Let’s go back 5 years. I retired from Parish Visiting. Our lake home was on the market longer than we dreamt possible-without a nibble. We had followed suggestions and pared down our overstuffed abode in anxious anticipation of our next move in more than 20 years. We were so excited at the prospect of not driving 150-180 miles to see the rest of the family. So many changes coming, just not as fast as we had expected or hoped.

A celebration! Opal turned 100…

You know I have this weird compulsion/obsession/habit with anything to do with making lists. I love note pads, from tiny free ones to odd sized and costly. My stash. Where my ideas are stored, often forgotten, only to be discovered again-usually with a smile. Anything from my mundane grocery list to blog post stories. Just teensie idea seeds-fermenting, ready to sprout. I have notepads all over the house, my Jeep, my purse, even on my nightstand. A suggestion from my friend Cindy in case a bright idea comes to me during a sleepless night. As if. That little journal remains as barren as this great grandma, but the ones in my purse and car have been bearing fruit for several years. Mighty strange how inopportune the timing can be when a thought crosses my mind and I jot down a story line for my blog. Or when I notice something’s missing in my overflow cupboards downstairs which I’d forgotten to write down.

Blog post ideas. Umm, it could be fuller…

One of my more obscure journals for the last decade is about my canning exploits. Sometimes in great detail. It didn’t start that way. Merely a way of tracking what I canned, plus where I bought the produce and how much I paid. Some vendors at the Farmer’s Market just carry better produce for a gooder price (didn’t want to use the word better again). I end up going to the same dealers every time. They get to know you and aren’t offended if you try and dicker the price down a bit. I had no idea on how much I really canned every year until I started jotting down the total number of jars that sealed their way through my kitchen. Boy was I surprised at the number of jars. This was during my busiest years of visiting. These visits always included some of my homemade pickles or jams unless the folks were in a nursing home. (Then they received a small loaf of banana or pumpkin bread or a half dozen cookies).

What I brought along when I visited folks…

At the peak of my canning frenzy (which only lasted 5 years) my total number of jars canned was between 1,100 & 1,400 jars. For one year. Oh my. If you consider the number of jars we consumed, maybe 100-150 tops, that’s still an awful lot of jars setting around. (I think per chance I was possessed). There’s never been any left over from the previous year. I made and gave away hundreds of jars in gift baskets plus brought a couple hundred jars along to Iowa every year. But I digress. This is not about the actual jars I canned, but about my journaling on canning and my all around decline since 2015. No more wacky sidetrack paragraphs.

Just missing my pickled beets cause Hubs hasn’t brought them downstairs yet…

Knowing how wordy I tend to get, it comes as no surprise that the first couple of years, my 10 word descriptions of a day in the life of canning would expand into mini-blogs equally several paragraphs. Sigh. Maybe since I’m not very talkative anymore, my continued writing or tapping out of words was to be expected.

End of the year canning total when I was possessed…

I realize I’m no longer at the top of my game physically. But until a couple of weeks ago, I was working 25 hours a week, carrying around 20 plus pound babies 6 hours a day. Still, how much the last 3 years have affected me is evident by my simple canning journal. I canned a bushel of apples into sauce last week. (Sorry Hildonna, I’m still using a paring knife to peel the apples). First time in my life, I had to sit down to peel the apples, because I’m having issues with my right leg. Ugh. I was optimistic-yet realistic when I drove to the orchard, so instead of buying 1 or 2 bushels of Northern Spy’s for pies, I pared (lame apple peeling joke) down that little number to a half bushel this year for a couple of reasons.

1. Our apple pie consumption is down for the first time in decades. 
2. Neither Hubs nor I need ready to eat pies in our freezer. Ever. Really. 
3. Even sitting to peel pie apples, I gotta stand to roll out pie crusts, mix the apples with my secret ingredients, crimp the edge, top w/ milk & sugar, seal the outer edge with aluminum foil, which is all very time consuming.

First pot of apples ready to go…

So after the applesauce was canned, I decided not to make any pies this year. I should also tell you this bothers me. A lot. It’s selfish and stupid. It really bugs me not to make my pies because of physical issues. I don’t want things to be wrong with me. You know how I detest change of any kind. And I had just resigned myself to let the dumb pie making go this year. Until I got out my old canning journal. What a difference a few years make. In July of 2012 I bought 3 bushels (yes that’s really three) of cucumbers ONE DAY. Do you know how perishable they are? You can’t sit round the house for a week deciding when you’re going to can your famous (yes, I’m gloating) Bread & Butter Pickles. Chop-chop Neese, time’s a wasting. I canned 63 pints on Tuesday and 97 pints on Wednesday. Dang. I mean it. Dang. It was quite common for me to make 100 jars of jam-a day. Who does that besides Smuckers? After one such we-be-jamming-day, my last journal sentence read, “it’s 2 am, think I’m gonna have to crawl up the stairs, my feet hurt so bad.”

