11/3 at 3:11

Today is the 5th anniversary of our Tim-o-tee's death. He died on 11/3 at 3:11. Which is kind of weird and spooky if you want to look at it that way, or you might want to say to yourself, that it seems kind of deliberate. And careful. I'm going with the latter. Anyway, 5 years have slipped away since he laid in our family room, in his hospice bed, under a blue quilt made by his sisters, and smiled and reached toward heaven with his beautiful beautiful hands. He was in the presence of his mother and his daughter, women he loved most dearly. And it's true. He really did smile and reach.

I was happy for him that day, because even though I was in the other room talking with the hospice nurse during the reaching and smiling part, I was with him for his last breath. I was happy for him, because he was ready to go, and he was tired of his broken body. He was a person who loved moving, was always anxious for the next step. His broken down body was holding him back, and he was annoyed with it. I remember the room being filled with joy after his last breath was taken. It was undeniable.

However, before that, before the joy, as I sat near his side holding on to his hand, I remember noting how the process of dying was so parallel to the process of birthing. There's impatience. There's suffering. There's drama. There's loneliness, the knowing that it's you and you alone that has to get the job done. There's knowing that what is happening is of vital importance. Birth and Death? Very Big Deals. There's the beginning of a new life when it all is finally over. And there's the joy. Joy for the one moving on, the one about to experience all the luscious brand new things. And there's joy for the people with arms outstretched, waiting for and welcoming that new life into their realm

As I reflect on it all, and as I watch Tim's daughter prepare for the birth of her son this week, I am grateful for the parallel. It settles me. I love things that are beautifully designed, things that fit together so well that when you finally notice them they make you catch your breath a little and then you feel a little surge of pleasure rush through you.

The parallel explains to me, without words, just how carefully our earth life was designed and crafted. There is nothing haphazard here. And there's comfort in that idea for me. Comfort in God doing that for me. For us. Comfort when there's impatience. Comfort when there's suffering. Comfort when there's drama. Comfort when there's loneliness. And an explanation for the joy. The precious joy that I look forward to this week, and the joy that I'll feel in the future, when I will be the one welcomed.

It can make so much sense, you know?

And I love it when things make sense.

More Parallel Universe

Do you ever want to blog and you can't because your daughter is walking around 9 months pregnant and she hit you accidentally with her babytummy twice today and you find yourself just lying on your bed because you want the baby to come out but he won't so you just lie there on the mattress thinking about your daughter birthing and you can't stop trying to imagine it so you just keep thinking and laying there when you could be blogging but instead of the blogging you roll over and grab a handful of cashews because soon the baby will be here and you know that then there will be no lying around and cashew grabbing or reading of "Wuthering Heights" (lots of big words in that one I'll tell you) and when the birthing finally does happen all there will be is you, just you you you and you being all supportive and helpful and not judgemental about ANYTHING; and you know that in a matter of days that that's all there will be in the entire whole wide world and universe, all there will be is just you, being the perfect earth mother-of-the-mother, the perfect earth mother who keeps smiling all the time no matter what and is never in a bad mood and does cooking and is supportive and keeps her mouth shut and doesn't say anything like: "Binkies cause nipple confusion?" or "Huh?"and the Perfect Earth Mother would never ever ever say: "You can't put this snugly yet lovingly made (by a very attractive grandma) quilt in his bed with him?" or the P.E.M. absolutely would not say: "I put all my babies on their tummies backs and sides and nothing ever happened to them." so you as a Perfect Earth Mother don't say any of that archaic Grannie sounding kind of stuff because in actuality you're young and hip and now and happnin' (although saying happnin' might make you not so happnin'), and since you realize that by not saying those things it will keep life upbeat and happy and supportive, so you very strongly plan on not saying stupid things and keeping that smile pasted on, but you don't trust yourself to do it, so you run to your bedroom and fling yourself on the bed and grab around wildly for the nuts? Grab for nuts wildly like a blind man that has no elbows in his arms?

