liv. The loudest sounds I've heard from her have come from her bottom end. Quite impressive actually.
Tomorrow she is two weeks old. That's half a month.
It's already too fast and too slow.

A Grand Homecoming

"It's happening. This is not a drill!"

Friday morning, as I sat down to update an overdue proposal, I get that text from Ellen. Boy oh boy. There would be no accomplishing tasks today. Nevermind the arrangements I needed to make for the wedding tomorrow. How could anything else matter?
Ellen went to the doctor for a check up and they elected then and there, to take her over to the hospital and induce her labor. Mom and Dad and I all called each other to compare notes and information. Lee headed home to grab the hospital bag. His family was already on the way from Florence. What an exciting ten minutes.

And then we waited. Inductions take a full day to get going. Olivia wouldn't get here until at least lunchtime on Saturday. So I reluctantly headed out to the shop and made fluffy white centerpieces at warp speed. Something told me that if worked quickly, Ellen's labor would also go by quickly but that was not true. Throughout the day we received uneventful updates. We were told that things would really spice up at 3 a.m. when they give Ellen the pitocen. That's what should start the contractions and make Liv want to abandon ship. Mom and Dad made a hospital visit for the sake of it. I labored away and eventually went out to supper with Brett and Jeff who would choose to stay out late, partying on King Street, while I went home to sleep but laid awake in bed worried about Ellen and tomorrow's wedding. At 3 a.m. I wondered if Ellen was scared or hurting or excited and I questioned the chances that the first drop of pitocen would spit Liv right out and we'd all miss it.

I woke up at 6:00 with a text from Ellen that said the pitocen wasn't working. Liv was not bothered by the contractions, content to stay curled in that warm bungalow forever. We decided that she's probably going to be stubborn like her mama. The wait continued and I got to work making wrist corsages that seemed even more stupid than normal because my unborn niece is far more important than a tacky floral tradition. (I hate making wrist corsages.) Big Mama arrived at 9:00 to help me load the car and she was bright and delighted. It was obviously not about the wedding setup. We made the trek out to Seabrook where we spent the day driving in circles to complete one of the more poorly organized weddings I've partaken in. (It all worked out well and looked lovely. Just the getting it there was obnoxious.) Mom and I talked the whole time about Ellen and what should be happening and what's the plan and did she text you yet? Did she call Dad? What have you heard?

Just before lunch Ellen told us that the Doc suggested the possibility of a c-section or perhaps waiting another 24 hours to see if Liv gets motivated. Mom and I carefully read the text message and shared our thoughts with each other. I'm glad we were together for this uncertain waiting period for we certainly would have annoyed our spouses with our commentary. Years later, we left the wedding setup and drove back into town.
At 5:30, Ellen called to tell me the Doctor was going to do a C-section at 6:00. She was scared and I didn't like it. Because I had to drive back out to Seabrook to teardown I had to stay put. But Mom and Dad headed straight for the hospital where they would find out that they were not allowed up to see Ellen until two hours after delivery. They said that's "just the stupidest" and then went to a nearby Outback Steakhouse where they ate things and waited. Dad was beside himself with giddiness.
I laid on the couch with my phone in hand and waited and waited and at 6:14 received this photo for "Aunt Lu"

Please note how great Ellen looks in her post-delivery photo. 

She has reached an all-time high of photogenic annoyance. 

Those pouty Ellen lips! Those tiny fingers!
Knowing I wouldn't get to visit that night just killed me. More sweet photos arrived on my phone while Brett and I packed up candles and blooms.

I woke up early on Sunday and immediately looked over at Brett. I was ready to go to the hospital right away and thought that waiting for him to wake up and get dressed and disassemble whatever item would catch his eye that morning was not going to work for me today. I stared at him, willing him to wake up. He stirred, so I made a loudish noise - enough to capitalize on his shallow sleep state. He peeked one eye open, saw my face, and recoiled with a start.
"What are you doing?"
"Waiting for you to wake up!" and I beamed my giant teeth at him.
Sweet Fella got right up and threw on some shoes and escorted me out the door. We made a quick coffee stop and were by Olivia's side by 8:30.