Deaf person-running dish water-epic fail on watching apples boil over…

On one of my more lengthy written observations was a day when I did 14 batches of Bread & Butters which took 10 hours (and the prep work was done the day before. Hubs sliced all the onions while I rinsed the cukes and snipped the ends). I discovered after I started a batch on the stove, just as it began to boil, I started a second batch. Cut at least 2-3 hours off my long day. I felt so smart. At least for that day.

Finished product (apple sauce) looks awesome, 2018…

I knew when we moved to Jackson, my big days/months/years of canning were coming to an end. No longer visiting 30-40 people a month, so my canning gift baskets were down to a minimum. Gave Goodwill hundreds of my empty jars before we moved (don’t go there, I’ve bought 12 dozen jars since last summer-referring you back to the possessed canning poltergeist living within). But it was my choice/lack of need/ to take my canning bingeing down a notch when we got here. Not because I’m not physically able.

I know not why I’m compelled to write at length about everything…

Yet I’ve been pitched curve ball after curve ball since we whittled down our living space here in Jackson. About 6 months after we moved (February, 2016), my left leg decided it needed to be lugged along side of me like the loose limb of a zombie. I doctored, did therapy and limped for a year, yet it’s still only about 75%. Three months ago, pain and swelling in my right leg, which hasn’t gotten any better. Waiting for a second opinion on what’s exactly wrong with one or both of my limbs.

Beets are-messy. Neese as backup to “Maroon 5”

The last produce I can for the year are always pickled beets and cranberry sauce. I love both and freely share my beets with the world. Cranberry sauce-not so much. I make 15 pints a year, and I eat a dozen. Truth. I eat a pint a month. (If you should ever get a pint of my canned cranberry sauce-consider yourself very special. Same goes for canned meat or spaghetti sauce. You’re highly revered in my book, just saying. I rarely part with those 3). One of my fondest memories of eating supper as a family when the kids were young is about pickled beets. While no one else ate them, a jar of beets was usually on the table. When I asked for them, Josh & Adam would do these rap like noises with their mouths and start snapping their fingers ‘to the beet.’ Neat to remember those silly supper moments.

Here’s the reason for the pretty maroon fingers…

I recently went to Muskegon to visit my friend Joann, and stopped at the Farmer’s Market. People of Muskegon, you are so lucky to have this great produce market. A month earlier I had made 10 phone calls trying to find Concord grapes around Jackson. Finally stumbled across some, paid a fortune, made a few jars of grape jelly. Then, while in Muskegon I spotted a gorgeous half bushel of Concords for 15 bucks. About cried. Let me reiterate. Since moving away, I miss 3 things about Muskegon. My friend Joann, The Farmer’s Market and Lake Michigan. Period. And not necessarily in that order.

Aren’t those jars gorgeous? Yum…

Beets are not as temperamental or delicate as most produce. I waited a couple days before I pickled them. You boil them until they’re fork tender like a potato, dump them in the sink to cool, slip off the skins and trim both ends. Then I hauled them to the dining room table so I could sit and dice them. Sigh, yes another first-sitting to dice beets. Then comes the stand up part. The beets go into a delicious syrup which kinda makes your eyes water. Strong smell from tons of sugar and vinegar with a dash of water. (Still the best part of pickling beets. Those little shits actually stink while you’re cooking them. Hubs always finds something to do outside. He hates both smells though, the cooking and pickling part). So ‘ya dump 10 pounds of diced beets into this ginormous vat of syrup so they can simmer for 5 minutes, (which takes a long time to get back to a simmer). But then you’re practically done as you fill scalding hot jars, turn the lids & rings pretty tight and wait for them puppies to seal with that distinctive pop.

One of our favorites, canned meat, redskins and fresh green beans. With cranberry sauce…

My pickled beets netted me thirty-six pints. And I felt like I had been rode hard and put away wet. So stinking tired. After 36 pints. Makes me want to weep. What happened to my stamina a mere 5 years hence? I don’t know. But I do care. Hoping once my legs heal (Orel Roberts-where are you) or are fixed surgically, I am back. Not stronger than ever-necessarily. Just stronger. Cause I’m beet….

Muskegon Lighthouse on Lake Michigan with high winds. By Mike Dixon…

I’m constantly reminded how fast time is zipping by these days. One of the biggest culprits is Facebook. Every couple days when I open Facebook, I’m surprised by a picture from my memories. Could be from one year ago or 5. It’s my option if I want to ‘share’ the photo again. I’m always shocked when I read, “Denise, we care about you (right). This is from your memories 4 years ago.” How can that be? I swear it was just last year! Upon further inspection I see how little Graham was and realize yup, had to be at least 4 years ago. Too fast. Slow down. 

Our Halloween craft project, a dirt cake cemetery in 2013, Graham 4…

Another ‘tell’ is my old calendars. I jot down little snippets, doctor appointments, grandkid’s events we attended, when or where we go somewhere. It’s easy to page through if I’m looking for something specific. When I buy a new calendar I use my current one (adding yet another year to whatever I want to be reminded of) for keeping track of Mom & Dad’s anniversary, special folks in my life who have passed away and how many years ago. Maybe that sounds morbid but it isn’t to me. While looking through the month of October, my eyes stopped on the 19th, and I realize Mom’s been gone 14 years. Can’t be true. Seems like she just called me yesterday (I can hear her voice distinctly) telling me how much she loved me-the night before she passed away. 

