I got my first cellphone 20 years ago. John already had one for several years, (his first cellphone was nestled in a suitcase the size of a carry-on bag) which was for work. No one under 40 will ever realize how revolutionary the cellphone was. Hard to imagine life with only a landline before cordless/cellphone/answering machines/caller ID became commonplace.

When your home phone rang (before cordless, cellphones or answering machines) your life virtually stopped. There might be some pushing & shoving from kids racing to answer the coveted phone. Because NO ONE knew who the call was for or who was on the other end. Unbelievable, right? Our kids assumed every call was for them (who in the world would wanna call mom or dad? They’re ancient). Once you answered the phone there wasn’t much wiggle room during your conversation unless you had an extension phone in another room for a bit of privacy. You could only go as far as the cord on the phone allowed. You were stuck. Literally.

When one of the rugrats screeched, “Mom, it’s for you,” several things happened simultaneously. Anything I might be doing:

1. Cooking supper, baking, laundry, laying out in the sun, watching the Cubs, washing dishes-either got tuned out, turned down or switched off.

2. Automatically hit the left pocket of my flannel shirt (making certain I had my pack of Tareytons and my lighter, then snag an ashtray on the way to the phone. Who wants to be stuck without smokes yakking on the phone for half an hour?

3. Threaten the kids to go find something to do. Hold the fights and screaming to a minimum.

4. Unless it was a dire emergency, any phone calls made or answered during the day were not long distance. Long distance rates decreased significantly after 7 pm, even more after 11 pm. With 3 kids trying to get by on Hubs salary, we just didn’t make long distance phone calls unless they were absolutely necessary.

I loved talking on the phone since I was a kid. When you were home, it was your lifeline to the outside world. Plans were made/changed, gossip shared, rumors discussed-stretched or squelched, boyfriends discovered/dumped or embellished, friendships broken or strengthened. Much of my social life was spent on the phone after school or on weekends. When John and I were dating, we’d spend countless hours on the phone at night, after he got home from whatever sport he was participating in. John’s mom & dad’s wall phone (beige) hung inside their back door on the kitchen wall. From there the curly, stretchy cord allowed him access to a spare bedroom or the stairs leading to the basement when he talked. His parents weren’t concerned with our phone romance on nights when we didn’t see each other. Mine were though. Our orange wall phone hung in the kitchen and the cord was not very long, so I was stuck having my conversation by the kitchen table, until they got an extension phone in their bedroom upstairs. This phone was really a necessity because it eliminated one of them running downstairs during the middle of the night if Dad got called in to work when we were having a snowstorm, blizzard or it was so ghastly hot the pavement on the Highway 18 or 75 ruptured (it was called a blowout-a big chunk of pavement would buckle up a foot or so from the heat. A blowout could cause a serious accident and needed to be repaired pronto, although most occurred during the peak heat of the day-5-ish).

I never imagined a time where I would get rid of our landline phone. It had been a constant throughout my life. A necessity. After answering machines became affordable, that too became as useful as any appliance in my kitchen. We got rid of our landline phone years ago. Sigh. For months afterwards John automatically walked to where our old phone and answering machine had been to check messages when we walked in the house. How times have changed. I’d say at least 50% of the time Hubs forgets his phone when he leaves the house.

Mom’s health was spiraling down so I was driving back & forth from Michigan to Iowa quite often. It wasn’t practical thinking a cellphone would be a ‘cure all’ if my car broke down by Chicago, but it did give me peace of mind. I would simply call John and assume he could fix it for me, even from a couple hundred miles away. It just made me feel better knowing I had a phone.

We’ve had several different brands of phones until 2015. I had been blogging on my iPad for a year but the pictures on my phone wouldn’t sync with my iPad so I couldn’t add them to my story. We bit the bullet, both got iPhones, mine with enough storage to hold all my pictures. For the most part I love everything about my phone.

Except these stinking robocalls. They are driving me insane. I’ve had the same phone number since I got my cell 20 years ago. We signed up on the ‘Do Not Call’ list. But I don’t remember these automated calls being as obnoxious as they have in the last 3 years. I’m not a big fan of talking on the phone since I started going deaf 20 years ago. Messenger and texts fulfill my communication needs. Some days though my phone rings as if I were someone of high importance. Ugh.