Does that ever happen to you?

It Does?

Well then, how about this one: When you explain it to everyone, do you have to explain the whole thing in one big ginormous expansivly ridunkulous sentence?

You Do?

Just so you know...

You and I?

We're Simpatico.

Which, by the way, is something that should cause you to fear and tremble.

It's the ADDWAEOTR

I am finally posting because of my neice Annier. She informs that it has been eleven days since the last post. Annie, whilest I had a chuckle at your comment, and I'm still kind of jiggling because of it, I haven't posted for 11 days because I don't know what to say. I have writer's block.

At first I thought it was because of Up Chuck. Up Chuck is my nephew-nephew. Is that what you call a nephew's child? His mommy has been undergoing a stem cell transplant, and every time I would think about my blog, and it's ridiculousness (my TV watching, my getting you to feel sorry for me, my running amok thought processes...) I would just feel shallow and then more shallow. There are people out there (Up Chuck's parents and grandparents and sisters for starters ) who are living life gracefully and dealing with real earth life issues. And I wanted to blog about how wonderful I think they are but I just couldn't do them justice. So I stuttered.

Then I thought I couldn't blog because of the Baby Mama. I had a good blog all started and then she shoved it underground and I was told (with quite a bit of hormone edge) to blog about my own life. Point taken. Although too bad for you because I had really good material about her slipping back into life as it was in high school. Lots of funny stuff about waiting for her boyfriend to call. ZINGADINGDING!

Then I thought the blogging problem was because I was no longer thinking. I am not living with just my thoughts anymore, but I am talking to Baby Mama all day and have no (air quote) blog thoughts (air quote) that would over take my world. I spend my day talking to Baby Mama about TV and mullets and squirrels and dreams instead of creating a little blog world with them. Tim used to say "A card laid is a card played." So by that we logically deduce that he would say: "A thought spoken is a blog that doesn't happen."

This is a theory, and is not meant to change the world. But I think I've stumbled onto something.

Then I thought maybe I can't blog because we're waiting around here for something BIG to happen. Like a live birthing. Everything else seems small in comparison. Maybe it's because I'm so excited I run across the room every time Baby Mama says owie. Or my back hurts. Maybe I am distracted by the rotund. I never knew that about myself. I have ADDWAEOTR. Pronounced Add-way-o-ter. Attention Deficit Disorder With an Emphasis on the Rotund.

Off the subject sidebar: How do women stretch like that???

Anyway, I am trying to save myself from my writers block. I want to blog about the Baby Mama naming her son Maverick, but I just can't get it going. I want to blog about the top ten reasons why I should be in the delivery room, but I have already been invited, so I don't need to pressure anyone with ridiculous reasons. I want to blog about the Mitchmeister, whose birthday is today, and tout how proud I am of that little cowboy. I could have put one of his baby pictures on the blog, you know, one of those where he's only wearing cowboy boots and a holster and nothing else, and I could have put a black strip over his nethers (or his eyes, you pick...but don't bother telling me because it would gross me out too much) and You all would have said Oh, remember when Mitch was running around the neighborhood in his nethers making his Mumzie's blood pressure press in her jugular vein a little to strong? Remember that? That would have been a blog that would have pleased and touched and you all would have had to reach for the Kleenix. And then you all would have had to sit back and remind yourselves to just breathe.

Why oh why can't I just be about the blogging?

Help me O Be One Kanobi. You're my only hope.

Happy Birthday Lil' Tim. You have always been a crowd pleaser. And everybody is thinkin' about that today.

I Should be in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. You Know I Should.

Today, while the Baby Mama and I were watching this young man on General Conference,

I disclosed a deep dark secret to her. I have always wanted to be in the Mo Tab.

Always.

Only I can't really sing like those ladies (you can tell they can all sing well....they sing with their eyes closed or their eyes buggin out and their mouths really open wide.)