Mom, looking lovely in 1992…

Whenever the kids are around if I mention I’m looking for a gadget or need something, the first thing they say, “did you look for it online Mom?” That’s simply not the way I’m wired. I was raised/taught/encouraged/nurtured to literally ‘shop’ for the things I need. That’s why God made Malls. Duh. Who in their right mind would actually order an apple corer off the Internet? (All of my kids if they needed one). My Internet interest span gets seriously twitchy when I’m looking for something in earnest. Everything seems to take too long. That obnoxious little gizmo-the disappearing/revolving circle which means your iPad or computer’s still busy working/working. Drives me insane. This is not something I notice as I’m wondering around a humongous store and not finding what I want. Then again, I lived a much larger portion of my life without the Internet than all my kids. 

Still computer illiterate in 2000, yet I look relatively happy…

For decades we had the 1.0 version of shopping online. It was invented simultaneously by 3 ambitious business men. Namely Aaron Montgomery Ward, Richard Sears and J.C. Penney. Each pretty much had it perfected by the time I was a kid. It was the stuff dreams were made of. All you could ever hope for and covet in your lifetime. It was called The Catalog. Spring/Summer, Fall/Winter versions, plus the best one of the year, (at least according to our kids), The Christmas Wish Book. Hundreds of pages, literally thousands of items-all for viewing at your leisure. No battery draining, no sketchy service interruptions. It was massive, enticing and in bright colors. All the models were thin, gorgeous and happy. The way life’s supposed to be. Slick, shiny pages, filled with endless choices of the latest clothing trends, shoes, linens, kitchenware, furniture, even your next new home! And pets. You could order dogs, and cars, plus more exotic animals like parrots. 

Mom loved Montgomery Ward’s Catalog. Me too, early 1960’s…

My Mom was the ultimate shopper. She was tireless. Driven. Although she was frugal in many ways and saving money was very important, she loved splurging. She didn’t feel guilty about these little binge shopping escapades either. Part of her savvy savings were earmarked for these special shopping trips. It was a rare day if she were not enthusiastic about a trip to one of the Sioux’s-Falls or City. Shriver’s, Younkers, Penney’s, Sears, Montgomery Ward, she loved and shopped them all. But she could just as happily shop in a nearby, smaller town with independent stores, who were more likely to carry different brands than the bigger department stores. Hokey pete, you didn’t want to walk into church on Sunday and see someone else with the same dress or suit on! Oh the shame.

No words for my coat Mom bought. But I loved it…

Before a new school year started Mom and I would peruse her new stash of Fall/Winter catalogs from The Big 3. (She also received the Spiegel Catalog, but we never ordered much from them). We’d pick out a couple of skirts, slacks and tops that coordinated, hoping that our picks were just a little different than the other moms and my friends. Mom wanted my clothes to be unique. For that reason alone, a good percentage of my school clothes were handmade, like all the sweaters she knit. Mom had an expert seamstress on retainer, thus ensuring my black & white houndstooth wool, fully lined Bermuda (winter) shorts were indeed one-of-a-kind. No one else in their right mind were on the same level of originality (as Mom) or me for that matter, to be wearing shorts during an Iowa winter. Knee socks helped, but still, brrrrr.

Showing a lot of leg for an Iowa winter. Loved the saddle shoes, knee socks…

 
Back in those days Mom did not have a credit card. She just added up the cost of the catalog items, looked on a chart for the additional shipping & handling charge and simply mailed a check with the order form. We’d both be so excited, waiting what felt like an eternity for our order to be delivered. I can still remember numerous packages, tissue wrap, (Mom holding all the straight pins), plastic bags scattered all over our living room floor, while I tried on new clothes. Mom had the final say on everything, including quality control of said garments. If the plaid pattern of a new skirt didn’t match EXACTLY from one seam to another-bam-she’d slap that thing right back in the package for a return. Shopping from The Catalog was about as much fun, but in a different way as an actual shopping trip. Weird.

Just pick out your house from the catalog…

The novelty of catalog shopping didn’t wear off after I grew up (I know that’s still up for debate) either. Catalogs were bigger, brighter and competition remained stiff. Those marketing guys were crafty. Suddenly one catalog arrived which was slightly smaller in size. What! Just as the rest of the catalogs were getting bigger and bigger. Why? So the smaller version would be placed on TOP of the rest of the catalogs in your house. It would be picked up first. Sneaky bastards. 

Oh my goodness…

But there was something special about literally ‘going shopping’ which held so much appeal for Mom, and later me. While walking through the store, my eye was drawn to a piece of clothing. I found my size, grab an item off a circular rack, held it by the hanger, swinging it frontwards & backwards. Touch the fabric to decide if it’s worthy of a trip to the dressing room. Unless it was for Joshua or Adam. Neither were avid (clothes) shoppers, so when I brought home new clothes for them, they were usually agreeable. Shannon-not so much. She was ready to pick out her own clothes when she was 3. Whether I went along for the ride was entirely up to me. 

