2009

Sometimes life gets in the way of writing. Sometimes the best ideas come late at night when sleep is a fleeting thought and the pillow refuses to cooperate with my head. In my brain, I am writing the great American novel. In the morning, its hard to remember what was so great about it.

Sometimes almost a year goes by and then someone says, "Didn't you blog in the past?"

Well, I did. And I hope to again. And here's where I have been:

I've been busy with family and church and art and two knee replacement surgeries.


Family....
A new member, Isabel, seen in the photo last Christmas when she was 7 weeks old...
Babysitting the Princess (also seen in the photo) and her brother several days a week....
Several hospitalizations and two rehabs involving my elderly mother.......

Church......
Working with my dear friends Sammy and Colleen on the ever growing Compassion Ministry at Eagan Hills Church.....

Art....
Spending time in my Art Grotto creating spectacular messes .....

Knees......
Surgeries in November and June to put the knees of this Humpty Dumpty back together again.


What I've learned.......
I'm more comfortable being a player than a bench warmer. But God is good. He gave me a sense of acceptance to be able to sit on the side and let others take over for a season.


I learned to step back, to accept my limitations, (though not always with as much grace as I should) and to listen to that voice that tells me I'm ready for a rest.

That said, I have also learned the value of hard work. Physical therapy, I found out, is aptly named.

I learned that babysitting is hard work.

I learned that I have great friends who continually lifted me and my recoveries in prayer.

And I learned one more thing........

A person can have a knee replaced, go though recovery, and, seven months later have the second knee replaced in less time than it takes the State of Minnesta to elect a senator.

My To Do List

Sometimes a change of location gives a person time to think about making some other changes.

I came home from a few days away from home this summer with changes on my mind.

The knees? Time to schedule the first one.

The weight? Time to stop kidding myself and get back with the program.

That craft room in perpetual half-finished mode? Time to get it all put away.

I needed a plan. I needed prayer.

If I was planning to go ahead with surgery, it would be a whole lot easier if I were a whole lot smaller. Several years ago, I had found a plan the worked for me. I had, over the course of about 8 months, lost over 60 pounds. But, as happens, over the years, I had stopped working the plan. Oops.

I looked at the calendar. I would go back plan on on August 4th. My goal would be 30 pounds before surgery. Obviously, it was time for prayer.

A call to the orthopedic surgeon a couple weeks later and a date was scheduled for total knee replacement. November 4. Election Day.

Admittedly, I was apprehensive. Total knee replacement is ...well...total! I looked online. I cringed at the thought of what was to come. I prayed some more.

Some weeks later came the day when I was finally able to thank God for the arthritis and degenerative joint disease that got me in the place I was. "I don't know why I have this," I told God, "But I know I'll learn from this and be able to help someone else in the future." Coming to that point was a slow process. I did not...repeat...did not...come to it on my own. God is good. (All the time)

That left the craft room. (Insert shudder here)

Hours and hours later, there was a breakthrough. I could see the floor. Add more hours (many hours and a few trips to the home of a craft loving friend and to the thrift store drop off) and I had a functional space.

I continued to prepare for what I was now calling the "Great Knee Adventure". The hospital offered a class for people facing knee replacement. I took the class.

Adaptions were made to the house, to the car, and to my wardrobe, which was now beginning to look a little looser than it had.

November 4 arrived. I was 30 pounds lighter. I had a craft room I could actually use and a stack of Christmas cards ready for sending this year.

I voted. Then I went to the hospital.

Treasures

I've been cleaning again.

As always, the first thing that comes to my mind is the question, "Why did I keep all this stuff?'

Okay, I admit, I come by my pack rat mentality naturally.

Grandpa's little bungalow was neat as a pin but crammed to the rafters with "stuff". Grandpa had glassware from every deceased relative in the history or the family. His unmatched kitchen chairs rivaled the many bowls and plates in quantity.

Having been a farmer is his early years, Grandpa refused to give up his stash of "it might be useful someday" treasures. His shed featured things like an ancient post hold digger, a bone crusher, and a two seater (perhaps in case the plumbing in his Minneapolis home failed and he would have to resort to digging an outhouse.)

When Grandpa moved into the city, he'd taken a job as a garbage man. Numerable items of interest then entered his life.