I have emotional baggage about singing with my mouth open really wide, because in fourth grade I was standing in front of the class with a group of other kids, singing for the rest of the class, and we were singing that "Gloria" Christmas song, and I was really getting into it and I had my mouth open as wide as it would go, just Gloria-ing my little 9 year old heart out (probably with my eyes closed) (probably bobbing somewhat in place.) and I noticed that there were some boys who were pointing and laughing and I think to myself: who are they laughing at and after a reality check or two I realized it was me. I instantly knew that I would now be known as

a. Tonsil Girl

b. That weirdo Gloria singer.

I spent recess in the bathroom. And I was miles away from puberty when this tragedy happened, so we can't blame it on that. My fragile little singer psyche was bruised. I didn't try out for choir in high school until it was too late. I walked into tryouts and suddenly became aware that all the other kids were singing operatic vibrato. How did I miss learning how to do that?

Anyway.

Here are the reasons why I would fit in with and should be in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Totally discounting singing ability and taking into account desire. In no particular order:

Reason #1

I think that I would really enjoy all the trips

I've never been to Rushmore. Or Russia. Or China. Or the Olympics. Or the Inauguration of a President of the United States.

Reason #2

I could really be valuable in keeping their fashion sense afloat. In fact, this could be my special job. My speciality if you will. I might put the ladies in suits. From Chicos. JUST KIDDING. Not about the suits part. I really think this would be a good job for me because there's nowhere to go but up. There's only improvements to be had.

Not that this example has anything to do with the Mo Tabs, (it just demonstrates my skilz) but today, during the afternoon session of conference, they had a children's choir, and the little girls were all in pastels. I wouldn't do that. And some of the little girls had satin dresses on. I wouldn't do that. Not good on every body type. I think I would go for crisp and not flow-ie. I think I would go for less not more. (less fabric bunched up in a little sequined gather thingy at the hip) I think I would consult Christian Dior. Or Channel. Or whoever is designing Sarah Palin's beautiful beautiful suits.

I mean why not? Those CD sales are up. Spend some, make some. In fact, now that I'm on this roll, I'm thinking an outfit for the Mo Tab Ladies would be an EXCELLENT challenge on Bravo's Project Runway.

Wouldn't that be AMAZING??? Mo Tab singers stomping down the runway to Mo Tab Music in front of Heidi Klum? So if elected, you now know what I'd do. So pick me. Love me. Then I'd not only be in that awesome choir, but I'd get a rocking suit.

Reason #3:

Once we got the outfits under control, we could make them in lots of different colors. Colors that I might look good in. Because if I look good in red,

or Blue,

then you know that the rest of the choir is going to look good too, because we all pretty much have the same coloring. Check it out. It's true and you know it.

Reason #4

I have the essential over 50 afro hair do. (see above) Again. Perfect fit. Can't deny.

Reason #5

I would have the opportunity to feel wonderful things.

How or why would you deny me feeling wonderful things, after all I've been through having two broken legs (OK, feet but I get extra points because there were two) at my son's wedding?

Reason #6

I could go around saying things like, "Oh, I'm unavailable on Thursday because I have to go practice with this choir I'm in, maybe you've heard of them, they're the world famous Mormon Tabernacle Choir and I'm in it now because I am an amazing singer finally."

Reason #7

If I happened to be so utterly fortunate to realize my fondest dream and be in the choir, you could hunt for Mommacita whenever you see the choir on the BYU Channel. It would be extra fun for you. And your entire family. You all would feel like you know a celebrity (me) when you say to your preschooler or the person you live with: Hey, there's that lady we know who writes a blog sometimes except when her daughter comes to live with her then she becomes a total slacker.

Reason #8

I would really really really think yea on me.