Shannon’s choice, Mom and I were along to pick up the check…

Still, the allure of The Christmas Catalog was overpowering when our kids were small. From approximately 1975 to 1985 the arrival of the Christmas Catalog somehow transformed our once semi-neat, happy home into something between, Children of the Iowa Corn and a shark feeding frenzy after a ton of chum had been dumped in the ocean. They’d immediately fight over first rights just to ‘look’ at the catalog without someone else gawking over their shoulder or trying to turn a particular page too soon. Sigh. Like king of the mountain. Each kid would grab a crayon, pencil, ink pen, or magic marker and circle the toys that could and would make their young lives complete. If only that tight ass Santa would come through. Yes, I still harbor a huge grudge against Santa. He didn’t exist in my home growing up. Imagine my surprise when our toddlers would echo their daddy’s sentiments about the tubby white haired guy. “No, mommy and daddy can’t afford that train Josh. Why don’t you ask Santa for it?” (Are you kidding me)? Too late to take those words back, but he’d get an earful in bed that night!  “John, who’s got Santa’s financial back here? We can’t afford the toys you’re promising he’s gonna bring. Why do you do this to us every year?”

The reason for many fights in the fall, The Christmas Catalog…

Much has changed in the shopping department since our kids were small. Still, when I need something, my first thought is ‘hmm, where’s the best place to start looking for solar shades?’ A couple hours later, exhausted from limping my way through a couple hard copy (retail stores), I dejectedly conclude the Internet is now my only best hope. Although the days of our kids fighting over The Christmas Catalog used to drive me to distraction, I’d love a do-over sometime. 

The fights were over, just waiting to see what Santa brought. He got credit for all the good stuff…

By the time our third kid got ahold of the catalog for their top choices, pages were missing or ripped, other kid’s choices scratched up or torn out out with a vengeance. Like a horde of grasshoppers descending on a crop of munchies in biblical times. Epic. The beat up sad, tattered Catalog was now filled with barely recognizable toys bearing either multiple circles around it, an “X” marked next to, a pastel heart or the sign of the beast. All that remained unscathed was a pristine page of girdles. Great. At least I’d wouldn’t have to suck in my gut during the holidays…

Don’t take my title here literally. I really wasn’t around when rock & roll debuted. That was a bit before my time. Music was a different world when I was a kid. I remember very little about radio music (elementary school music and church hymns were the 2 biggies in my life) before I hit my teens in the mid-60’s. I do recall fighting with my sister about listening to the radio before we went to sleep at night. She wanted country music on when we were in bed. I wanted quiet, she didn’t. She had the prime spot next to the nightstand and was almost 8 years older than me. Needless to say, I lost that battle. 

One of my first concert experiences. The Roof Garden at Arnold’s Park, 1966…

I think kids today have a bigger interest in music at a younger age than I did. They know all the popular artists, plus every word from their songs. I didn’t have a huge interest in TV or radio as a kid. Until I saw The Beatles. Namely Paul McCartney. Hubba-hubba. And I didn’t get to see him as early as the rest of the world’s teenage population because I couldn’t watch the Ed Sullivan Show (or Bonanza) on Sunday nights. I was in church from 6:30, attending  RCYF (Reformed Church Youth Fellowship). After our youth group concluded, we headed upstairs to catch the evening’s sermon (no sneaking out of line and trying to dodge the rest of the service. Every parent looked over as we filed in. They knew in an instant if you were not among the kids you always sat with). A whole new world opened up to me once Paul professed his longing to hold my hand. And love, love me do. Even when I’m 64.

Paul, my favorite Beatle…

So by junior high the girls I hung out with had numerous slumber parties and music became a much bigger part of my life. In my book, no one ever quite measured up to the Beatles, but there were tons of popular groups. The Beach Boys, Dave Clark Five, Rolling Stones, The Monkees, The Buckinghams, The Temptations, Mamas & the Papas, The Animals, Simon & Garfunkel, Elvis, Neil Diamond (a close second to the Beatles for me), The Righteous Brothers, The Supremes. I’m sure I’ve missed some of my favorites, the list of musicians and fabulous songwriters from that great era were endless. 

Neil, 2017 concert…

One of the earliest entertainers I ever remember watching on TV was Liberace. Anyone remember him? He was flamboyant, outrageous, quirky and wildly talented. What he could do to a set of ivory’s was amazing. I thought he was a hoot, and my Mom loved him. I’ve been thinking about Liberace because of a concert I attended Friday night. That’s right. This little concert groupie with the gimpy leg checked another item off my Plastic Pail list. Namely, Sir Elton John. That’s right folks.