Lee was so chatty and happy and excited. He bounced around the hospital room telling us stories from the last two days with gusto and enthusiasm and a few gagging sounds. Ellen had done great. A real tough champ. She had a glow.
Lee immediately put Liv in Brett's arms and we all cooed and grinned and stared. Why does one feel inclined to stare at a baby? Liv was 5 pounds and 3 ounces and 18 inches long. She's the most perfect little healthy thing. Ellen laid in her hospital bed slurping a concoction a nurse had brought her. She looked sleepy and happy.
Finally, after nine long months, I got to hold Olivia.
She wiggled and scrunched her nose and I melted. She teased me with fluttering eyelashes but wouldn't show me her blue eyes. She yawned and I saw her tiny teethless gums and her pouty Ellen lips. She has long fingers and skinny arms. I could have stayed all day.
For Sunday dinner, Mom, Dad, Brett and I ate Ellen's favorite meal in her honor and we played Shanghai because we don't actually get to play it when Ellen is present.

Unbeknownst to us, that night Ellen would get up to use the bathroom and her gross baby incision would bust open and cause for emergency surgery. Apparently some fluid built up behind her stitches so she'd have blown anytime. I've come to hate the word "fluids". Lee called Dad at 2am to tell them they were knocking her out and it was a huge, painful ordeal. Ellen screamed and cried and it all sounded horrific. Lee held Liv and kept it together until it was all over and Ellen woke up again. They both seemed traumatized. Even the nurses said it was awful.
But they are champs and were bright and merry the next morning. Mom went for a quick visit only to leave the hospital 6 hours later because she can't get enough of Liv. She's obsessed with that baby. She's said she finally understands, it IS the best to be a grandparent.

For my second visit to baby O, Lee let me feed her by taping a tiny tube to my pinky and cramming it into her tiny mouth. It was special. She showed me her blue eyes. I crappin' love her.

Wednesday, they were released from the hospital under one condition; Ellen's gross baby wound stays attached to a portable machine that slurps goop out of her gut for three weeks. Mom and I met them at home to help them get situated, which really means that we stared at Olivia while Lee unloaded everything by himself. They had dressed Liv in her first little outfit and we don't think she liked being clothed. Stono Pup was on the porch, staring in at her family and leaping high in the air and drooling on the door. Lee wasn't up for a pup introduction just yet.

Big Mama can't get enough of Olivia. She tickled. Giddy. We didn't really expect this from her. 

Big Mama has had a high-anxiety two years, caring for her parents and whatnot. We haven't seen her like this in ages and it's the most wonderful thing. 

Everyday I ask Ellen what Liv is doing and she sends me a photo of her sacked out on Ellen's chest. It's the best. 

Today, even though I have a wedding tomorrow and I'm not quite ready, I plan to go over and stare at my two favorite girls. I don't want to miss a thing and it's going to go by too fast. 

She's Here!

And she's perfect. 

January

This month flew by. Looking ahead into this year, January seemed like the perfect time to get organized, do a little lounging, and generally muse about the good things. These things were accomplished mind you, but somehow it felt more bustling and hectic than a normal month of all the expected things. We started our month by celebrating Big Bubba Brett's Birthday. We had two of our favorite couples over for Brett's favorite dinner followed by his favorite decadent chocolate cake. I love celebrating that guy. He's the best thing that's happened to my life.

Just a few days later we had a celebration for little Olivia. We hosted Ellen and Lee's baby shower at our folks' house and had 50 of their friends come through to rub Ellen's round belly. Ellen hated all of the attention. Lee dazzled the crowd. Brett ate most of the mini-quiches. It was a good time. Olivia is scheduled to come early but Ellen could blow at any minute.