PS. If you are from my ward, and you are involved in the ward choir (and your name might possibly be Wettlauf.... and this blog makes you think: Hey we need to be getting that Mommacita coming to ward choir; then you need to get one of those reality checks performed on yourself by a health professional because I'm not such a great singer. Insurance will probably not cover that reality check. At least mine never has. Anyway, no ward choir wants me. I just like the Mo Tabbers. And I long to be with them. So back away.

Family Biz-ness

Dearest Mommacita,

Since we now share a house, I have a few ensy bensy items of business. You know..... Communication. It's what makes the world go 'round. I've heard you say that before and you know I have. Don't act all surprised.

So. First of all, what's the deal with you not blogging very much since I've been here? You have a couple of fans er uh family that likes to check in with you. You have been very much the L word. (Not that L word, this L word: LAZY.) Every one of your peeps likes to keep up on how you have yet again embarrassed yourself Momm Cit. Is my constantly growing belly so entirely amusing/beautiful/fascinating/incredible that you can't talk (to it) and blog at the same time? Multi Task Mommcita. Every President must be able to multi task.

Second of all, let's talk about the remote control. I LIKE TO HAVE IT. You are really bad with it Mommacita. You are slow at fast forwarding through commercials, plus I am used to having it because my husband is nice like that. So I need it from now on. Kapeesh?

Which brings us to our third item: Dancing With the Stars. OH! MY! GOSH! MOMMACITA! You totally know what you've done. I cannot STAND that show and I know you don't like it either, so please quit pausing on it when you are scrolling through the guide. I know (geeze, who doesn't?) that you saw Susan Lucci in person one time because somehow (who knows how) you found yourself with Grandma Margaret at the Regis and Kathie Lee Show in New York,

and I know that her skin was flawlessly beautiful that day and I know she is a size 0, and I know you only wanted to see her costume but we both just can't afford any more pausing on that show. Think of the unborn.

Item four: Thank you very much for giving me your Lancome gifts with purchase and cute little cosmetic bags in varying colors. You're the Mommacitabombacita. And now I can look absolutely fetching when I skype with my man. I mean hot. Hot's the word we 20 somethings use now a days. So change fetching to hot.

Item five: Let's discuss the talking to my belly issue. I know you can't help yourself. I'm pretty excited about the little man myself. But a navel (mine) is not a microphone. No matter how many times you tell me it is, (I repeat), a navel is not a microphone into the womb. If you should happen to say around the vicinity of my belly: "Hello Little No-Name Man, this is your loving GranMocita", Little No-Name man can hear you just as well as he could if you happened to be using your so called microphone. So now that I've cleared that up, we're on the same page: you don't need a navel. My navel. In fact you could maybe do your belly talking from across the room. In fact, lets just say for the record, that the next time you sing "I'm So Glad When Daddy Comes Home" it would probably be just fine and dandy to sing that from across the room. NoName will get it. I feel his chi and he is smart.

Thank you for taking the time to read this note. Family Bizness was always my favorite part of FHE. Remember how us kids used to slide off of our chairs, roll around on the floor clutching our guts going out of our gourds with boredom during it? Remember those good times? So great to be back!

No, seriously, I love staying with you, because you are my beautiful, outstanding, and adoring Mother. And you're hot.

Love, Schneeblers

PS I miss MattMan

Big Dreams

Last night I had a dream. Wait, wait, don't move on to the next blog because your eyes glaze over when someone (one of your children) tells you about their dream (every morning). This is a good one.

Anyway, I'm at this cooking contest with my family. We are guest judges. Because we are experienced eaters. And on the last night of the contest the judges can order from a menu that the contestants created and then the contestants have to deliver what you chose from the menu to your house. (the word house is a foreshadowing people)

So being the pigs that we are, we order every single thing from every single contestant. It was expensive (we had to pay...which stunk because we were guest judges and why should a guest judge have to pay?) and I felt the guilt of over purchasing. So they start delivering food. The last contestant chef that delivered comes walking in with pretzel rods dipped in chocolate and rainbow sprinkles (I dream in color). I think to myself: Pretzel rods dipped in chocolate with rainbow sprinkles? Wha the? Those aren't even as good as the ones we had for the Glitch affair. You call yourself a Top Chef?