Daredevil P!nk swinging, singing on a trapeze, Truth about Love concert tour…

As soon as I realized Elton John was doing a “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” tour I texted my daughter-in-law Erica (who’s really our concert junkie in the family). Wouldn’t ‘ya know, she already bought tickets for herself and Josh. Well nuts. I had checked some of the ticket sites and knew there was no way my other go-to concert buddy, granddaughter, Ariana could afford a ticket. They were sinfully expensive. But Shannon was willing to sacrifice an evening and go with me (she really doesn’t care for concert type venues). 

Adam Levine, Maroon 5 at the Palace of Auburn Hills…

Six months zip by and suddenly Elton’s concert is upon us. Shannon and I are meeting Josh and Erica at their house and going out for supper before heading down to the fabulous new Little Caesar’s Arena for the 8 o’clock show. Josh & Erica know Detroit like the palm of their hand and delight in choosing different restaurants for us to try. But it was a Friday night, and we had to eat relatively early so I wouldn’t be rushed before the actual concert starts. Geesh. We finally decide on Mexican Town, not new but one of my favorite spots. (Last time we ate there was a couple years ago when Flat Stanley was our house guest for a week. Now that little guy could pack away the fajitas). We snarf our way through 2 baskets of piping hot tortilla chips, salsa and guacamole dip. Mexican Town is famous for their margaritas, but not tonight Neese. I can’t be half tipsy when I’m trying to pick out a t-shirt or find my way to the cotton candy kiosk before the big show. And who wants to get up during an exciting concert, (sitting squarely in the middle of my long row) to run to the bathroom? 

Sir Elton John, Little Caesar’s Arena, Detroit, 10-12-2018…

After ordering modest amounts of food (mini fajitas), platters the size of small yachts are placed in front of us. None of us made a very big dent on our delicious Mexican fare. Couldn’t take the excess food with us either as we were using Uber to get from here to there. (My first time for that too). It had been sprinkling since Shannon and I arrived in Detroit, by the time we were heading to the concert it was a steady drizzle and very cool. But the wait to get in the arena (everyone had to go through a metal detector, and they totally checked every inch of my purse) wasn’t 10 minutes. 

Elton scorching those ivory’s, 2018…

It wasn’t as early as I had hoped though. A mutual split second decision for a slight detour was made to get in line to buy souvenir paraphernalia before finding our seats. First top I saw hanging above my head was a grey zippered hoodie with a large gold sequined E (for Elton, focus people) was moderately priced at $125 dollars. Oh my word. No thanks, but I saw several being worn during the night. Since my arms are always cold I don’t favor short sleeves. Tried on a long sleeved T which hung down to my (sore) knees. Nope. Chose another from the large assortment, meanwhile Erica wanders over, shows me her shirt when the clerk hands me the T shirt to try on. “Good choice, this one’s only available tonight and tomorrow, exclusively for Detroit.” “Sold,” I say happily. Erica’s face fell, she mutters, “man, I should have gotten that one.” Salesman dude was very gracious and swapped Erica’s first pick for our limited edition Detroit super cool shirt. 

Part of Detroit’s skyline, made with a capital E…

The concert. No opening act and Elton walked out on stage at 8:05. He’s prompt. He starts off with one of my favorites, Ba-Ba-Ba-Benny & the Jets. (I’ve been singing this one since I started working because we’re on our second little boy named Ben). I didn’t recognize another song during the first hour which was disappointing. Elton used the backdrop to show lots of pictures, some sad, some silly about almost everything, people, wild psychedelic images. The second hour had more of my favorites, Rocket Man, Daniel, Crocodile Rock. He only changed clothes (and glasses) twice, basically sang over 2-1/2 hours. After leaving the stage at the end of the concert, he came back out in his dressing gown (what a riot) and ended the night with Goodbye Yellow Brick Road. 

Elton sang his heart out, 2018…

I guess I would describe the concert on the whole as sedate. Elton, like Liberace, enjoyed embellishing his musical numbers. Almost like a rehearsed ad lib. Added 5-7 minutes to many numbers, playing the piano accompanied by his band. Maybe the people in the top shelf seats stood the whole time singing along, but no one did in the nosebleed section. It had nothing to do with his age (or even mine). I stood for most of Neil Diamond’s concert and EVERYBODY sang along with almost every song. Sweet Caroline, DAH-DAH-DAH! Good times never seem so good, SO GOOD, SO GOOD, SO GOOD. I mean that was crazy awesome. Elton did tell tidbit stories about his life, one with a picture collage about the AIDS Foundation he started in the 80’s which has raised over 200 million dollars. 

Farewell T-shirt, exclusive for Detroit venue…

Elton John gave a good concert, though not a great one in my humble opinion. But not one I’m gonna be thinking about with a smile on my face for years to come like when I remember the concerts with P!nk, Maroon 5, Paul McCartney, or my all time favorite, Neil…

Goodbye Yellow Brick Road…

More often than not my boss is right on track. Once in a while I’m left scratching my head, but not too often. Basically, she’s got a lot on her plate and usually rises to the occasion. She has a lot of love and empathy for all of our children and it shows in how she treats them. Even the kid (not one of our babies, but much older) misbehaving in the lunchroom. Well, bless his heart.