Beautiful Chelsea made heaps these cookies for the baby-shower. Isn't she amazing? (She recently started a business making personalized cookies for all kinds of occasions and they're SO exciting.) 

I did some girlie flower arrangements and Dad dazzled with his food spread. Mom prepared the house and fussed over plates and platters and all the little things that go unnoticed when properly executed. It's a thankless job. 

Ellen and Lee in a sea of baby gifts.

Bob moved into an old folks home in Mt. Pleasant, where he has two attendants who argue over which one is his new girlfriend. On a bustling, blowout Friday Carolyn had a birthday, a retirement, and a husband with a hip-replacement surgery. Aunt Georgia continues to delight me with Wonka Runts. She once bought me a five pound bag of them. It took 4 years to get through them and I was bringing them as potluck dishes.
Ari and Nate had a great little oyster roast where we got to spend time with the newest addition to their family, Ms. Magnolia. But everyone calls her Maggie.

I've been meeting with "industry professionals" to pick their brains and weasel out tips and tricks to help make ole
Lux n' U more profitable. I'm gearing up for the wedding onslaught and spent a whole day getting the shop ready.

Somewhere in there I hurt my back and have had to go talk to a different kind of industry professional who's teaching me all the ways to care for myself and stand properly and it makes me feel a smidge juvenile. "Stand like this. Turn your feet out, Laura." I went in for a stretching this morning and it's the closest I've ever been to feeling like a real athlete. There I was, a strange man smashing my leg up into a painful position. Yep, this must be what the pros feel like. 
One of my florist friends slipped a disc doing a little mundane job I do every wedding weekend. She had to have emergency surgery and find a team of un-trained college girls to do her weddings for several weeks. This is a frightening story. You know I'd rather wallow in my pain than seek medical help. Consider me spooked.

In bad news, Sweet Budds has a malignant lump on his side that's being removed next week for tests. I'm scared and sad... but nothing gets Buddy down.

Brett and I found an exciting secret spot on a dog walk last weekend with lots of trees and marsh-views and this great dock at the end. The girls romped and leapt and had so much fun that they slept away that entire afternoon. 

With the cool but warm weather we've had, all the camellias in town have busted loose and it's one of my favorite sights. There are lots of confused flowers already blooming and even though the sight delights me, it's too soon and I'm worried about the flow of flower things. I hate winter, but it's a necessary evil. I don't want to miss out on the daffodils because we didn't have enough chilly days.

My first wee wedding of the year was last weekend and it's kicked off my "Spring " season. Coming up in February, we've got a Seabrook celebration, a Dunes West dance party, and Mills House marriage. 

Wait Wait, Pause For a Second

I'm not sure if the restructuring was a silly notion or if I've just hit a busy patch here but I most definitely don't have time to write new stories. I started a few there at the beginning of this month when I was prioritizing different things. I sure liked the plan. The last four-ish weeks have been the most involved and dare I say "business-y" that I've experienced. I've been testing out some new marketing tactics and I reckon they're working because I've had more emails than I can get to in a day and that's a new concept for me. I also upgraded myself to a proposal writing software that would help me spit them out faster so I've been learning the new system and entering in all the information for each wedding this year. This means lots of phone call tutorials from the tech-people (they're awfully nice) and emailing myself as a tester client. It gets confusing. But I'm stoked about the new software. Boy it's exciting and has so many features I'd have never even dreamed up!
I have organized myself for a different kind of business running for this year - a restructuring, if you will - and so far it's proved to be successful. I've got more weddings just for this Spring than I normally book in a whole year. That's scary and exciting and I'm a little worried about keeping up the momentum. We've even got to move things around in the garage to make room for my growing inventory and flower ego.

So you can imagine that a low-energy, pretend business person like me has just been crapping out at the end of the day. We've also had a number of social outings taking up our weekends which is equal parts fun and tiresome. Did you know we're in a book club? And we had Brett's birthday and Ellen's baby shower and who has time to write stories about Mom putting cat crap in Dad's suitcases? Actually, I did finally, after all this time, come up with an idea for a novel.  I've written the first two pages. So there.