Then someone (I think it was Jake) yells out: Anyone got any hot sauce?

And since I hadn't started to eat yet and since I am a giver I decided to venture outside to find some hot sauce. I give and give and give for you I say as I'm walking out the door.

While wandering around in the parking lot of the condo that we stayed in at our recent reunion, I bump into Dr. Gregory House from the TV show House. And he is one of the competing chefs and he is on his way to delivering a life size TV made entirely out of chocolate.

I start with the begging. "Can I have a bite of that? Pleeeeeeeeze? Oh it looks so very deliciouseoso and we mistakenly ordered those bogus pretzel rods so please please please let me have a bite of that TV??"

Dr, House: *#$@ No! Absolutely not! (he actually said astrick, pound sign, dollar sign, and at sign in the dream.)

Me: PLEASE! I'll kiss you if you let me have a bite.

Dr. House: (eyebrow raises.)

We all know Dr. House is a pig and would trade a kiss with anyone for anything.

I see an open window for chocolate and I follow him into a dark bar where he is supposed to deliver the chocolate TV and I know I have to work fast.

"It's dark in here and no one will notice if a bite is missing" I coo.

I take a bite out of the TV (on the bottom corner where no one will see) and then I lay one on him.... a big wet slatherey kiss (I'm nothing if not honorable in my sleasyness).

And then I wake up laughing. And as I start to recall the dream (I just kissed Dr. House in order to get a bite of a chocolate TV???) I laugh out loud even harder which is not the norm for me when I just wake up. It's probably not for you either come to think of it.

Things always seem so much funnier when I find myself laughing out loud all by myself and then I become silly. So between the dream and my laughing alone I proceed to laugh for a good 5 minutes. Gaw Faw style.

I'm a widow who will kiss any old crusty needs-a-shave meanie for a shot at a chocolate TV. And then laughs about it. alone. for a long time.

Analyze THAT would ya.

I was Saved! I was Saved!! SAVED!! Do you GET IT? SAVED!!

The following conversation took place on a cell phone while traveling on the dark lonely road on the way home from the temple:*

RING RING

Mommacita: Hi. I was SAVED tonight.
Schneebes: What? Saved? What?

Mommacita: Tonight I was SAVED. SAVED!!! You've heard the word saved?
Schneebes with a wee bit of panic: You mean you were saved in a CAR ACCIDENT?? (Which totally means "WHO the heck is going to take care of me and this baby now??")

Mommacita: A car accident? No. No! It's a different kind of saved. Really Truly Saved.
Schneebes: (yawn) What kind is really truly saved?

Mommacita: OK. Well, tonite I'm all done at the temple, see....
Schneebes: (yawners) yeah?

Mommacita: And I go to the rest room, to rest before the big trip home...
Schneebes: (yawner-ers) um hm?

Mommacita: And I'm traveling through the women's locker room.....
Schneebes:

Mommacita: Are you there?
Schneebes: Yes. yes Mothercita. Yes I am here. (even more yawning)

Mommacita: And I'm in the doorway of the locker room, ready to step out into the lobby. THE LOBBY!
Schneebes: I think I see where this is going. (big breath. bigger yawn)

Mommacita: And right as I was at the doorway of the locker room, right at that moment in time, tiny tiny angels put their tiny tiny hands on my head, and with a brute force that only tiny tiny angels have, they forced my head to turn to the left and I caught a glimpse, an ever so slight glimpse of my reflection in a mirror.
Schneebes: I thought I told you I thought I knew where this was going. (which totally means do you really have to tell the rest of this story?) (doesn't bother yawning)

Mommacita: And in the mirror, the bless-ed bless-ed mirror, (that the tiny tiny angels who love me very very much forced me to look at) I saw my brown skirt, and my black slip tucked neatly into my underpants.
Schneebes: (inhale)