For the most part, I don’t answer calls from numbers I don’t recognize. If it’s important they’ll leave a message and I’ll get back to them. My weird messages started a couple years ago from several different locations, New York, Georgia. I was petrified the first time I listened to the message. A woman telling me a warrant for my arrest was imminent unless I called back immediately and asked for a certain officer of the court. I was so scared I didn’t dare to tell John when I got home. I couldn’t imagine what I had done to justify an arrest. (Could one really be arrested for sarcasm? I always thought it was one of my better features). After my hands stopped shaking, I googled the phone number. Hundreds of comments, every one said, this is a big scam. Forget-about-it.

So I blocked the grifter’s number and all was well in the world of Neese. For about a week. Different number from another state with a similar ominous message. Using the same monotonous/flat woman’s voice on the message. I’d delete the message and block the number. Again and again. And we can’t forget-Rachel’s frequent calls assuring me there was “no problem with my credit card,” but she might have a better deal for me. Someone else calls from ‘senior services’ who has all kinds of helpful things for me if I’d just respond. I’ve gotten phone calls from Nigeria. Crazy.

Hubs and I still have the same phone numbers since we moved back to Jackson (which has a different area code) almost 4 years ago. Most of my robocalls originate from the area code in Muskegon. (I can count on one hand the number of friends who call me from that area code). I’m in awe and amazed at the volume and variety of numbers these robocallers have. Who pays for these multiple phone lines? They’re not 800 numbers. I can safely say in my 68 years on this earth, I have not met/known/or gazed upon the countenance of as many people in my entire life as I have blocked phone numbers on my iPhone. Since 2015. And my phone shit list continues to multiply by leaps and bounds. Only wish I’d have been this popular in high school…

We’ve moved around a lot since I started sharing my life with the Hubs. A couple years here, 3 years there, but managed to stay in Iowa through our first 2 decades. A dozen moves-minimum. Considerably better since we settled in Michigan 32 years ago. We’re on our third house and hope to live here until the good Lord calls me home. Throughout 15 moves it’s safe to say, we’ve had some good/bad/fantastic/strange/easygoing/different/helpful/unstable/friendly/psychotic/wonderful/whacko/deeply troubled/extremely helpful/memorable–bunch of neighbors. (We were always the nice, sane couple).

John found an engineering job at French & Hecht (a wheel company) in Davenport, Iowa after getting laid off the day before Thanksgiving in 1980. (Who even does that? Callous asshats, that’s who). About 350 miles east/south of Spencer and 10 times larger. A huge change for this family of 5. Our adventure was about to begin. We had never lived so far away from our families or in such a big city. Shannon was 10, Joshua was 5-1/2, Adam was just over a year.

The housing market in eastern Iowa sucked. We desperately wanted to stay in Iowa, (schools) yet just across the Mississippi River, Illinois might have been easier finding suitable housing in Moline or Rock Island. Iowa finally won the coin toss. John rented a small house in Davenport. Although our stay there would only be a year before we bought a house. This neighborhood was a nice mix of retirees downsizing or young families just starting out. Several blocks clustered together between a couple of heavily traveled streets, yet our neighborhood didn’t seem busy at all.

We had a one-stall detached garage, small fenced-in yard, tiny house, causing claustrophobia with 5 inhabitants, but we made due. Young guy on one side of us, single mom with 2 kids on the other. Through an alleyway one block west, towards Kimberly Road (very busy with a mixture of businesses and nice homes) is where I found one my of my dearest friends. I met Mary Ellen when I traipsed into a nearby bowling alley, (lugging Adam and my bowling bag) looking to sub on a league for the remainder of the season. The fourth bowler on Mary Ellen’s team had broken her leg (Thanks God for introducing me to this lifelong group of dear friends-apologies broken leg girl-but I knew not a soul and really needed some friends). I’m still in touch with some of these gals 35 years later, though sadly my bestie Mary Ellen, passed away in 2013.

Life is different when you have young kids. I notice this the older I get and with each additional move we make. School activities and neighborhood kids are a great ice breaker whether you’re new in town or just moving in on the block. I wasn’t up to meeting people yet because I was frantically trying to cram 7 rooms of furniture to into 5 room house. (We never did get to use the garage for our car-it was packed to the roof with overflow furniture that didn’t fit). But all it took was Joshua and Adam playing in the back yard. Soon Joshua had friends over or he was playing a few doors away.