My point is, I just may need to restructure the restructuring until things calm down a bit and I can sit still without falling asleep. So, I'll instate a mini-restructuring for now. Still some fun writing bits here and there but also some family updates and personal rants.

So enjoy this photo of Pippa feeling so relaxed.
Her feet!

Unfinished Story #1

“Sir, would you like to tell us what in your bag?” This particular TSA staff member seemed to have bought his vest from Baby Gap.

“Pardon?”

“Sir, this will all be easier if you work with us.” another staff member chimed in.

“What do you mean?” my Dad asked. For a well-traveled and seasoned member of society, he conveys the most genuine look of innocence when he is confused. My Dad is a manly man: strong, hairy, and has big, calloused hands. He delights in his manliness and thinks it a great prize to be a man. The most wonderful part of manly men are when they break character: when you catch them giggling or delighting in something trivial, like a birthday cake. It would never occur to Dad that his bewildered expressions or the way he swings his toes around to theme songs would be the things that made him so endearing and revered.

The agent busting out of his vest motioned with his head and Dad was surrounded by the TSA.

“I’m going to need you to come with me.”

. . . . . .

At some point during my Dad’s travelling career, my Mom began packing cat paraphernalia into Dad’s suitcases. My parents are very different people. For every virile and bold trait of my Dad’s, my Mom has a delightful and polite contradiction. She’s a Southern lady; gentle and kind and harbors away a wicked sense of humor that would shock all of her church friends. My Mom’s brand of humor is often lost on Dad. His hearty guffaws were mostly prompted by bathroom humor and the misfortunes of others while my Mom was easily entertained by the unexpected and the absurd.

The cat crap Mom tucked between his button-downs was placed purely to surprise and disgust Dad when he finally made it to his hotel and unpacked his things. Dad thought it is not manly to like cats. so Mom enjoyed imagining his eye-roll as he flung a cat calendar across his hotel room.

Post 9/11, the efficiency with which Dad could glide through an airport was lost to the depths of the good old days, along with the freedom to perform a much needed mid-flight shave. Though proudly born in the USA, Dad’s parents passed along their Lebanese noses and swarthy complexions, so in the wake of a Middle Eastern born tragedy, Dad was selected for “random” searches each Tuesday morning as he set off for that week’s collection of business meetings. This had a two-fold outcome. Not only was my impatient father held up at security while his bags were unpacked piece by piece, but the cat crap became a public display. Mom was enlivened by this news and her feline schemes grew alongside Dad’s humiliation, packing a last minute stuffed kitten or a photo album of cats from years past. On one occasion, Dad looked over during his search and noticed a framed picture of their cat, Googus, propped up on top of his toiletry bag, facing out for the crowds to enjoy. Onlookers chuckled at my Dad who only glared that that good-humored security agent.  

. . . . . .

“The package in your suitcase, Sir. What’s in it?” The head of security sat Dad down in a small interrogation room in some unknown part of the airport. Dad realized he might be in real trouble. What kind of cat crap could cause this commotion? He was flying to Tennessee for a wedding and Mom had packed a gift for the couple on top of his suit. He hadn’t concerned himself with what was inside. 

“I don’t know.” Dad said honestly.

“You don’t know?”

“It’s a wedding gift. My wife put it in there.”

"We’re going to open the box, Sir."

“Ok. Sure.” Dad said, being as agreeable as possible. His nose already made him a suspicious airport character.  He picked up his phone to call Mom and she answered his call with a happy, singsong 'Hello'.

“Nancy,” Dad shot at her, “What’s in the box?”

“Huh?” she said.

“The wedding gift. What is it?”

“Steak knives!” Mom responded happily, pleased with the thoughtful notion. And then she gasped a sharp inhale and burst into tears.

“I gotta go!” and Dad hung up the phone. 

The next thirty minutes inched by....