Mommacita: And there were three women who saw it all. They saw the clueless woman clumping out of the restroom in a boot and a very tasteful bronzie kind of sandal that was undoubtedly bought for a wedding a while ago and the said clueless woman had her skirt tucked into her meshy underpants and then just in the nick of time she miraculously looked in the mirror (they didn't understand why) and then the three women saw a look of horror on clueless woman's face and then they saw her quickly pull her skirt out of said underpants and then they witnessed the clueless woman looking around sheepishly and then they noticed her adopt a look that said I meant to do that and she left the locker room with confidence. And the three women were impressed, and were not at all tempted to burst out laughing with uncontrolled hysterics but they just admired her from across the locker room in a quiet, dignified, and tolerant way. And they wondered what her name was and if she would ever consider being their friend.
Schneebes: (exhale)

Schneebes: Were you wearing spanx?
Mommacita: No.

Schneebes: Are you hereditary? Because I'm pregnant here.

*the writer of this post may or may not have exercised artistic licence when quoting people other than herself during the writing of this post.

I am So Beautiful. To Me.

I Looooooooooooove hair appointments.

I just love them. I love everything about them. Except smelling someone else's perm.

Anyway, I love hair appointments because as my friend Carol says, they are a day of beauty. Let me repeat for emphasis: A day of beauty. Everything is beautiful on a day of beauty. A day where I don't have to lift a finger. For 1 1/2 hours at least. Which is quite beautiful. All I do is sit there, with an empty head, in the comfy comfy chair, wearing a leopard print cape (which, technically is not part of the beauty part because I'm not necessarily one of those animal print gals:

.... but just to be honest I do own a couple of animal print things (reading glasses that were $5, and a shirt that goes with my brown skirt, and the inside of a couple of handbags) but I do not consider myself animal printish per say so animal print cannot be included in my idea of a day of beauty but because Cindy who does my hair is wild about the animal print jaunrah (sp) I wear the cape to be polite which is a form of beauty in and of itself) and after I am draped in animal print out of charity and love I take out my earrings and then someone transforms me. I become transformered. Into more than meets the eye. Now THAT's a beautiful thing.

I get to sit there and talk to my girl Cindy, who I have gone to for 26 years which is pretty beautiful and she paints my hair with an industrial strength blonding substance and wraps it in foil and I look at myself in the mirror and think: Hmmm, you're Avaunt Guard Beautiful right at this moment Mommacita. I decided to use the term Avaunt Guard after watching Project Runway last night. Which is about beauty. Some what.

And then, the most beautiful thing ever happens. I get to sit under the dryer for about 25 minutes and she brings me a bottle of cold water right out of the frig and I read and I drink the cold water and the warm dryer hums and I can't hear anything but the lullaby of the dryer. I go into a beautiful Mommacita world under there. I remember when my kids were little it was even more beautiful than it is now because of the lullaby part. And the quiet part. And the Mommacita world part. Oh heck. I still love it, kids or no.

And then I get my hair shampooed with a bit of a head rub (beautiful) and Cindy pretends to wax my non existent eyebrows and doesn't charge me which makes me feel included with the rest of the humans on this planet whose parents gave them eyebrows (which is someone showing charity and not judging you for genetic defects and that is quite beautiful) and then I get my head wrapped in a leopard towel which is really quite luxurious as towels go and I go to my seat and have all my hair cut so it will be perky and manageable for the next 4 weeks (beautiful!) And I look on the floor at my cut off hair and feel so happy that it's there and not on my head because my bangs were starting to hang in my eyes and make me nutso. Are you going to make me say that an unnutso Mommacita is beautiful? Because we all know she is.