Some of Shannon’s new friends lived several blocks away. Reflecting back I’m kinda surprised I allowed her venture that far in a big city. Spencer’s population of 10,000 had a small town vibe. She rode her bike everywhere before we moved. To get to her friends Kelly’s house, Shannon had to cross Division, which was wall to wall cars 16 hours a day. But there were traffic lights on every corner. She embraced that city like she’d been born there.

Not long after we moved in I met a gal who lived a few houses away. She was a couple years younger than me and ran a cake decorating business out of her home. She was wildly talented, sarcastic, loud, outspoken, hilarious and genuinely funny. Her husband was the polar opposite of her. Brooding, quiet, unhappy, ornery with a wicked quick temper. We invited them over for a barbecue, but he wasn’t impressed with any of us. He made it clear he didn’t want to engage with us socially, so while the mommy’s bonded, couple’s outings were not gonna fly.

They had 2 kids, Craig, almost 5 and a 3 year old girl. Josh and Craig were instant buds. Two peas in a pod. What comes to mind when you think of 5 & 6 year old boys playing together? Match Box cars, Big Wheels, Nerf football, water guns. Au contraire. These two daredevils were virtual clones of Evel Knievel when he was 12. The alleys in Davenport were a marvel in our neighborhood. Most were poured concrete, about as wide as a regular street. Some homes had their garage off the alley, ours did not. It was like having an extra street (safe and seldom used). These 2 rascals used both alleys as their personal domain. They’d take blocks of wood and bricks to build ramps for jumping their bikes. Though Craig was a year younger, he ruled in this division. He was the proud owner of a brand new blue BMX bike. Josh’s bike was a Sears, at least 2 years old, baby blue, with a banana seat. How embarrassing! No match for the BMX. When they got sick of racing bikes and seeing how high and far they could jump them, they hopped on our Radio flyer wagon, zooming down the steep alley.

Our dining room was about a foot bigger than our table. Craig was eating supper with us, making the room seem even smaller. Hotdogs and chips were on the menu. We were around the table, packed in like sardines. (except Adam in his high chair, which didn’t fit by the table because Craig was in his spot, so he was halfway in the living room). We’re busy passing chips and condiments when Craig picks up the ketchup bottle (probably a glass bottle at that time) flips it upside down to pour some on his plate, and knocks over his glass of Kool-aid, spilling it everywhere. As soon as Craig saw John jump up (to help), he dropped the ketchup bottle on the table, ducked and covered his head with his arms. For a couple of seconds time stood still. Hubs looked at me, I shrugged, not knowing what to say or think. Josh’s eyes got big as saucers. He looked at his friend and said, “it’s ok Craig, dad’s not mad, just let him clean it up.”

Clearly a red flag. Though we didn’t know what was going on in their house, we were suspicious. (I just learned when Josh was staying overnight at Craig’s, the guys were watching WWF on TV. Josh innocently piped up, “my dad says this stuff is all fake.” Craig’s dad jumped up, started screaming, swearing, livid, pacing the room. Josh was terrified he was going to get hit). He never spent another night there. I never knew. I should have talked to Craig’s mom or called someone after we saw him duck and witnessed some questionable interaction between him and his dad. When our lease was up, we moved about 5 miles away. Our kids were attending different schools. We invited Craig over occasionally to play, but it wasn’t the same as playing together everyday.

It was about a year later, at the end of summer. We were driving back to eastern Iowa. It was late afternoon. We had spent a week in Rock Valley, visiting our folks (and the rest of the relatives). We were getting close to Davenport, listening to the radio as we tacked on the miles, anxious to get the kids out of the car, unpack and sleep in our own beds. The disc jockey came on. “A six year old boy was killed near his home in Davenport this morning. He was riding his bike from his driveway into the alley when the city garbage truck started backing up, pinning the youngster under a wheel. Details and his name have not been released.”

We knew immediately. Just knew in our hearts it was Craig. The little towhead boy with an impish smile. Used to riding fast and furious. Craig’s death was hard for all of us to process. The eerie similarities between Craig’s fatal bike accident and my brother Larry’s tragic death riding his bike years before. It was the first time Shannon and Joshua lost someone close to them who was young. Craig was Joshua’s first best friend.

