We Do Re-Do, part 2

I have a history of doing things twice to make up for the way the first one went down. My baptism for example. I was 10 the first time and I remember it very clearly. My parents, older sister, and I were baptized together on a Sunday evening and afterward, the congregation verbally voted their approval for us to be members of their church. In my 10 year old mind, that was not the day I publicly proclaimed my decision to follow Jesus. It was my initiation into the Baptist Church. I'm not saying that the baptism "didn't count" as I know I'd given my life to Christ when I was 10. But the feelings that surrounded the memory, weren't...fond, ya know? So in 2012, at the age of 40, I was re-baptized on my own terms, in front of Ron, our children, and about 20 friends before a co-ed volleyball game, and my baptism experience was forever changed.

So at the age of 50, to be given the gift of re-experiencing our wedding on our own terms, was not something we approached lightly and the big 3 wedding decisions needed to be agreed upon: What we'd eat, who we'd invite, and what we'd wear. 

FOOD.

Every year on my birthday we have Long John Silvers with our kids because it's been my favorite birthday tradition for as long as I can remember and our new wedding was happening on my birthday. But Long John Silvers for a full on reception meal wasn't nearly as realistic or convenient as say, Fazolis. Hey. I'm not fancy, but I am Italian and I don't know anyone who doesn't like Fazolis breadsticks and Ron eventually agreed.

GUESTS.

My building has space for 30 people. Our family of 13 and our Pastor and his wife made up half, which left 15 seats available. (My math skills are next level right now.) 

Who we invited had a very simple criteria. Loyalty and Trust. 

As we made up our guest list, we'd ask these 2 questions: 

1. If we got in a huge fight and one of us went to talk to them about it, would they take sides and fuel the fire with a bash session against the other person or would they talk us off the ledge and help us restore our marriage?

2. Would they turn around and tell other people about what happened behind our backs?

That simplified our guest list by a lot.

I challenge you to ask yourself those questions and evaluate who you have in your circle of loyalty and trust. Some might call that standard "Italian Crap." Hey. My circle might be small, but it is tight. 

WARDROBE.

For all the nonsense that goes on in our marriage, we're lovers not fighters. But give us 6 weeks to plan our "dream wedding" and it's gonna go down, because somebody's gonna demand to wear a silver shirt instead of black. What's next Groomszilla, a cashew cake so I'll be dead in the tub by morning?

After countless arguments, it became obvious that this was the hill he was willing to die on and I graciously conceded my vision of us both dressed in black. FINE! RUIN OUR 2ND WEDDING THEN!

With the details settled, the days leading up to our wedding were filled with excitement...and 2am google searches consisting of scary words like "DIY Body Shimmer" and "How much tequila to add with a drink already containing tequila?" What could go wrong?

Ron went first thing that morning to pick up the cake. A phobia he and I both share is fear of cake shortage. And when we pulled the 2-tier cake out of the box, I gasped and we both went silent. W.T.H is that? Two dozen Walmart cupcakes to the rescue. Crisis averted. Don't judge us, we had big honeymoon plans for the leftover cake. 

Next up, the boys took Ron axe throwing and I headed to the salon to get my hair blown out, dressed in my pajamas and pink The MOB slippers from Kearstin's wedding, which just happened to coincide with my newly adopted "Italian Crap" life motto.

When I was waiting to cross over an intersection, I saw horses running everywhere, being chased by a small group of Amish boys. By the time I reached them, they'd gotten the horses back into their field, but they couldn't get the gate lifted off the ground to latch. I'm not sure what surprised them more- my freshly tanned 'Venetian Bronzed' skin, my pajamas, my slippers, or when I jumped out and helped them hoist up the other side of the gate so they could get it latched, but I climbed back into my depraved mini van and watched them in my rearview mirror as they stood staring and probably debating whether or not to tell their parents. Super Hero or Local Harlot...which way we spinnin' this, kids?

I arrived home from the salon to find the best lunch any bride could ever want before her wedding...a Wendy's triple. I allow myself one per year and that one met my 2022 quota, because I hadn't eaten a Wendy's cheeseburger since October 2021 when I almost choked to death while my husband and son ignored all of my sudden dangerous silence. 

I'm getting nothing from Wendy's for this endorsement even though I should.

Let's talk about Ron again. 

Besides wardrobe tantrums, he has 2 toxic traits:

1. He likes to announce to the bride things that are going wrong on her wedding day. He did it to Kearstin and he tried to do it to me, but all I heard was my daughter-in-law Barbara yell- "SHE DOES NOT NEED TO KNOW THAT!!" I still don't know what he was trying to tell me. All I know is that I need a recording of her yelling that so that every time he tries to ruin my mood with dramatic news I'll just press play.

2. In the hours leading up to huge events being hosted at our house, he chooses the most random things to do that don't need done. An hour before the photographer was due to arrive, I looked outside to see him scooping dog poop out of the grass in the back yard. It's the back yard, it's 36 degrees, and we're having an indoor wedding...what the hellllll are you doing?!? 

So when the photographer arrived and suggested we do outdoor pictures and our kids and grandkids were hop skipping through the dog poop land mine and I'm the one who's foot squished through a steaming pile of crap, I can't really complain about that now can I?

He finally got dressed, strolled outside late for pictures, looked around at all of us and said, "Should I wear my black shirt?"

Ohhhh noooo, my friend. Tantrums were thrown, decisions were made, and now you're gonna smile pretty in your silver shirt.

Our wedding was everything we dreamed it would be. Our son and grandson walked me down the aisle and surrounded by our children, grandchildren, and closest most trusted circle of friends, we recommitted our lives to each other. As the song The Time Of My Life began playing, we kissed, and not one person "tsk tsk'd" and predicted that someday we'll regret using a song from Dirty Dancing because those are our non-judgmental people and they know that we won't. 

We kicked off the reception by toasting with my signature drink, the Shargarita...strawberry flavored Jose Cuervo that already had tequila before I added a lot more tequila. Then, unlike the first wedding when we smashed cake into each other's faces, we gently fed each other cake in honor of the sweet covenant love we vow to model for the next 30 years.

 

We did it. We re-wrote a piece of our history and created a brand new memory.