This is our dining area lunch table. Yes, it’s that low…

I don’t know if she was purposely looking for something or stumbled upon a program she brought to our attention this spring. A new way of tracking what we do to and with every baby in our care during the day. Our old way was a printed sheet of paper. Parents filled out their baby’s name, the date, how their baby fared during the night and the last time they ate (the baby, we do not care when mom and dad last partook). These were the top 3 lines. The rest of the sheet was divided in 2 sections with several columns. First, eating and diaper changing took up about 8 lines. We noted the time, if it was solid food, a bottle, wet or poopy diaper. Then scribbled our initials in the last column. There was a space for a comment in case he refused food, ate half, fussed for more, or had a red hiney that required diaper cream after a diaper change. The last small section was on when and how long they slept during naps. 

Enter the new program designed to simplify our lives on how we track our babes throughout the day. (This geriatric dinosaur has so many issues with change that requires brain power). Tracy brought in a laptop for us to use. I’ve not used a computer since I got my first iPad over 6 years ago. Normally I’m the one who opens most mornings, thus it’s my job to get the computer out, plug it in and set it up for the day. I did not remember how to turn on a computer. Michelle had to show me. Several times. Slowly. The laptop had no mouse. I can’t do that whole hocus-pocus thingy with my finger. (My index finger, come on, get serious) Ninfa brought in a mouse from home. (I tell you I’m more work than I’m worth). Luckily the babies love me, or I’d be no use to anyone around here. 

Part of our younger baby section…

I had hoped to get rid of our ginormous dry erase board once this Neanderthal learned the computer ropes, but it’s still needed for timing diaper changes and food/bottles. Three columns, starting with their name, when their diaper is due to be changed, plus the next approximate feeding time, whether it’s a bottle or food. We find some babies can go a bit longer than their schedule, others need their food or bottle several minutes before. Kind of a loosely timed demand schedule I guess. We’re not going to let a four month old cry very long before we get his bottle. They fidget, suck their fingers, complain and you just know they ready to eat. The bigger kids tend to congregate by the kitchen gate, trying to hunt you down as you pass by (often to get that complaining little one his bottle). They all have their own tell. Little shyster card sharks. 

On the new computer program all of our babies names are on top. You click on their name, scroll (yes, I can scroll) down to the appropriate category (there’s a whole lot of them) but usually only the top few are most frequently used. Solid food, bottle, sleep, diaper, cup, incident report, or activity. The activity button includes things like tummy time, playing with others, going outdoors, art project, or the category I use everyday, brushing their teeth. I remind them as they’re finishing a meal it’s dental hygiene week (dental hygiene week is every week, the toddlers just haven’t called me on it-yet) and I’ve set the timer for 90 seconds of rigorous brushing, which usually garners me some blank stares or a waving of their hands with a yada-yada-yada. Although they tend to get excited when I bring them their tooth brush and sing the song about brushing. And unless I’ve cleared their table or tray tops, you’d be surprised how many brush for 30 seconds, fling that sucker across the room, and go right back to eating, after they solemnly swore they were “all done.” They are not to be fully trusted where food is involved. It’s a learning process for them and me. If I don’t get sidetracked, we brush after breakfast, but there have been days when it’s during a lull in the morning (a lull lasts approximately 38 seconds) or after lunch if they’re not too tired. 

Scary, but the bigger kids love this thing. Steps and a slide…

The keyboard has been my biggest stumbling block. At home I use an iPad mini. Phones have grown to the same approximate size. Keyboard letters are very close together. You know how wordy I tend to be? So I want to add a note to some things I accomplished with their little one. “He loved his Mac and cheese, but I made the mistake of mixing in his veggie. Although he loved the broccoli yesterday, he managed to maneuver every single piece of cauliflower back out of his mouth today. Amazing to watch really.” Try typing that when the keyboard letters are about a mile and a half apart. Mistake is my middle name. And I’m anal about mistakes. So this takes me a LONG TIME. The rest of the girls waltz up there and are gone in like 30 seconds. Saying the same darn thing! But I think it’s those  insignificant comments which mean something to the parents when they’re reading the email they get after they get home. How well their baby fared. I don’t want to group 4 babies together to say, “they ate pizza, applesauce, and drank 4 oz. of milk. If he flicked his toothbrush and filled my face with spit while brushing, well Mom can just visualize that little scenario as she reading that night. Smiling, I hope. 

So we have this category I don’t use frequently but I love it. It’s called Milestones. None of my children were in daycare, but as a parent I would guess this category would be a love/hate relationship. You want to know what your baby’s doing and if he does/discovers something, but you want them to do it at home. In front of you and daddy first. I get it. But. If I’m holding a 5 month old and she has a tiny rattle in one hand, should she move it to the other hand, I’m gonna put that down in a the milestone column. At least until mom says, “oh yeah, she’s been doing that since last weekend.” Same thing when they get up on their knees and start rocking, army crawling, drinking out of a straw from their sippy cup for the first time. If I notice a new little saw blade tooth has popped through a gum while she’s laughing when I’m changing her diaper, it’s gonna get jotted down. I’d want to know. Sorry new mommies. This caregiver is sharing. And dang proud (right along with you) of their little and major accomplishments. 