Davenport was one of our favorite places we have ever lived. None of us wanted to move away. Oddly enough, in the short time we called Davenport home, we lost Craig in a horrible accident and 2 people I was acquainted with were murdered in those 6 short years. (I wrote about those 2 grisly crimes of passion in October, 2015 called, Murder, she wrote, if you want to catch up).

Four months after Craig’s death, his parents reached an agreement on a monetary settlement with the city. They bought two new cars, some beautiful jewelry and did some remodeling. Six months after the settlement, the money was gone-along with their oldest child-in less than a year. We never spoke again. I just couldn’t. Could not…

I was attempting to comment on a post recently. But when I pushed post, an outline of red popped around the comment, indicating it hadn’t gone through. I tried a couple more times, nothing. Checked my router and settings but was unable to find a reason why I couldn’t post anything. The comment I was trying to post was about baby formula and nursing. I know, not something I’m very familiar with since well, 1980 (last kid was born in the fall of ’79).

Since I couldn’t relay my important point of view on this matter, (or anything else pertaining to Facebook that day) it got me thinking-specifically about 1971. I’ve talked about our early years of wedded bliss before. Two dumb kids, after dating a long time, but had no business getting hitched. I was still a teen. We did it anyway. And here we are, 49 years later, still hitched to each other. No one thought it would last. We did.

My comment was to a mom of 3 years old twin girls. One of her twins is still on baby formula because of a medical issue. Mom was complaining about the cost of formula these days. Shannon was born in December of 1970, so most of her babyhood was during 1971, thus my title. First, never during my pregnancy, labor or birth experience was I ever encouraged to try nursing. I don’t think it was very popular back then. Right after she was born, I was given a painful shot in my hip/butt to dry up my milk.

Though Similac was the popular formula of that era, it’s not the product Shannon’s doctor recommended. Dr. Stauch was pitching a formula called SMA. It came in liquid or powder. The liquid cans held 13 ounces of concentrate. You mixed it with 13 ounces of water and divided it up in several bottles. We used an electric bottle sterilizer, because we were drilled over & over, bad things happened when anything near your baby wasn’t sterilized. (Once, poor first time daddy was trying to help when he inadvertently used one of those triangular shaped can openers (he stills calls it a church key. What’s up with that?) to open the can of SMA as I walked in the kitchen! “Ack! Shannon’s gonna die, that hasn’t been sterilized.” Dang he felt bad, but ‘cleanliness next to Godliness’ had been pounded into this 20 year old mom. I insisted we throw the whole can away. Oh my word). Twenty six ounces was what Shannon was supposed to drink in 24 hours. When she was newborn, we started with 4 ounces in a bottle. As she got older we used less bottles but with more formula in each one.

I can’t swear on a Bible that these were the prices back in the day, but pretty sure I’m relatively close. We were debt ridden, broke, behind, bills up the wazoo, yet I don’t remember buying Shannon’s formula as being a big deal. (Ok, the mom was complaining her 3 year old’s formula costs as much as their house payment. She didn’t specify it’s something other than normal baby formula-I didn’t get to ask because Facebook wouldn’t let me. Or maybe she has a super low house payment). Anyway, I started doing the math on some of our costs as I remember back in 1971.

Hubs was working in Sioux City at Channel 4 as a program director. Loved his job, (running the newscasts, making commercials for dorky local companies). He just couldn’t make any money doing that job in such a small Midwest city. He was bringing home a little over a hundred bucks a week. We were making $80 car payments on a 1967 Mustang lemon. (Absolutely hated that cute car) By the time we had Shannon we’d already sold John’s 1965 Impala. Too expensive having 2 cars, which he couldn’t even drive because of too many tickets/accidents/racing the damn thing. Our rent was 60 bucks for a 3 room house that shook when the train went through town right across the street from our front yard.

John acquired some debt before we eloped, maybe $450. (I know it sounds like a pittance, trust me, this was the equivalent to 8 or 10 grand now) on a credit card from a trip through the Black Hills, Yellowstone and Canada with his buddy, Rod. Plus he bought a 13 inch COLOR TV on payments. All for ‘Star Trek.’ Egads man. Phone bill, utilities, insurance, gas, groceries. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that hundred bucks wasn’t gonna last nearly long enough. Good times.