And it was perfection...minus that silver shirt, obvi.

Our son Zac used our wedding pictures to create a video of our special day and he put it to the song we walked down the aisle to. (For Life, by Christian & Chloe) Click here if you'd like to see it. 

Thank you to everyone who helped make this one of the best days of our life.

Is there any part of your story you'd like to re-write? Take my advice: DO.IT.

Photos by Kandalyn and Tony Green Photography

We Do Re-Do, part 1

If you didn't know, our original wedding is not a day I look back on with fond memories. When Zac was 2 years old, I found him in our bedroom ripping up our album and I wasn't even mad. I almost joined him, to be honest. 

On our 29th anniversary last January, I asked Ron if he'd like to do a vow renewal and have a new wedding for our 30th and he shot that down fast and told me he'd take care of planning our 30th anniversary. So suspecting he'd book a cruise or maybe another pole dancing party bus, I put it out of my mind because he's earned my trust on surprise planning and most of the year I've been preoccupied with planning Kearstin and Trevor's wedding.

Our granddaughters were so infatuated with Kearstin and Trevor's first dance, that 2 weeks after their wedding, I planned a "royal ball" in my building. We all dressed up in our fancy wedding clothes and had our own private princess dance. Zac created the playlist and when one of my favorite songs (Love of a lifetime, by Firehouse) came on, I grabbed Ron's hand and we started to dance, which was exactly what everyone knew would happen when that song came on. But then halfway through, that song stopped, and our wedding song (When I look into your eyes, by Firehouse) started. 

Way back when, during the planning of our first wedding, when I dug my heels in on THIS being the song played during our wedding, I was told that someday I'd regret not choosing "something more reverent." Thirty years later, nope. Still don't.

Anyhooo, that song kicked on and I was  completely shocked when Ron dropped to one knee and proposed with a new wedding band set. He didn't even drop to one knee to propose to me the first time around so I was stunned. Then he told me that he rented the building at a local park and our Pastor was already booked for our vow renewal at 1:30pm on Saturday December 10th...my birthday...and I had exactly 6 weeks to plan everything else to create my dream wedding.

Thankfully, our kids were in on the whole thing because his original plan was to surprise me by telling me we're going out to dinner for my birthday, but then we'd show up at our 2nd wedding that I had no say in, with me wearing whatever I happened to be wearing to Longhorn steakhouse that day. Surprise! 

And my glorious children who love me said, "Ohhhh dad, noooo."

So I got down to business. 

First things first. Get a refund on that building in the park. I'm entirely too frugal to spend money on a building when we have our own building and I'd rather that money go toward a kick-a** photographer, because (((all brides listen up)))! If there's ONE thing you DO NOT want to skimp on for your wedding, it's the photographer. Those pictures are the thing that you'll have in your hand to remember your day for the rest of your life. Do your research. 

With the help of my Facebook friends, I found my perfect match with Kandalyn and Tony Green Photography, who I connected with immediately, and as it turned out, also offers Boudoir Photo Shoots and a discount for brides. My first thought was that I'm too old for such photos. But my second thought was, no I'm actually not and I booked my shoot. More on that later.

Next, I changed the time of our wedding from 1:30pm to 5:45pm. Ron was confused. "But 1:30 was the time of our first wedding." Okay, now I'm confused. "What about our first wedding would I want to replicate?" Short answer- absolutely nothing. Also, a December wedding with a giant beautiful lit Christmas tree, candles, white lights everywhere, and Ron and I dressed in black screams evening wedding.

Photo credit: Barbara Courter

Which brings me to my dress. I knew exactly what I wanted and google searched- black formal dress, racer back straps, corset style back, slit leg...and then I stopped typing because I literally had that dress hanging in my closet. It was a dress my mom bought me back in 2003 as a reward for losing 100 pounds and it's timeless. She passed away in 2017 and the thought of wearing that dress in this wedding was just too perfectly wonderful to look any further. More money saved to go for the photographer too. Win!

With the bride and groom wearing black, I wanted our bridesmaids (our daughters) in silver dresses and the Flower Princesses (our granddaughters) in red dresses and princess crowns. Let's just stay here for a minute- black, silver, pops of red, white lights, evening wedding, come onnn! I'm not sure how this country redneck chick ended up planning a formal wedding, but I tapped into my inner Boujie and let 'er roll.

Photo credit: Barbara Courter

I got everything planned and booked for this wedding within one week. Almost like a shotgun wedding, except I'm not pregnant. *knocks on wood* 

The girls ordered dresses of their choice and when they began arriving we noticed that some of them were different shades of gray...wait a minute...did I just accidentally plan a Shades of Gray wedding? Of course I did. *wheels start spinning: guys in leather, the arch draped with chains, handcuff chair sashes, and the wedding theme changes from 'Still The One' to '50 Shades of Great!' Too far? Maybe too far. Sometimes I think God made me for laughs. Or maybe He accidentally added a touch too much spice to my mix. 

Speaking of spice, let's talk Boudoir. Y'all know that's why you're really here. Ladies, listen up. You're not "too fat", you're not "too old", you're not "too" anything. Do it. If not for your husband, do it for yourself. A great photographer will make you look and feel absolutely gorgeous and confident and every woman should feel that way about themselves and you gotta start somewhere. May as well go all in by stripping down and getting some sexy photos.

With only 6 weeks before our wedding and wanting to give Ron my pictures as a wedding gift, I had very little time to prepare for my shoot, if it's even possible to prepare for that kind of shoot. But I knew, for me, a fresh tan was a must to feel my best, but my summer tan had faded so a spray tan was my only option.

I'd never gotten a spray tan before and was terrified I'd have to give my husband pictures of me looking like a giant sexy orange Oompa Loompa. So I reached out to a trusted friend who referred me to a place and I booked an appointment.

I walked in and she took one look at my 'Italian Pale' skin tone and said, "Oh, I'm gonna Venetian Bronze youuu" and we stepped behind the curtain with her tanning gun. I think we might be dating now.

I left with strict instructions for the next 12 hours- Do not get wet. Do not sweat. Do not have sex.

Full disclosure: As a fitness instructor with a hot husband, 2 of those is gonna be a major problem for me. I cancelled my evening classes, but my husband got a second-hand tan. I can only sacrifice so much here.