Even after retiring, Grandpa stalked the alley on trash day. Years ago a college aged girl from our church asked us to pray about a special dress she would need in a few months. The next day Grandpa asked me if I knew anyone who needed a wedding dress. Needless to say, I claimed it for Terri, who found it to fit perfectly.

My father, like his own, was a saver, although not nearly as neatly organized. Dad, who came of age during the Great Depression years, saved ice cream pails, wires from old electronics, and pieces to games and puzzles no one in the family owned. If, eventually, he couldn't find a use for the "stuff" he glued the small things to cigar boxes and spray painted them gold. (In case there were not enough small things, he would fill in the gaps with macaroni. Seriously.

Sometime after his passing as we cleaned the basement of the house where he and Mom had lived for over 40 years, we found a jar of peach pits. We all smiled at Dad dutifully saving peach pits for a future spray painted project.

Which brings me to my bulging closets.

Stay tuned. I sense a garage sale in the making.

Reality Check

First, an apology. Can it really be over a month since my last post? Oh, boy! Life seems to have gotten the better of me in recent weeks.

Is there an excuse? Only wishy-washy ones, I guess.

It threw me for a loop when, after a hastily scheduled MRI, the Orthopedist confirmed that I need knees....two of them. Yes, you are saying, knees are important. And I, of anyone, knew mine were, to put it mildly, tricky.

There was that moment, a couple months ago, when, in a moment of total ungracefulness, I tumbled out the front door when the one on the right gave out on me. I ended up landing in an embarrassed heap in my front yard. (My first thought was, "I'm glad nobody saw that move." The second was, "I'm glad I'm not wearing a dress.")

Still, hearing the news that my knee caps are minus any padding did a number on my

pseudo-youthful ego.

Old. I'm getting there...quickly.

If there was any consolation in the diagnosis, it might have been that the doctor wants me to wait until I am older before scheduling surgery. Since most replacement knees last between 15 and 18 years, having the surgery in my fifties (albeit v e r y late fifties) means most likely having to have it done again in my seventies.

The down-side of that, of course, is living with the bad knees for several years.

Naturally, my doctor insists, the timing of the surgery is ultimately my call.

I'm contemplating the next move.

But in the meantime, the doctor informs me, I should walk with a cane. A cane? What does he think I am, for crying out loud....elderly?

Within days of the knee news, the cold I caught from my favorite two year old boy turned the corner and sent me to urgent care for a throat culture and the news that I had strep throat.

I was given an antibiotic. It took care of the strep, but played other nasty tricks on my body.

And, I learned some things.

Strep infections knock you for a loop, too, and they are much easier to kick when you are not pushing senior status.

Bette Davis was right. Getting old ain't for sissies!

Looking back on the last month and a half, there was a whole lot of time spent with a book in my favorite recliner. (All right. it wasn't all reading. A fair amount of dozing off incurred as well.)

Eventually, I have come to terms with the knee limitations. When I protested to my hubby that I'm really not disabled, he looked at me. His look spoke volumes. "I don't want to be disabled," I said and his comment was "I'm sure you don't.... but it is what it is."

He's absolutely correct. It's time to get over myself and get back to doin' whatever it is I do...including writing this blog.

And so I'm back, cane and all.

Fifth Grade

I admit to being one of those baby boomers that went to elementary school in the mid twentieth century.

It was a lovely time to be a kid.

We recited the Pledge of Allegiance at the start of each school day, including the words “under God”.

Our Christmas programs included actual Christmas songs.

Mrs. Peterson, my second grade teacher, even read us a verse from the Bible each day.

I started kindergarten with Miss Lavinia Mansfield, the same nice lady who had taught my mother's kindergarten class thirty-some years earlier.

Miss Mansfield was a lovely lady, but there was one teacher I wanted more than any other. Her name was Mrs. Flaidlund, and she taught fourth grade. Imagine my delight when I was assigned to her class. I spent a month with her, enjoying every minute, until she asked me to stay in when everyone else left for recess, one Friday.

There was only one known reason to stay in during recess, but being a rule follower, I couldn’t imagine what I might have done.

Mrs. Flaidlund sat on the desk in front of mine, facing me.

“I’ve already talked to your mother,” she began. Those were not words I wanted to hear.

She smiled. Tentatively, I smiled back. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be too bad.

“You are going to be bored in fourth grade,” Mrs F, said, “So I have arranged for you to move into fifth grade.”

I blinked.

“Your mother said it was all right with her.”

I nodded.