A can of SMA was 29 cents, so formula cost us about 2 dollars a week. Even with our dire budget constraints, certainly not enough to make me hyperventilate that we couldn’t afford to feed our beautiful baby. (I must tell you though, 4-1/2 years later when Joshua was a born, I was shocked when a can of formula had doubled in price since Shannon). In ’71 a jar of Gerber baby food was a dime, and had some the most clever names. Blueberry Buckle, Cherry Cobbler. Positive all were packed with sugar and starch, they tasted great. But it wouldn’t be long before Gerber and other companies realized all those additives were not healthy for babies. (Dr. Stauch, the best pediatrician in the city had us start Shannon on cereal when she was 4 weeks old). We used cloth diapers but when Pampers were on sale, we splurged and bought a 30 pack for a dollar (normally they ran $1.30). Pampers were only used when we went away for the weekend, or she had a bad case of non-stop poops.

As far as some food staples, Startkist Tuna cost 29 cents but was on sale every couple weeks 4 for a buck. We ate a lot of tuna. A lot. Whole chickens were 25 cents a pound. We could eat chicken dinner for about a dollar. Doesn’t sound like much until you had seven dollars to spend for groceries and payday was another week away. (Hubs cut the chicken into pieces, if I did it the parts weren’t recognizable, nor was I very handy/safe with a sharp knife). I think hamburger was 59 cents a pound. (Except when this bargain shopper spotted an ad at a shady area meat market advertising hamburger for 39 cents a pound. That burger had so much fat in it I almost burned the house down. Hubs didn’t have eyebrows or any hair on his arms for months after dousing those flames. Yikes).

Shannon had to wear corrective shoes even though she was months away from walking. They were open toed white high tops and fit in the palm of my hand. When you looked at her, you’d say they were on the wrong foot but that was the purpose. It was the way I carried her when I was pregnant, her feet turned in, so the shoes turned her feet out. The price of those itty-bitty shoes, which only fit her a couple fleeting months was $30. Nearly broke us. She wore corrective shoes until she was about 4.

Health insurance was paid for by John’s employers, but there was always a 90 day waiting period. For this young couple that meant when he started a new job-I could not get pregnant (or have the pregnancy covered) before those first 3 months were up. No prescriptions were covered and if Shannon needed an antibiotic, the money for this week’s groceries were in jeopardy. My birth control pills cost $1.25 a month.

We were not in a position to eat out very often as the numbers clearly indicate. We’d get McDonald’s every other Friday when John cashed his check. What a treat that was for us. Every couple months we’d spring for a pizza. Shannon was possessed with Pizza Hut which was a fairly new franchise. I can’t remember the road in Sioux City where one was located on a big lazy curve. We literally had to distract her or cover her eyes when we drove past. If she saw it, she’d squeal, over and over, “Pita Hut, Pita Hut, Pita Hut.”

While we lived in Hinton there was a very small diner on Highway 75 called J & D Cafe, easily still remembered by me because it’s the same initials as John & Denise. They made a wicked good Hot Beef Sandwich for $1.25. When we got our federal tax refund, or Dad slipped us an extra 10 spot, that’s what we’d spring for. They also made real homemade pies. I’d get a piece of Coconut, Lemon, or Banana Cream pie for 60 cents. Think of it, a meal for under 2 bucks. Yet we couldn’t afford it even once a month. The more you make, the more stuff costs, the more you spend. And we made close to nothing.

Most of those first years truthfully, were quite painful. Even reminiscing about them makes my mouth go dry. But the lean years shaped us into who we are today. I wish we’d had it easier during the first 5 years, but then I’d have a lot less to write about…

Had I been given a choice which part of my anatomy I’d maintain a life long grudge against, with diligent consideration for all my flaws and shortcomings, (not counting anything that goes on in my head-so stop with the suggestions) I certainly would have made a different selection. I have legitimate gripes against my complexion, ears, pear shaped figure, feet, butt, boobs, weak arms and hands. For the life of me I can’t figure out why I keep hurting the same little ‘piece of Neese’ for the last 50 years.