And then someone besides me blows my hair dry and fluffs it up into my over 50 Mommacita Afro and sprays something on my hair that smells like sweet sweet grapefruit and then the leopard cape comes off (beautiful because remember I'm not animal print per say) and I look in the mirror and think now I am blonde again (so childlike, so beautiful) and then I pay and pick up my still cold bottle of water which is still half full and drink it while I run my errands on the way home. A free cold bottle of water for errands. Pretty beautiful.

I'm thinking this blog is making you wish it was your day of beauty right now. Or quite possibly, like pretzels, it's making you thirsty.

She's HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEERE

The Schneebersmommacita is here. And she's cute. But she's flaunting her with child belly in my face. Everywhere I turn, there it is. She thinks that because I am a woman who is no longer in the baby business, she can jiggle that belly about were ever she goes. We go to the Dr. and it's all about her. The Dr. asks her all the questions. The Dr. listens to her heart. The Dr. pats her belly. The Dr. gives her the sickeningly sweet gestational diabetes drink to drink. I was offered nothing. There was a drinking fountain for me. Down the hall by the restroom. The Dr. gives her a notebook to read with birthy info in it. Including pictures and indexes. I was given the People magazine about Ellen getting married.

And here's what I, the woman with no womb, did.

I sat with my mouth closed. I tried not to butt in.

I know, you are thinking: "IMPRESSIVE Mommacita, impressive!" But I'm telling you the truthiness right here and now. When she told the Dr. that the women on the island of Dominica give birth on an open deck outside the hospital, with flies other insects assisting, my mouth flew open, my jaw dropped and I yelled, "WHAT????!!!!" and then they both looked at me with the startle reflex and then I started to shake and then I took her home and ran off to the temple and told every old lady who would listen to me all about the horribleness of the horribleness.

I am somewhat traumatized thinking of what could have been, but talking about it to others has stopped the quivering. And shaking. And evil thoughts.

God Bless the USA. And I mean that with all my heart.

60 Long Hard Years*

I bring to you these two cute kids who just celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary on Sept. 1st.

These are my beloved parents Dick 'n' Bertie. My daughter in law Larsa has been known to call them 'the Hinckleys' because of Dick's somewhat resemblance to Gordon B. Just in case you don't see the resemblance please know that it's you, because my Dad was asked to play him in a movie. Biggest Fattest Lie. Gotcha.

Here's a couple more snaps that we got at the big fancy bash:

Now who else can pull off horizontal stripes and be 71/2 month's pregnant?

Schneeblits. That's who!

And down below yonder we have the newlyweds and Dubers blocking out his lovely wife with his big fat ferocious head.

And this little cutie sang "I'm trying to be like Jesus" for us all. I believed her completely.

And this lil' darlin' had some fancy fruit in a fancy cup with a fancy spoon and than had some fancy chicken fingers. And then her Grandma ate her up with a fancy 60th wedding anniversary gold plated spoon.

Here are some highlights of the Dick and Bertie Bash:

No one cried. OK. I had the voice quiver but that's not really crying.

The Chicken Cord On Bluuu was delicious.

Every child, grandchild, and greatgrandchild happened to be there. And spouses. Every single one.

They did a little Anniversary Waltz during the Anniversary Waltz song and the Bertie was grinning like no other.

I wore a new shoe. (and my boot but that's not a highlight)

My granddaughters slathered me with hugs and kisses and love and lap sittings. I had not seen them for 6 months. Too long.

No one's cell phone rang which really really REALLY pleased my mother. And it had absolutely nothing to do with her edict before the party.

My dad was smiling the entire time.

I was reminded that having parents who stay married for 60 years is a wonderful thing to give a child, even when that child is 53. Thanks Mom and Dad. I love you both.

*When someone would ask the Timmers how long he was married, he would always say: 10 (or whatever number it was) Long Hard Years. In a Richard Nixon voice. Then he'd look over at me and laugh his head off. And then he would shake his jowls back and forth. So make sure you read the title of this freaking blog in a Richard Nixon voice, and then laugh your head off. And don't forget the jowl shake. Just a tip.