The following day, I showed up to my shoot freshly bronzed and armed with "sexy clothes" I was instructed to bring- So I pulled out 2 footballs and my husband's old jersey because nothing screams sexy clothes like ripped and blood stained sporting equipment, am I right? Yeah, you know I'm right. 

With my permission, the photographer posted a few of my pictures to a private Boudoir Facebook group. Private, right? What's the worst that could happen? Well. Finding out within minutes of my pictures going up how many women from our community, the school district, and my past and present fitness classes that are part of that private group, if you really wanna know the answer to that. Then trying to avoid eye contact with everyone at the high school football game that Friday for fear that anyone might come up to me and mention sexy pictures they saw, which might ruin my big surprise for him. 

So maybe we both have a natural inclination toward ill-planned surprise ideas. But in my defense, he was gonna ruin my 2nd wedding with his surprise. Mine was just half naked pictures of myself posted on-line. No comparison. 

Now fast forward to the night I showed him the pictures, terrified that he would laugh. He did not laugh. As a matter of fact, he didn't even believe it was me and kept referring to me in 3rd person. 

Like, "Who is she?" 

That's me. 

"Why is she wearing my jersey?" 

Dude. Me.

He said he was afraid it was a trap to see if he was attracted to another woman. 

Not that I wouldn't do that, I just didn't think of it. 

Once he grasped what was happening, his questions changed to "Where were you and who was taking your pictures like that?" Fair line of questioning and I assured him it was the Kandalyn of Kandalyn and Tony Green Photography. Not the Tony.

And then he said I could be a lingerie model. Which obviously, I could not be a lingerie model, but that was just about the best compliment a 51 year old grandma could hear from her husband of 30 years. 

Finally he asked who else has seen these pictures. Funny story...

 

I'll leave you with my husband's gift to me. Probably the closest I'll get to receiving a boudoir picture from him and maybe the closest this blog will get to posting one. My family seems to think I've gotten "enough exposure." (For now.) 

 

Stay tuned for Part II- the wedding of my dreams...including 4 Amish horses, a Wendy's triple cheeseburger, and a dog poop obstacle course. Would you expect anything less from my dream wedding?

Somebody's Nuts

Let's be real. Our family is a little crazy. That's no earth-shattering secret for anyone who's ever read this blog. If we were to take a poll on who holds the record, I suspect it'd come down between Ron and me. We both have a long history, but there are far too many examples to link here. Just keep scrolling and read more posts. This entire blog is documentation of our festival of terrible choices.

Hey, I'm nothing if not honest with myself and we've never claimed to be the adult supervision here. That was Aubrey until she moved out and Kearstin took her place. Then she moved out and left Caymen in charge. 

Which brings us to last Friday night. Caymen was in charge when it all went down. Don't forget that.

It all started in the van on the way home from the high school basketball game. Everything was great. What should have happened is we arrive home, I make a little jar margarita, and we go to bed and live happily ever after. What actually happened was Ron suddenly broke the dead silence of the van with his loudest most annoying karate sound "DEEEEEEEEP" as he simultaneously swung his right arm out and stopped a karate chop right before it connected with my neck. 

He didn't hit me. He just scared the shit out of me. If you didn't know, scaring the shit out of Sassy is my grandson's favorite pastime. He hides behind every door and around every corner and jumps out yelling at me, sometimes with weapons, and the louder I scream, the funnier he thinks it is. It used to be cute when he was little and I could see him waiting for me. But now he's 8, dangerously stealth, and he's completely shot my nerves to oblivion. But he's so dang charming I can't even get mad. 

So now a honking horn, a loud semi passing my side of the van, a bird in the garage...all get the same response from me. I jump and scream. 

Ron knows about my nerves and Ron isn't a charming 8 year old. SO, his "DEEEEP" and karate chop was the tipping point for how the rest of the evening played out. Don't forget who started this, k? 

I couldn't form words after his little stunt. I didn't even scream. My heart just stopped for a split second right before my vision went red with rage. When we got home, I silently climbed out of the van and heard him yell, "What's wrong?"

I know, right? 

So I made my little margarita and climbed into bed seething while he went on and on that he "thought I was Caymen sitting there" and it was "a case of mistaken identity" and when I finally had enough, I stormed out of our room to make some poor choices of my own. 

Two can play at that game.

I met Caymen upstairs for an office party. An office party is when we stay up late and eat snacks while we watch Hell's Kitchen. I walked in and my eyes honed in on the tin of nuts leftover from our New Year's Eve party. The pecans and almonds were gone, but the center column of candied cashews sat untouched, because back in 2007 when I was pregnant with Caymen, I had an allergic reaction to either cashews or hazelnuts. I was never tested, so I've spent the past 16 years avoiding both nuts.

But in my ptsd-pissed-off-margarita state of mind, the chances of the 2007 culprit being the hazelnut seemed to be in my favor. So I popped the tin and ate the cashews. All of the cashews. 

It only took a few minutes to feel the tightening in my chest, which of course I attributed to paranoia because it couldn't possibly be an allergic reaction to the 6 servings of cashews I just ate. My odds were 50/50 and the margarita said I couldn't lose.

SO. I decided the best course of action was to eat something else to counteract my paranoid thoughts.

Three rice Krispy treats later, my throat tightened, and Caymen, who had zero idea that anything was going on because I didn't tell her, saw me bolt from the room and heard me violently vomiting in the bathroom. She ran and got Ron.

He found me in the bathroom naked, vomiting, and shaking, and one of them mentioned calling 911. I can't remember who, but I'm guessing Caymen. I shot that down fast. Some people who work for the squad take my classes and having them walk in to find me laced with tequila and gluttoned with nuts and sweets is not a good fitness instructor look. They said they'd take me to the ER themselves, but that would've required me putting clothes on and the thought of getting dressed was so overwhelming to me that I told them that wasn't an option either. 

For future reference, the person having the nut allergy should never be the one calling the shots.