It all started in the early 60’s at school. One of my least favorite subjects-physical education, P.E. for short. Horrible class, ugly uniforms, wasn’t fond of the teacher. Semesters divided up in segments featuring a variety of sports. All of which I had absolutely no interest or ability. But this particular sport wasn’t as bad as most. It was gymnastics. Don’t remember a single piece of equipment besides the pommel horse, which was kind of fun. Pretty sure there has been little or no change in the horse from ancient times of my youth through today. Not sure how wide the horse is but several inches. With 2 evenly spaced gripper thingy’s for your hands. I was attempting something radical like walking one end to the other. It’s a stationary horse! Doesn’t sound dangerous for a young preteen does it? Nope. Yup.

This clutzy kid took a header to the floor off the horsey. Good news, my left elbow took the hit, saving my questionable complexion. The school called Mom to pick me up. We drove 4 blocks to Dr. Hegg’s office, only to find a sign on the door that Doc was out of town for the week. I was devastated because I loved Doc Hegg. Gruff, but sincere and kind. (I was in serious pain, Rock Valley had no hospital yet). So Mom decided to go to Hull, about 10 miles away. Can’t recall who the doctor was, but he informed Mom I had dislocated elbow-not a big deal. Gave me a shot of morphine, rolled it back in place, put my arm in a sling for a few weeks and that was it. Or so I thought. Although I’ve never been particularly athletic, nimble, or coordinated, I’ve never been accident prone either.

I got on a health kick in the late 90’s for several reasons. I was in my upper 40’s, had recently stopped smoking and gained some (30 lbs) weight. Started working at McDonald’s, assuming since it was called work, I could eat a cheeseburger and fries everyday and not gain weight. Wrong. Gained some more weight. The Hubs was diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes and encouraged to lose weight to avoid medication. Here’s the deal, plain and simple, I don’t wear fat well. My legs, arms and neck stay relatively normal looking but I just balloon through the middle third of my body. Not attractive. At all. These red flags were signaling some big changes to my life.

For the better part of a year I stayed on a strict diet and lost 75 pounds (yes, while I was working at McDonald’s. Once a week I’d eat a dozen fries, hot out of the fryer or take 2 bites of a sausage biscuit on my break, my only McD’s food). The best (smartest) part of my dieting/lifestyle change was the addition of a daily walk. At first I could only walk a couple huff-puffing blocks, but I stuck with it. And grew addicted to walking every day. Everything about my life was better when my day included a walk. My second profound life change came when I started going deaf about the same time. At first the loss was only in my left ear which wasn’t debilitating, though after a couple years was affecting my balance. When I was walking and looked up, I’d walk right off the sidewalk.

I’m not always eager to recognize or accept changes in my life. One morning when my schedule was full, I started my walk too early-it was still dark. Late September, 2003, a mile from home when I slipped on some acorns on the sidewalk and fell. Oh nuts! Flopped myself back to a sitting position, grabbing my left arm. Huh, my elbow was not where it was supposed to be. Yikes. Hubs took me to the ER. They thought it was dislocated-again. An orthopedic doc rolled it back in place but was fairly certain from the X-ray, I had chipped a small piece of bone off and needed surgery. Nope. Yup. Damn.

Repair work completed, some hardware inserted and a dozen staples (stapling human flesh is beyond gross). Afterwards Doc said I would probably have limited movement, my arm permanently bent at a 40 degree angle. There was a small window of opportunity in the coming weeks to lessen that elbow angle with some tortuous physical therapy. Sounds like fun right? (He also concluded that I probably chipped off that piece of my elbow during the fall when I was 12, but it went undetected).

After 6 weeks in a sling I went to my first physical therapy session. Sharing my orthopedic surgeons goal of my having a useful, relatively straight left arm, I was paired with a petite German gal, 5’11” weighing in at 240 named Brunhilde. Honesty, I cried during every therapy session. Brunhilde pulled, tugged, manipulated, twisted, applied heat, melted wax, electric current and hot towels to straighten my arm. She succeeded. Although my arm’s not completely straight, it’s damn close. It was unpleasant and miserable but she did her job (and really, really enjoyed her work. Yikes).