“Get all your things out of your desk and I will take you upstairs.”

Just like that, I was a fifth grader. Just like that Mrs. Flaidlund was traded for an older lady named Miss Gunhilda Reese.

She wore orange.

It took me years to like that color.

Fifth graders did reports. They wrote everything in longhand. They did (shudder) long division.

I adapted.

Fifth graders also played cat’s cradle at recess.

Fearing immediate and permanent outcast branding, I appealed to my Uncle Bill who patiently spent hours with me in our living room, twisting and re-twisting a piece of kite string donated by my brother.

Soon, I was one of them. I wrote reports (in longhand). I did long division ,chided only once by Miss Gunhilda Reese for drawing “fences” around my work (I was helping myself to know where one math problem ended and another began).

Even more important, I could “cradle” with the best of them.

Oh, The Shame of it All!

My granddaughter’s dog is a contrast in ears and tail. When she is behaving herself (which really does happen) her ears stand up in points. Her tail curls over her back.

Whenever the dog gets in trouble she looks sheepish. Her head hangs. Her eyes get that, “I really shouldn’t have done it” look. Her ears and tail droop.

Sometimes the look follows catching a rabbit in the yard.

Sometimes it is for barking profusely at the UPS deliveryman.

Sometimes that sheepish looking dog has found something really tasty that wasn’t quite rinsed out of something we are recycling.

Sometimes it is because, although the dog knows this is a “no dog on the furniture” household, she has, in our absence, chosen to disregard that rule.

Sometimes I wonder if I look sheepish when I get myself in trouble. Does my head hang dejectedly when I spend an entire afternoon cruising the paper arts stores on the internet or stop by Starbucks for a $4 coffee I could make at home for pennies?

Unfortunately, I probably rationalize my time or monetary indiscretions.

Does a dog have more discretion than I? Do her mistakes in judgment bother her more than mine bother me?

Yesterday, the dog looked sheepish.

Today we found two newly dug holes in the back yard.

Yesterday I got the munchies and ate ice cream right before bedtime.

I guess need to work on my sheepish look.

Oh, my!

We’ve become zoo patrons since we started babysitting for Little Man and The Princess. Here in the Twin Cities, we are privileged to have choices.

St. Paul is been home to Como Zoo for over 100 years. It was where we baby boomers went when our parents took us to visit the tigers and bears. It may be a little worn around the edges, but it does bring back good memories.

(One of those memories is when, as an engaged couple, we took three little kids to the zoo for an afternoon of animal watching. At the end of that experience, we decided since we were still in love, the marriage was sure to work.)

When we took the two grandkids to Como Zoo a few weeks ago, we had not realized it was Earth Day. Expecting few people, we were surprised to find hundreds of moms, kids, strollers, and, since it was early in the season, few animals outside.

We entered through the visitor building. There were two doors: left for zoo…right for conservatory. Our doublewide stroller would not manage the narrow walkways in the conservatory, but we parked outside the window and I pointed out the jungle.

Two and a half year old Little Man turned and gave me “the look” and said, “That’s the rain forest, Grandma.”

I stood corrected.

The Minnesota Zoo is a relative newcomer, having come on the scene some thirty years ago. The exhibits are easier to navigate. The Zoo is minutes away. And if that were not enough to convince us to choose it, our daughter bought us a grandparent’s membership.

We venture there weekly to visit different areas.

Little Man loves the tigers and the monkeys. The Princess was brave enough to touch a wolf pelt held by a grandmotherly volunteer.

And then there is the dead animal zoo. The dead animal zoo is actually a sporting goods store named Cabela’s. It was given the name years ago by a friend of ours who was surprised at the prominent displays of taxidermy throughout the store.

Little Man and The Princess ended up at the dead animal zoo with their grandpa one afternoon. At the dead animal zoo, kids can get right under the trunk of the elephant. They can see the lion up close and personal. Nothing is sleeping in a corner. And, if that were not enough, there are no strange odors.

Little Man and The Princess saw it all from the comfortable height of a shopping cart.

And when they get to the other side of the store, they wandered through a room of aquariums filled with (live) Minnesota fish. Little Man was fascinated with the fish.
Once was not enough, so Grandpa had to take the kids back to see some of the taxidermy a second time before heading back to the car with his little Cabela’s purchase.



Little Man and the Princess like going to the zoo. Guess which one is their favorite?