Speaking of shots, they also debated whether or not to use our 5 year old granddaughter's Epi pen on me. She's allergic to nuts. Go figure. We have an Epi pen for her here, but she's like 40 pounds and I'm like...not 40 pounds, and none of us have ever actually used the Epi pen and the thought of being Ron and Caymen's test dummy while they stabbed me who knows where like a voodoo doll, seemed as overwhelming as the thought of putting clothes on.

I told them I just needed a hot bath to warm me up. I mean, that's where Ron put me the last time I had the nut attack, because it was during an Ohio State Game and he had to do something with me until the game was over. I lived to tell about it and I'm not bitter at all. *cough*

So he lowered me into the bathtub with a trash can and I sat under the screaming hot water vomiting. Then he told me I should lay back so the hot water covered my whole body to warm me up faster.

For future reference, Ron should never be the one calling the shots either.

As soon as I laid back into the water, Kearstin showed up beside the bathtub, reached in and grabbed my hand and told me I'd be okay. 

The only problem with that is, Kearstin lives in Cincinnati and was nowhere near our bathtub. 

Days later, we described all of this to my daughter-in-law Barbara, the medical professional in our family, and she's guessing that's the point I passed out from the hot water. Turns out, the hot bath was just one of the many terrible choices made by everyone that night, including but not limited to: no one calling 911, no one calling her, no one trying the perfectly good Epi pen on the shelf in the kitchen, and no one even thinking to try Benadryl. All of which would've still warranted a visit to the ER, which never did happen.

I just envision Ron carrying me over his shoulder into the ER, naked, wet, shot in the neck with a toddler Epi pen, and every orifice of my body crammed with Benadryl tablets because I was unable to swallow- *drops me on their counter* "I've done all I can do."

But back to my bath hallucinations. Caymen then left me alone in the bathroom with Ron to go call Kearstin to thank her for holding my hand, as you do.

*flash to Kearstin's phone ringing at midnight wondering if she should answer Caymen's call and Trevor telling her to silence her phone because it was probably just Caymen excited for the school dance the next day and nothing bad happens in the middle of the night anyway.*

Trevor. I'm pretty sure everything bad happens in the middle of the night, but anyhoo...

I have no recollection of being removed from the bathtub, but according to Caymen, she returned from unsuccessfully getting ahold of Kearstin to finding me wet and naked on the couch and Ron fully clothed laying spread eagle on the floor beside me.

Apparently he threw his back out. One might guess it was from picking up my dead weight out of our deep bathtub, but no. He sneezed. Don't even get me started on his overly dramatic body rackin' sneeze seizures, but seeing as I inadvertently tried to kill myself because I was mad, let's just say we both have problems controlling ourselves and call us even.

That's when Caymen decided to go to bed. That's right, our only adult supervision left us laying to die in the living room for the police to piece together causes of deaths. Pray for us.

I woke up the following morning fully clothed in our bed and feeling like I'd gotten hit by a truck. Eventually Ron's back had slipped back into place enough for him to get me in my pajamas and into bed and my body finished ejecting every last trace of nut from itself around 3am, although I still don't remember anything after Kearstin and the bathtub.

Any medical professionals reading this and tempted to scold me about everything we did wrong, save it. Your common sense is wasted here.

We're in good hands now. Due to our lengthy history of medical DIY attempts, Barbara said she's going to make us a big binder with labeled tabs to keep on our counter for reference in medical emergencies.

NUT ALLERGY- Seek the help of a medical professional immediately. 

(Do not feed, bathe, carry and/or drop the patient around the house)

DISLOCATED RIB- Seek the help of a medical professional immediately. 

(Do not shake, squeeze, step on, or hang the patient upside down)

EAR PAIN- Seek the help of a medical professional immediately. 

(Do not insert anything)

YEAST INFECTION- Seek the help of a medical professional immediately. 

(Repeat- do not insert...anything...)

GENERAL TOM FOOLERY- Seek the help of a medical professional immediately.

(Before Tom Foolery even begins- do not insert anything.)

I think it's safe to say we've learned from this experience.

1. Not to sound dramatic, but I have a cashew allergy. (Group circle says "Hi Shari. Welcome.") I'm gonna skip doing sick experiments on myself with hazelnuts and assume those are bad too. I'm proactive like that.

2. Ron promises not to try to scare me to death and I promise not to get mad and OD on things that could potentially kill me. The little things you don't think to include in your wedding vows, right?

As for Caymen. She promises to use better judgement in the future. 

Come on, girl. You're in charge here.

You might've noticed I never mentioned our son Zac being in charge.

There are reasons for that.

The Sweetest Day

 As the saying goes; Man plans, God laughs- and I'm so grateful because sometimes the most unexpected things turn into life's sweetest gifts.

Our 3rd child Kearstin has been a prime example of that from the very beginning. She was a surprise pregnancy during a hectic time in our life, when financially another baby wasn't what we planned, but God knew she was exactly what we needed. 

November, 1998- In the midst of chaos and a turmoil of emotions, we found out we were pregnant. It was the sweetest day.

It's impossible to fully describe, but at just under 32 weeks of my pregnancy, I felt deep in my soul that something wasn't right. For that entire weekend I told anyone who would listen that something wasn't right and on Monday morning I called the doctor and the receptionist was hesitant to move my appointment up a day. "You can feel her moving, but you can't wait one more day? I'm sure she's fine."

"NO I canNOT wait because she's NOT fine because SOMETHING isn't RIGHT!" 

They finally agreed to bump my appt up from Wednesday to Tuesday, even though I could tell they thought I sounded like a lunatic. 

The following day, when the ultrasound showed her tiny body completely still except a slowly beating heart, I was taken for an emergency c-section and they prepared us for the worst. When they pulled her out, she was snow white and not moving and the room was completely silent. They rushed her out of my sight and I lay there trying to grasp the horrible silence until it was broken by her tiny cries followed by the doctor who was sewing me closed saying, "My God. That's a miracle."

May 25th, 1999- In the midst of chaos and a turmoil of emotions, our miracle arrived and changed my world forever. It was the sweetest day.

Fast forward to July 15th, 2021- In the Dominican Republic, during pandemic chaos and a turmoil of emotions, my tiny miracle, who'd grown into a beautiful princess, got engaged to her high school sweetheart, Trevor. It was the sweetest day.