Soon I was back to my daily walk, but had been recently diagnosed with Ménière’s disease, affecting my inner ear causing balance issues, noise in my head 24-7, vertigo, head spinning (not the Linda Blair kind) and nausea. I had to be more careful when I walked. Constantly aware of sidewalk structural conditions and debris. But I am a slow learner. Autumn of 2009 I was about 2 miles from home, it was just getting light out, (dumb) when my striding tennis shoe (foot included) found a rock just as I stepped off the curb. Twisted my ankle, went down hard. Landed on my left elbow. Not surprised, are you? Picked up my headphones, glasses, put myself back together and felt various body parts. Nope, think I’m good. KEPT ON WALKING FARTHER AWAY FROM HOME. Made it about a block when I started seeing spots. Reached for a sign on the bike path to steady myself and woke up under a bush. Soaking wet, leaves clinging to my clothes. I’m so done. When I got home, discovered blood running down my arm, a hole in my shirt where my least favorite elbow met the unfriendly blacktop. My elbow was huge.

Oh man, I didn’t even know how to tell John. He held his tongue (though I’m sure he wanted to throttle me) and called the same specialist. Yup, broke again. Number 3 and counting. But I didn’t need surgery, just a fiberglass splint for 6 weeks. And more therapy. I did receive a stern lecture from doc to stop injuring the same arm, there wasn’t much else he could do to fix it. Again.

So I hurt my left elbow last summer and it hasn’t been right since. I’ve lost strength and mobility. Finally, 8 months after the fact I saw a specialist. X-rays confirm my elbow’s a mess but don’t know if I broke it for a 4th time. Doctor recommended physical therapy to help with tendonitis. Vicious cycle, not using my arm because of numbness, tingling and pain which causes the tendons to tighten. To date, I’ve suffered through 3 sessions of this nasty therapy business leaving my arm in various shades of purple, blue, maroon, yellow and green. Holy moly.

Nice hot pack on my arm for 10 minutes, but it’s all downhill after that. He/she slathers my arm with a Crisco like substance. Then the Tool (physical therapist) uses a tool akin to a thick, wide metal butter knife. Scraping it hard, over and over a small section of my arm. Besides being painful, it feels like they’re gouging this instrument over guitar strings. Ping, ping, ping. The Tools suggest resting 3 days in between sessions. Well no shit Sherlock. My arms so tender I can barely wear a shirt sleeve the day after therapy.

Is therapy helping my hopeless, hurt elbow? Too soon to tell, but I remain optimistic. And sore…

These posts show up on my newsfeed. Various ‘parent’ bloggers sharing the trials and tribulations of raising little ones. Whether it’s something cute, troubling, sad or hysterical when I comment, I try to be supportive and positive. I remember those days very well, though the majority of moms have their children much closer together that I did (I was all about saving my sanity). Instead of starting every comment with, “little kids, little problems. Just wait until they’re teens.” My go to phrase is, “you can’t imagine how fast the time goes. This ‘not sleeping all night’ will not measure on your radar in a very short time.” I get it, parents need to feel they’re not in this alone. Other parents are in the same boat.

I have been watching my 18 year old grandson Landon, (Drew to the rest of the world) play basketball his whole life. Landon’s dad, Tracey was a high school varsity coach when he was born and dad hauled him along to practice before he was potty trained. Landon was playing in a winter travel league by the time he was 10. Went to numerous basketball camps every summer, often winning free throw or 3 points contests competing against boys much older than him. He’s been a phenomenal ball handler since the first day he picked up a basketball.

Like the new mom who feels her days (or nights) will NEVER end, I felt the same way watching Landon play basketball. Year in and year out, his skills/moves/shots/defense/passing ability/court presence became noticeably better to others besides his number one fan. Me. He’s been watched by college coaches since he was in junior high. And I never thought that part would end. This is my fourth year of living in denial.

When the realistic gram looks at Landon, I know this is just the beginning for him. For Landon so far, basketball has been one long teaching camp. Hundreds, no thousands of hours, waking up at 5 to get to the gym, smelly weight rooms, body glistening with sweat, listening to strict trainers, practicing free throws, running laps, learning new plays, defenses, missing family suppers, never going away for spring break because AAU was in full swing by then. Adjusting to new/different /supportive/hopeless/clueless/knowledgeable/and sometimes just plain lousy coaches year after year. (During a game a couple years ago, one asshat coach told Landon at halftime to stop shooting. The reason? Landon scored 29 points in the first half. The coaches kid on Landon’s team-not so much. I recently spotted this dipstick at a game. I can still feel the cut as I bit my lip to refrain from yelling at this lowlife in front of hundreds of people. Yes I can show restraint at times. Honesty, I didn’t want to embarrass Landon).