Table & chairs to practice climbing…

The new format has gotten easier, but I’m still painfully slow. At pretty much everything. While this bothers me tremendously, the babies tend to be quite patient when I’m doing something with them. Like singing. They’ll forgive almost anything if I’m singing a song for them. Any song or commercial jingle. They care not that I’m off key, or when I’m making a complete fool of myself. The goofier I act, the more enthralled they become. And really, who am I trying to please-teach-nurture-entertain? The babies. That’s right. It’s why I show up, and buy stuff for our room. Making the best home for our babies when they’re not at home….

This snippet in the life of Neese started in February, 2016. Walking on a beautiful, dry, winter afternoon when suddenly I got a searing pain behind my left knee. A golf ball sized lump appeared. Doctor visits, misdiagnosis, physical therapy, steroids, and cortisone shot helped but it’s never been the same. Can’t pivot at all either way and at times it feels like my leg won’t support me. (Hubs often feels the same way about supporting me). Sounds like a bowl of Rice Krispies when I stand up and walk. Still, it’s 75% better than it was 18 months ago.

Just look at all my perfect bones. Neese, 1954…

Couple months ago, a routine day, worked from 6-1, then ran several errands. Several being too many. By the time I got home my RIGHT leg was on fire. Starting on the inside of my lower thigh, heading under my knee to the back of my calf. Swollen, tender, I used ice gel packs and anti-inflammatory OTC. But after 10 days it wasn’t any better. Sigh. I called for an appointment with my primary care guy. Dr. Arntz poked around said he didn’t like where the swelling was, and suggested an orthopedic guy in his building. Made an appointment but it was a month away because it had to be my day off, a Friday or late afternoon. The discomfort was pretty bad, so I called back asking if there was anytime sooner I could come in? The best she could do was put me on the cancellation list, probably only a day or few hours notice, but my name was added. Never got the call though, he must be a busy guy.

A week before my appointment (Friday, my day off) and my to-do list is extensive. You know weird stuff happens when you have something wrong with one of your big limbs. You unconsciously adjust your gait to try and make it hurt less. I felt like I had shin splints. A couple of toes had blisters from walking awkwardly. The pain was down a titch, but not much.

From the back, Pam, Shirley, Neese with the great knees and Char, 1968…

First on my list that day was meeting my friend Diane for breakfast at Cracker Barrel. As I was leaving home, I got into the Jeep and felt a sharp twinge in my lower back. Tingled all the way down my left leg for a few seconds (not the good kind of tingle). When I got to the restaurant I gingerly got out and felt another bad back twinge. Oh hells bells. After catching up with each other’s lives for 90 minutes, it was all I could do to get up off that straight chair without crying. OK, my to-do list just shrunk to 0. No way could I stop half dozen times and get in and out of the Jeep. Plus walking around. I came straight home. The upside of this? My back now hurt worse than my leg. Yay.

I still had most of Friday through Sunday to heal before work on Monday. Ha! Ironic. Working at FCC has been a trip. I was literally sick for the first 8 months. Caught everything the babies threw my way except hand, foot and mouth. I worked through bronchitis, pneumonia, sore throats, cold after cold, my sore leg (which took over a year to feel somewhat better), until I built up some immunities to those little buggers (the babies and their good natured way of literally sharing everything with me). Only to have my back go out. By Sunday night the thought of bending over to pick up anything about made me cry. Standing or laying down wasn’t too bad, sitting however was almost impossible because I couldn’t get into an upright position for at least a minute. After finally managing to hoist myself up, I was still hunched over, legs shaking and my back unable to straighten. But within a minute or 2, I was standing somewhat normally and could walk pretty good.

Char, gal from Canton I can’t remember & Neese’s brown knees, 1962…

So I hobbled into work Monday morning, knowing I couldn’t stay once the babies (who am I kidding, over half of them weigh between 20 and 30 pounds now, they’re practically teenagers) arrived. But I did get our room set up and ready for the day. When Liz showed up, I explained my sad state of affairs and crippled my way back home. Did the same thing on Tuesday. By Tuesday afternoon though, most of my back spasms had stopped. Whew. They were wicked. Piercing, sharp pains that sucks the breath right out of you. Feels like you’ve latched onto an electric fence. Zap. Happened sometimes just moving a couple inches, but most often whenever I tried to bend over. An inch or a foot, didn’t matter.

Wednesday I tried to work. Big mistake. It is impossible to work in our room and not pick up crying babies, bend over, or move fast to try and prevent a disaster. One kid can now get our door open so you gotta jet if he pulls the door handle down. Someone else spits up on the floor and the rest of the gang find that puddle fascinating and want to investigate. The high chairs need to be washed, (they’re low to the ground) floors need to be swept again and again. That day was my longest ever. (And I love our babies and work) My reprieve was a 30 minute lunch break, but sitting down hurt worse. I lost 3 days of healing by working those 7 hours. The spasms were back twice as bad. Didn’t think Friday and my doctors appointment would ever get here.