From the very beginning, she and I have had an inexplicable borderline scary connection and it's only gotten stronger with each passing year. It's almost like that twin telepathy thing except I birthed her and we're not telepathic, so probably not the same at all. But the planning of her non-traditional rustic glam wedding brought us even closer.

The day we went dress shopping, she chose for herself a princess pink wedding dress and a burgundy dress to match the bridesmaids for me.

She asked me to join her dad walking her down the aisle to give her away and included me with the girls for her Bachelorette weekend in a cabin...I mentioned non-traditional, right?

Speaking of non-traditional...while she and Trevor were excitedly choreographing their beautiful first dance together, she and I were secretly choreographing the father/daughter dance...aka; 38 seconds of slow dancing with her dad to Bob Carlisle's Butterfly Kisses turned into 3 and a half minutes of our entire family crashing the dance floor to Missy Elliott's We Run This, because what else would you expect from us?

The year of planning flew by in a blur.

The morning of the big day, her only rule was clear: "If anything goes wrong today, I don't want to be told about any of it."

Remember that time back in 2014 when I described how smoothly Aubrey's wedding went? 

Well. Grab a margarita, cuz in true Kearstin's-entire-life-history fashion- we planned, God laughed, and here's how her wedding went down.

If the wind blowing the isle runner away during setup, not having enough chair covers for the ceremony, and the bride's dad breaking her only rule by calling her to let her know about both of those issues was the biggest thing that went wrong, I wouldn't need the margarita to write this. 

Oh, you thought I was telling you to grab a margarita? You're adorable.

Here comes the good stuff. Everything was fine until the pictures started, but have professional pictures ever gone smoothly for our family? Short answer- no. They always seem to end with Ron yelling at everyone to stop vomiting and threatening never to do family pictures again.

Refer back to Family Photo Day and A (Birth) Day In The Life  to refresh your memory and remind yourself why you read this blog to feel better about yourself. You're welcome. 

Photo by Graceful Beginnings

We were all dressed in our cute matching "get ready for the wedding jammies" when the pictures started, and as if on cue, Flower Girl #3 (Mahayla) vomited directly over the shoulder of Flower Girl #2 (Scarlet), sending Scarlet into hysterics and triggering everything you'd expect from 2 vomit covered 5 year olds running rampant amongst the bridal party. Screaming and gagging, to be specific.

By the looks on the photographer's faces, I'd say this was a first for them and when the videographer asked "should I keep rolling?" it was too much for me. 

Kearstin knowingly looked over at me and began loud-whisper-ordering "DO.NOT.PEE." 

She gets that from her dad. Like they think they can just order people to stop their bodily functions. 

Show of hands. How many people can say their mom peed her pants and wore no underwear throughout their entire wedding day? Just Kearstin? Weird.

Because, no. I didn't pack an extra pair of underwear to bring to the wedding. I'm not a toddler. And my wet undies (read favorite black thong) ended up in an empty USPS package with the hopes I wouldn't accidentally mail them off anywhere.

If you think that's where the story ends, your margarita isn't big enough.

Because then it was time to put me in my dress...meaning zip and lace up the corset back and criss cross and hook my spaghetti straps...and Kearstin was the only one who knew how to do it.

Did you catch that part about CRISS.CROSS.THE.STRAPS? That's important for a low cut dress requiring no bra. The criss cross pulls it tighter, providing more coverage and support.

For those keeping score of the Mother Of The Bride's attire at this wedding:

Underwear- 0

Bra- 0

People surprised by any of that- 0

Quick life lesson for the future: Never put the bride in charge of her mom's cleavage on her wedding day.

My dress felt loose and very...er, unsupportive. She tied me in again. Still the same. When I complained it was still loose, she said "I don't know! That's just the way it is!" 

I'm gonna remember that reply the next time she asks me why I pee my pants when I laugh.

When the bride, the bridesmaids, the ring bearer, and the 3 flower girls, who had moved past the vomiting crisis surprisingly fast, loaded into the mini-van driven by Zac, we realized Ron and I had nowhere to sit. So Zac popped open the trunk. And that's where we rode, with our feet hanging out the back, and the trunk door threatening to bounce off our heads for the 2 mile drive down the gravel road. 

By the time we arrived at the ceremony, we were covered in dirt and dust and after bouncing around in my dress the whole ride, it occurred to me that maybe my straps weren't criss crossed as Ron and I pounded each other off beside the van. 

Pounded the dirt off. Stop drinking and get yer heads outta the gutter.

One of the bridesmaids quickly fixed my straps and we walked our beaming princess toward her teary eyed prince where the minister asked the question- "Who gives this woman to marry this man?"

When he asked that question at rehearsal the night before, Ron panicked and answered, "That would be I." Hey Yoda, I'm standing here too and since when do you speak in Star Wars? 

We'd been practicing "Her mother and I" so I whispered it to him one last time and I'm happy to say he nailed it for his big moment in the spotlight.

Photo By Graceful Beginnings

The lakeside ceremony was beautiful and I think we were all crying when Trevor emotionally read the vows he'd written and then she read hers to him. 

I glanced over to see Scarlet laying across Mayhayla's lap who'd just vomited all over her an hour before and every horrible scenario flashed through my mind of the hell that would break loose with just one unfortunate heave, but I'm happy to report I don't have to write that. 

Collective sigh of relief because I would've been officially out of clothes to wear, we had a family dance coming, and the show must go on.

Photo by Graceful Beginnings

It was during pictures after the ceremony when I happened to glance down at the front of my husband's pants and gasped. It seems the Father of the Bride walked his daughter down the aisle with his man parts outlined in dirt from our ride down in the trunk of the van. (Zoom in if you dare- for the sake of this blog, I'm thrilled the photographer didn't edit that out, as are you I'm sure.)

It was almost our turn for pictures so I quickly tried to rub him off which, um...stimulated it's own set of problems and begs the question, which is worse in family wedding pictures? 

Cast your vote here.

The reception had a couple of complete disasters about it, but they were out of our family's control and as much as I'd love to spill the steaming puddle of tea so we can all shake our heads in disbelief together, I won't.