I know I’m being stupid, silly, and selfish. Can’t help it. Landon’s really just coming into his own. When the not-so-practical gram looks at him, I still want him to be a high school freshman. Proud because he made the varsity team (if you remember, I was less than enthusiastic about him being on the varsity team. I thought he’d get more playing time on junior varsity. I was wrong. In my defense, it was November of 2015, so I almost made it through the year without being wrong). I never thought his 4 years of high school basketball would last all of 2 seconds.

Except for some minor injuries, a concussion and a stress fracture in his foot (which seemed to take forever to heal), Landon has continued to excel in becoming one of the best point guards in the state. Reads the court better than most, and is just as excited when his teammate scores off one of his assists, as he is making his own great shot. Very unselfish player. I just can’t impress on you enough how awesome it’s been to watch him play and grow. And be a small part of his journey. But this is just beginning of his journey.

Now let’s get to Landon’s last basketball game as a Ann Arbor Pioneer. Ugh. Didn’t think it would end this way. This might have been a mistake on my part. Maybe I wasn’t the only one looking ahead to the probable Friday night matchup. That was the game I didn’t think we could get past. (And here it is only March and I’m admitting to a mistake. Let me say though, I never like playing the same team 3 times during a season. Anything can happen. And did). This flying insect themed team, (talk about a buzz kill). In the past, these gnats have had little trouble keeping up with Pioneer during the first half. Normally though, by the third quarter is where we’d extend a nice lead. Pioneer was simply out of sync-the whole game. None of the usual shots were falling for the rest of the team. One dude couldn’t hang onto the ball, another didn’t drive in the paint at all, another guy’s 3 point attempts would not fall. When you’re behind 46-41 in the third quarter and your point guard has 21 of the 41 points, you’re in deep shit. He’s the playmaker, passer, assist dude, plus a great shooter. But he should not account for half of the team’s point total. (Though I try hard not to be vindictive, my fervent prayers on Wednesday night was for the ‘no see’um bugs’ to lose by 40 on Friday. They lost by 20. Probably not right to thank the good Lord for answering that one-at least half way.

Landon had a good game, but his team as a whole played poorly. Simple as that. Final score was 63-52 and Landon had 26. Half their total points. Pioneer finished the year with an awesome 18-3 record. As a 4 year varsity player, Landon scored 1,109 points for the Pioneers. Dude. You rock. Seriously. You rock.

I was numb driving home after the loss. Couldn’t accept Landon’s playing days, with me rooting for him in the stands was over. No more high school stat book to keep. It’s too soon. Reality hit after I got home and changed clothes. Since Landon became a freshman varsity player, Tracey has provided me with Pioneer sportswear for the games. I keep them on the right hand side of my closet. I slipped off my purple shirt, stood by my closet and cried. No need to hang it back up until next week, or next year. As Jovi would say, “all done.”

On the upside, Landon gets a 3 month rest (the first and longest since he started playing organized ball. He sure can use it) before summer. Shannon mentioned he’s playing in an all-star game this spring, so I’ll get to watch his awesome moves one more time before he leaves for college. Landon will be spending several weeks at Holy Cross this summer, come back home for a bit before embarking on his collegiate career. I’m excited for him and very proud. Something he’s worked for his whole young life. It’s quite an accomplishment. Hope Landon makes the best of this golden opportunity, doing something he loves-playing hoops, plus getting a top notch education with his scholarship.

Still sad (and haven’t come to terms that’s it’s over yet) I won’t be watching Landon play in person twice a week. Young moms, remember that when you’re up for a couple hours during the night with a fussy baby. Life (their babyhood, childhood, basketball games, dance recitals, school plays, concerts, graduations, staying at grandma’s) goes by lickety-split. Way too fast. So be grateful for your kids. That part of our lives doesn’t last near long enough. Slow down and enjoy the ride…