1953, with perfect limbs…

After filling out 5 pages of new patient info, a nurse leads me to X-ray. Well this was different. She did not want me to lie down, but instead climb 3 crudely made wooden steps which were covered in red out door carpeting. The railing resembled part of a walker where you place your hands as you shuffle forward. No need to remove my slacks, socks or shoes. She snapped front and sideways of both knees which I thought was odd. Back to the waiting room for a couple minutes before my name was called.

Small exam room, painted gray. One wall was filled with framed MSU & U of M and the Lions football pictures. Not an avid fan of any, I only recognized one. Desmond Howard in his now famous Heisman pose. Although one of the Lions pics could have been Barry Sanders, but I don’t remember his number. My X-rays were snapped on a lit up frame of bright white. Dang, those knees look pretty darn good. My legs look rather slim. Sweet. Shades of light and dark grays, some stark white spots. (Why I didn’t snap a couple of pictures while I waited I’ll never know. Old school and I don’t think that way).

These are not the joints that are gonna give me grief. Really???

Doctor Kenyon (pretty close to my age I think) waltzed in, shook my hand asked how I was doing? What’s wrong? Told him about my 6 weeks of pain in my right leg, then proceeded to my aching back. “I don’t do backs. Here’s a guy, practices in Ann Arbor and Chelsea. He’ll fix your back.” Hands me a card.

We were 2 feet apart, Kenyon was facing me, and other than glancing at my X-rays a couple of times, he talked right to me, so I don’t think I missed much of what he said (though soon I was in a state of shock and denial). “Both your knees are in horrible shape. It would be fraudulent of me to order an MRI or do arthroscopic surgery. Total knee replacement is your only option. You’re missing cartilage, it’s bone on bone in spots, see this big white spot here?” I nodded numbly. “That’s a huge bone spur. You’re growing extra bone which is trying to replace what you’ve lost. You’ve been walking so badly, your tibia is starting to turn the wrong way.” WAIT. WAIT. JUST. ONE. MINUTE.

“Um, do you actually mean my leg bone is turning the wrong direction,” I asked incredulously? “Yes, that’s what I mean, but not just your right leg. Both of your tibias are turning.”

Tibia, tibia turn around,

Tibia, tibia touch the ground.

Tibia, tibia go up the stairs,

Tibia, tibia say your prayers…

Yet, through it all she maintains her warped sense of humor. What a trooper!

Now I knew shock was setting in. I don’t remember laughing hysterically, and he didn’t get out the straight jacket, so I think I kept my near surface meltdown at bay. For the moment.

“I’m gonna give you a cortisone shot. Should help for a few months, but I wouldn’t wait too long. Call me when you’re sick of the pain. Whichever knee hurts the worse, we’ll replace first,” he concluded. Stuck a needle under my kneecap, and pushed hard. Yikes. Done. And walked out.

I admit I haven’t been able to sit on my haunches like this for a decade. Me with neighbor baby Cindy, 1957…

But. But, my aching back. Knew I was gonna have another miserable weekend if I didn’t get something to help with the back spasms. Crippled out to my car, called the office I had just walked out of and asked if there was any way someone from my primary care team could see me today. Yup, my doc’s assistant could squeeze me in at 2:30. Drove home, ate lunch with an ice pack on my back. Lezlie listened to my symptoms, felt around the hurting spot (C-4 she surmised), took me off work for a week, wrote a script for a muscle relaxer and suggested X-rays. I love her. She’s the gal who treated me during my 6 weeks of bronchitis/ pneumonia bout 2 years ago. While she had strongly suggested I spend a few days in the hospital, she was fine with me coming back and forth to the office a half dozen times to check, change prescriptions and order breathing treatments, but not be hospitalized.

I waited for my prescriptions, stopped at the Professional building to get the X-rays taken, and limped home. Talked it over with Hubs, who was as surprised as me with Kenyon’s assessment of my joints. John has hip issues and our son-in-law Tracey’s had total knee replacement. Tracey recommended his orthopedic doc, who’s supposed to be one of the best, so I will be getting a second opinion as soon as I can get an appointment. The back spasms have stopped, my knee feels the same-pain wise, plus very stiff.

The bees knees. Me, Larry and Spitzy, 1954…

Something occurred to me after Kenyon said I was walking strange, causing my bones to curve. At work as I leave the lunchroom, I walk down a hallway which faces a 30 foot long glass frame hanging on opposite wall, at the t-intersection where I turn left to go back to the baby room. Right now that humongous frame is full of candid black and white shots of kids from all of our class rooms. But I can see part of my reflection in the glass as I walk. Often I think, why do my legs look so weird? Almost bow legged. I walk like I have a cob up my butt. Holy moly. I’ve really been blessed, fortunate with relatively great health. But this surprising diagnosis has knocked the wind out of my sails for a minute. Paging Dr. Carpenter…