Photo by Graceful Beginnings

The only thing that matters is that on October 15th, 2022- In the midst of chaos and a turmoil of emotions...some projectile vomit, a little urine, excess cleavage, and one set of dusty balls- Kearstin married Trevor, the love of her life. And Sweetest Day became THE sweetest day.

Dear Trevor,

Welcome to our crazy family. After 7 years of dating, we probably come as no surprise to you anymore. Thank you for sticking around anyway. I cannot guarantee that we'll ever be "normal" or "traditional." As a matter of fact, I can guarantee you the exact opposite. But what I can promise you is that you've officially joined a tight family circle built on trust, loyalty, unconditional love, respect, and enough laughter to last you a lifetime. We're grateful that God led Kearstin to her person. And we happily welcome you into our tribe.  (Credit for our family slide show goes to Zac)

Photo by Graceful Beginnings

And now y'all know why Ron's hiding in the back. M'hm.

Poked & Choked

Quick life recap. Last fall, I started choking on meat.

And just like that, you're all caught up. 

(Click the link for the official back story.)

After I posted that blog, my helpful and knowledgable readers began suggesting I get my esophagus stretched, to which my reaction was 'absolutely not and let us never speak of this again' because having my esophagus stretched sounded worse than let's say, choking to death or something. Better the devil you know, ya know?

So I went on living as normal a life as possible for someone whose family no longer trusted leaving me alone in a room with a steak.

Then I went to my annual ob/gyn appointment and noting that I'm 50 she informed me that it's time for a routine colonoscopy screening, assuring me that I'd be under sedation during the entire thing. 

First of all, I see through your attempt at putting my mind at ease with your word "routine" madam. Second of all, Ron woke up in the middle of his first colonoscopy screening 5 years ago so let's not throw around assurances willy nilly. Consider yourself on notice. I'd hate to have to put you outside the circle of trust.

The problem arose when I mentioned refusing my screening and Ron thought that gave him a free pass to refuse his next one. Three weeks later we were both sitting in the colon doc waiting room angrily filling out our medical history forms. When he noticed I was done, he asked "Did you see the question about having trouble swallowing?" 

Let me ask you this. Did you ever hear about minding your own business? Or HIPPA? Or we're at a butt doctor so how does my swallowing apply here? 

The doctor was very nice, said he'd schedule me for a colonoscopy, and asked "Anything else?"

I replied, "Will I wake up in the middle of it, because (jerking my head toward Ron) he woke up during his"....and feeling Ron's stare burning into the side of my face, I casually threw in...."and sometimes he has to give me the Heimlich because I choke on meat, but that's probably not even relevant here." *awkward psh* "Right?"

After a brief silence he said, "That's not good. I'm glad you told me because I can help that." Me- "I didn't realize you work on both ends."

Somebody had to say it.

He made a note and told me he'd stretch my esophagus while I was under for the colonoscopy and again asked me, "Anything else?"

As I fought off mental images of me hovering over the surgical bed, slowly spinning like a hog on a rotisserie spit, I said "You'll use different scopes, right?"

He shouldn't ask "anything else" if he doesn't mean it.

He replied, "Oh yes. They're even completely different sizes. Anything else?"

Nope. I'll be damned if I'm gonna ask which hole the bigger scope's going down. Or...up.

I stressed again that it's imperative I stay under deep sedation the entire time, because in case you hadn't heard, Ron woke up during his colonoscopy. He lived to tell about it. I would not.

As the day approached, I seriously debated cancelling, but Kearstin's getting married in October, we're serving meat at her reception, and although her wedding will be well outside the box of "traditional" she made it abundantly clear that the father of the bride inducing vomiting on the mother of the bride with a sudden punch to the sternum during dinner is too far outside the box for her. 

FINE. I'll get gagged and bagged. Happy?

Now let's talk about "the pre-probe cleanse" otherwise known as a diet of jello and chicken broth while using medication to liquify your solids and then projectile crapping everything you've eaten in the past week. Intrigued? You seem intrigued. With just 4 laxatives and 64 ounces of a Miralax/lemonade cocktail in a 24 hour span, you too could lose 6 pounds overnight and risk getting excited enough about that to consider flirting with an eating disorder. But heads up. You'll spend your days parked on the toilet with your feet on a footstool and unable to leave the house because a high probability of crapping your pants comes with the territory, and is that really where you wanna be when Jesus comes back?

I don't know about you, but sitting on the toilet every 20 minutes isn't my idea of fun. It was almost like spending a day in the life of my husband. 

The following day on the way to the hospital, we saw a rainbow and Ron said, "See? It's a sign you're not gonna die during your colonoscopy." I said, "Or it's a sign I'm going to, because if I wake up in the middle of it, they're gonna have to kill me on the spot."

When I arrived, I took every opportunity to tell everyone that I needed to be put under deep enough that I wouldn't wake up, because 'he woke up' I'd tell them as I pointed my thumb in Ron's direction and they all assured me that I wouldn't wake up. But can the volunteer at the front desk and the lady checking me in at registration really make such bold claims? And don't act like you know either, parking lot construction worker guy, but nice try.

The nurse called me back and since my reproductive system is the only part of my anatomy that hasn't realized I'm 50 and still works properly, she required me to pee in a cup for a pregnancy test because let's drain her of every last drop of bodily fluid while she's here, shall we? Vampires.

An hour later, I was being wheeled into the procedure room and explaining to the anesthesiologist that deeper is better for me. Then they taped a plastic tube into my mouth, which begs the questions 'why am I awake for this part and are you even listening to me?' 

He told me I'd feel a burning in my hand, but it'd be temporary. Then the burning started and I waited for it to stop, but it was getting worse, and I realized that the burning would probably "stop" when I gave in to the sleep, but I needed to stay awake as long as possible to prove that I'm stronger than most and therefore needed extra strong doses, so I kept my eyes wide open because mustn't risk a long blink lest they think I'm under and they reach for my holes, but the tube in my mouth, and that burning, and SON OF A....

I opened my eyes and Ron asked, "Did you sleep through it?"

I said, "Yes, but only after they muzzled me and set my hand on fire."

I think he thought I was hallucinating.

After being discharged and eating my weight in pancakes, I was home in bed and Ron was across the hall where he works from home. Suddenly my eyes popped open in a panic and I ran into his office yelling, "I JUST POOPED MY PANTS!!" not realizing he was in the middle of a business meeting with a live mic.

Discernment has left the building.

Horrible timing and public humiliation are my new spiritual gifts.

When his meeting was over, he found me back in bed with my head under the covers.

He a little too calmly said, "ALL the senior management...and ALL the suppliers..."

I interrupted him with my head still under the covers, "Feel free not to tell me everything!"

And he said, "You started it."

Touche. 

Then he said, "Anything else before my next meeting starts?"

.....long silence....

"What if he stretched the wrong tube?"

Eventually, people are gonna stop asking me if I have anything else.

His and Hers Colonoscopy Screenings.

Dating at 50.

(((SHOUT OUT))) to Dawn P for the title idea for this blog entry.

 

Mothers and Duckers

I'm not a normal mother. 

I know, hide your shock as you note scenes from our family's Mother's Day party bus below. 

There are far too many reasons why I am the way I am to go into here, but my therapist has most of it on file, so it's in writing in an undisclosed location and probably under lock and key. Just know that if you're trying to figure me out, don't do that to yourself.

Now combine me with Ron's personality (undiagnosed officially due to refusal of therapy), then throw in all of our kids and their kids, and together we make up an extremely fun, tight knit, loving, and very poorly supervised party. 

Did I mention we're hilarious? Like, 60% of people who meet us would agree. The other 40% get blogged about. You see where this is going now, right?

*Cue the Fresh Prince Theme Song*

Now this is a story all about how 

my week got flipped- turned upside down

and I'd like to take a minute

just sit down y'all

I'll tell you all about the drama surroundin' dodgeball

I'll stop before Will Smith shows up and smacks the funny outta me.

On Friday April 29th, Caymen came home from school and said that the school was having a dodgeball tournament on Monday and she was told that she could come up with their team name. She chose- Mother Duckers. She texted her team, they approved, and the Mother Duckers were born.

Now. I obviously can't tell you how a "normal" mother would react to that. I can only tell you what I did with it. I made a Facebook post, because clever humor is my greatest of love languages, not counting sex and cake...also words of affirmation if you wanna get technical about the actual love languages.

From that Facebook post came a Mother Ducker team sponsor. Seriously. A lady I've never met in Louisiana contacted me and sent a generous amount of money for my daughter Aubrey to make shirts for each person on the team, as well as one for herself and she even had one made for me too. 

(((HUGE SHOUT OUT TO DANA O.)))

Aubrey made the shirts and delivered them to me on Sunday morning, because when it comes to humor-  we don't, we don't, we don't mess around HEY! I don't know where that's from, but I feel like you should be chanting that in your head as you read it.

So I wore my shirt to help our daughter Kearstin move into a new super fancy apartment complex and our entire family jumped in to help because that's how our family rolls. So 13 of us altogether, including 4 highly charged babies ages 4-7. (I've always called them "the babies" and probably always will.)

Some shots of a few of our moving crew for your enjoyment:

With 13 people and a 26 foot moving truck, we made it in one trip, and 6 hours later she was settled in and we were chilling out and eating pizza in their beautiful new apartment complex, which Scarlet (one of my 4 year old granddaughters) was convinced and subsequently convinced the others, had a playground down there. 

"Down there" was a long strip of straw covered grass leading from Kearstin's outdoor patio, past a row of neighboring patios, and over a small hill. Being only one way to find out, the 4 babies and I headed that direction...until an older couple came running out of their apartment yelling "WE'RE TRYING TO GROW GRASS!!!" 

Cool. We're trying to find a playground. We've all got goals.

They looked me up and down and then from me to each of the babies and asked "Did you all just move in?' and the looks on their faces told me they were scared to death I was about to say yes. As tempting as it was to totally screw with them for fun, I told them the truth and regretted it as soon as they looked so obviously relieved.

After 7 minutes of my life I'll never get back listening to them drone on about "the rules of the housing association" we returned to Kearstin's apartment where we spent the next 20 minutes feeling bad about trespassing over their straw grass imagining all the hilarious things our family could do to torment the living crap out of them and laughing about it until we cried. 

People should stop triggering us. We have entirely too much fun with that.

Not for the first time, I wondered how our first impressions go so terribly wrong and Kearstin said, "For starters, look at your shirt."

Well, there's that. Refer back to the opening sentence at the top.

MEANWILE...during the move, Caymen was receiving texts from a girl on their dodgeball team allllll day about the dodgeball shirts, and wanting to see pictures of the shirts, because her mom could make everyone shirts if they buy their own shirt. 

Quick review: Dodgeball was the NEXT day, WE ALREADY HAD SHIRTS, and thanks to our generous sponsor, they're FREE. But this chick would not let it go.

The following day, Caymen wore her shirt to school and gave the rest to the "texting girl" to pass out to everyone else on the team. Caymen received many compliments from students AND TEACHERS who appreciated the clever humor because how could they not?

BUT THEN...and if you've been here before you know that no good comes from BUT THEN...

Caymen was informed that the dodgeball tournament wasn't that day, but the FOLLOWING Monday.

Everybody think it together now: SH*T.

For those who don't understand the problem here, that gives anyone with no sense of humor 7 whole days to cause us trouble about this harmless fun that hurts absolutely no one. 

*side eyeing you, texting girl.*

So surprise surprise when Thursday evening rolled around and "texting girl" began texting Caymen that she showed the Ducker shirt around and was told they couldn't wear them, so her mom was going to make new shirts and Caymen would need to buy one, so of course we disregarded everything she said. 

The following day she returned all the shirts to Caymen, having never even passed them out, and then took it upon herself to change the team name to 'Complete Chaos' which is not only dumb, but 100% appropriate since that's exactly what she caused for no other reason than to stir up unnecessary drama and be in control of something.

Monday was D-Day...Dodgeball Day...

Since we never heard about any changes or complaints from anyone in an actual position of authority at the school, Caymen stuck with Plan A and wore her Mother Duckers t-shirt to school and I spent the day wearing mine, just in case I got a call from the school saying Caymen was wearing inappropriate humor and I needed to bring her a new shirt. (On the off-chance they don't yet realize how short a distance that apple fell from the tree.)

So that morning, texting girl approached Caymen in the hallway with a new team shirt. *Cue the western showdown music and rolling tumbleweed* 

Texting girl said, "Here's your dodgeball shirt."

And Caymen removed her hooded sweatshirt revealing her Ducker and said, "No. Here's my dodgeball shirt."

That was followed by a disappointed but anti-climactic "okay" and a walk away. Well that was easy.

So texting girl wore her Complete Chaos shirt for the game and Caymen wore Mother Duckers and everybody else on their team wore their regular clothes because texting girl ruined it for everybody. 

All of which brings me to this. I now have in my possession 4 un-used Mother Ducker t-shirts that I'll be giving away. (1 Small, 1 Medium, and 2 X-Larges). So if I happen to have 4 crazy readers who appreciate our hilarity and would like a free, albeit scandalous t-shirt, message me to enter your name into a drawing just in case I have more than 4 crazy readers. I'll contact you if you win to set up delivery or shipping details, depending on where you live. (I'll draw the names on May 21st.) If you don't win and would still like to order a t-shirt, my daughter will happily hook you up for $15. Bonus points if you message me a picture of yourself wearing your t-shirt and, you never know, possibly a feature in a follow-up blog post.  

Remember the last time one person stirred up an unnecessary t-shirt scandal with us? 

It turned into a successful line of 'Sassy's Bounce House' merch.

So now we gonna spread some Mother Ducking love. 

Who's in?

Choked Up

I turned 50 in December. Ron rented a party bus for our family to ride around pole dancing for 3 hours because he knew that would be my party dream come true, as I assume would be everyone's.  

Despite turning half a century old, I have only two significant life changes to report:

1. I got Invisiline braces. I lived my first 50 years with the big split between my two front teeth so I figured I'd spend the next 50 without it, just to keep things even. 

And:

2. I choke on meat now. 

What were you expecting, menopause? Stop. I still dance for a living over here.

The choking thing presented itself on Friday October 29th on the way home from an amusement park at roughly 10:15pm. Ron was driving, I was in the passenger seat, Zac and Caymen were in the seat behind us, and Ace and Scarlet were in the very back. 

Why so much detail? Because you remember details when you almost die and your family sits there and lets it almost happen.

We were riding along eating Wendy's and Zac and I were having a conversation. (That's an important detail.) I had just asked him a question when I swallowed a bite of my double cheeseburger and felt it get stuck. Not in the back of my throat stuck, but down past my neck and deep into my windpipe stuck and I could kind of sort of breathe around it, but barely. So am I choking? Am I not choking? Grabbing my neck and doing the universal 'I'm choking' signal seemed dramatic when I still hadn't decided what constitutes an actual choke.

Zac answered the question I'd asked him, but I didn't reply back, and I always reply back, so surely he'll notice something is wrong with his mother, but I turned around to find him staring down at his iPad not even waiting for a reply to his reply. 

I began shifting around in my seat while my mouth filled up with saliva and I looked over to see Ron double fisting French fries into his mouth from the Wendy's bag so I knew that was a lost cause. I could've nudged him and did the 'I'm choking' thing, but I knew that would leave me at the mercy of Zac and Ron on the side of the road doing who knows what they'd think up to me to inflict vomiting, while the children watched through the windows.

The children. CAYMEN. Caymen loves me and will notice that mommy got quiet. I craned my neck around to see her staring at her phone and I decided that on the off chance I survive the night, I'd be limiting her screen time forever.

FI-NA-LLY, as tears streamed down my cheeks imagining the coroner signing 'cause of death: Wendy's double cheeseburger and probably Covid', it slid down. I gasped in relief, took big gulps of water, and turned to calmly address my oblivious family members. 

"SO NOBODY NOTICED ME CHOKING TO DEATH???"

They seemed surprised. Zac asked, "When did you choke?" 

WHEN DID I CHOKE?  "After I asked you that question!" 

He calmly said, "Wow. That was a long time ago."

YES. I KNOWWWWW. 

Everybody take note, because THAT'S why choking is called The Silent Killer and just like the time I was having an allergic reaction to a hazel nut in 2007 and Ron told me to wait until the Ohio State Game was over, God saved my life all by Himself while probably shaking His head in disappointment at my family members.

And they wonder why Jesus loves me more. M'hm.

Now fast forward to January 22nd. I had just returned home from an Emmaus team meeting, where a lady stopped me in the church bathroom and said to me, "You're always so put together."

It's refreshing to meet new people who have obviously never read my blog.

And three hours later I was watching myself in our laundry room mirror with Ron's fists on my sternum while I vomited Salisbury steak into the sink, because this is what we trained for.

Shout out to my new friend Holli. Sorry to shatter my first impression for ya. Now excuse me while I google esophageal tumors, because I refuse to believe my family is right and I just need to take smaller bites.

So last week I asked Ron where he wanted to eat for our 29th Anniversary and he suggested Texas de Brazil.

Oh. You mean that all you can eat MEAT place? That's how you want this to end?

We opted for Plan B. Longhorn Steakhouse. Still has meat, but not as upscale so slightly less embarrassing if we end up having to perform our little Heimlich/Vomiting demo. Also it's portion controlled as opposed to endless visits by a waiter carving me slabs of choking hazards served table side.

I think through every possible scenario now because that's what 50 year olds have to do.

Our dinner was served and the ribeye I ordered medium arrived well-done. I'm not a fan of sending food back, but if I'm going to die from a ribeye on our anniversary, it's going to be cooked the way I ordered it, it's the least they can do. When the waitress returned and I showed her my steak, she turned to ask if Ron's was cooked to order and his plate was empty. Like, SCRAPED.CLEAN. 

And I'm the one who needs to take smaller bites? Right.

Twenty minutes later, I was the only one eating while Ron sat across the table watching for signs of my eyes bulging and darting and trying to convince me he wolfed down his food for my own safety, lest he be distracted.

When I finished my meal, the waitress brought us free dessert because I ate alone on our anniversary. I looked up from my strawberry shortcake to see the top of Ron's head as he scarfed down his cheesecake.

Apparently his protection only extends to the main course. 

If dessert ever turns against me, I'm screwed.