O Child O Mine

Boy O Boy!

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‘I am ever so excited to be a Grandma!’

Feel free to confide in me–even your deepest, darkest secrets–because if there is anything the last few months proves, it’s that I can keep my lip zipped.

It was in May that The Child called us on a Sunday, as is her wont. But this time, after her usual “hello,” she added, “James is on the line too.” Then: “We have something to tell you.”

A photo from our visit to my Mom that I couldn’t use before now

Of course we were thinking this might be Baby News. But did we say anything? Not on your life. What if the news was that they were getting a dog? I have a couple of friends who were called by their children to announce the getting of a dog. These dogs are now known as (and I am not kidding) their granddogs.

So. All Dude Man and I said was, “Oh my! What is your news?!” And they told us. They were having a baby. A boy. Due October 13.

Three and a half generations a couple of weeks ago

After we were done squealing (me), hugging (both of us) and happy-dancing around the room (me again), we asked the usual questions. Feeling? Fine. Happy? Yes. Names? Perhaps something Greek. (The SIL has Greek forbears.)

At this point I threw in a couple of reassuring points. No, we were not going to suggest any names. “You can call him Poindexter or Mud for all I care,” I said. And I know some people do this, but no, I wasn’t going to be present in the delivery room. “I didn’t want to be there when you were born!”

Celebrating at Laura and Dave’s

Speaking of names, I reminded her that her Grampa Henry referred to her as “Wal-Mart” before she was born. As in, “Has Wal-Mart been doing a lot of kicking?” Or “Do you have a bed for Wal-Mart yet?” And even “Have you finally thought of a name for Wal-Mart? (Other than “Wal-Mart,” that is.) The naming took us forever. Even though we knew she was a girl. See “What’s in a name?” for deets. For one thing, you’ll see that Dude Man wanted to call her “Zeus.” Which I think is a perfectly lovely name — for a dog. (Incidentally, one of her Childness’s friends has a dog named Zeus. This friend also has a baby not named Zeus. Perfect!)

The Child, flanked by Fem Friends, at a party thrown in her (and her hub’s, they do it that way now) honor in SF. The friend on the left has the dog named Zeus. And the baby not named Zeus.

So where does the keeping a secret come in? I was asked not to mention her impending motherhood on social media. At least not until the cat (er, baby) was out of the bag.

Baby Goldfish are in that bag. Thanks, Aunt Laura!

It was really hard, but I did manage to keep her secret safe. Though some blog posts took a bit of crafty editing.

But my secret-holding is nothing compared to hers. Once she told us the news, I did a little math and realized that she had been pregnant back in March when we all went to this fantastic wedding. She was so clever I didn’t even realize she wasn’t drinking — and there was a martini bar!

Child at wedding holding a secret — but no martini

More next week. I feel the need to happy-dance around the room some more.

Amagansett, New York. August 2024

 

Hooray for the red, white — and you!

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‘We get a gift on our nation’s birthday.’

The Child does not read my posts. Perhaps that’s because she’s heard my stories already. More than once. In fact, it was her idea, back in (gasp) 2014, that I start writing this blog.

“I’ve heard that story about the guys switching the hats and driving that account guy crazy!” and “I know it’s a cute story, but you’ve already told me about how you and Dad met!” and even “No, not again with the kangaroo and the martini!”“You should write them down and put them in a blog.” Me: “What’s a blog?”

The Child on the East End during a previous 4th celebration. In those days, she had no choice but to be here. Or, by the looks of it, to have those headphones on

So Her Childness won’t get embarrassed if I write about how pleased we were that she dropped everything and flew out to see us for the 4th of July. As you know, it’s not exactly the easiest time to travel. It’s hot and crowded. And crowded and hot. I read in the Times that the 4th has surpassed Thanksgiving as the busiest travel week — at least until this Thanksgiving, when she’ll probably get her fine self on a plane again, bless her heart.

Yet another cute 4th Foto. Because why not? (Note continuation of red, white and blue thematic dressing)

At any rate, The Child came, she saw, she conquered our hearts all over again. Sadly, her hub The SIL, could not get away, a fact which I must have subconsciously ignored when grocery shopping since I bought waaaay too much food. I ended up donating a pound of sliced roast beef to Wayne’s niece and nephew. “Here’s a hostess gift!” I chirped, handing over the ziploc. “You probably already have enough Yankee Candles!”

Yes, the thematic dressing continued. Judging by the lack of fading on my jeans (and relative lack of wrinkles on my face), I’m thinking this was 5 to 10 years ago

Other than dressing in red, white and blue (sadly, no photos exist of this year’s thematic outfits), we took it pretty easy. When asked, (at the one party we attended, a festive Taco Tuesday which was switched to Friday in our honor — Thanks, C and C!), “What have you guys been doing?” We answered, “Well, we sit on the deck, then we get up and get a snack, then go sit on the deck.”

Child’s Eye View from the deck

We did walk into Town (Child and Me) and hike in the woods (Child and Dad) and go on an adventure to Hicks Island (All Three of Us).

Child’s Eye View of her Dad on their hike

The last time I walked into town was a couple of summers ago, so the surf shop was now an outpost of The Row. I regaled the salesgirl with stories of shopping for wetsuits there back in the day while she complimented me on my “sense of style.” (I was wearing a white tee shirt, ripped army pants and Converse sneakers at the time.)

Child’s Eye View of Hicks Island. (Before we got lost in those marshes to the right)

I call our joint foray to Hicks Island an “adventure” because it sure turned out to be one. What was intended as an early-before-it-gets-too-hot walk morphed into a marathon trek (literally; it took us 3 1/2 hours) through reedy swamps, clouds of mosquitoes and brambly brush laden with ticks. Dude Man and The Child each kept consulting both AllTrails (an app with trail maps) and GPS satellite views of the terrain. We would start toward what looked like a trail, only to end up in a swamp. We found ourselves wishing for James. Not for his trail-finding skills (which are finely honed), but for his drone.

Hooray for the red, white and green: tomatoes, mozzarella and spinach

Well, we did make it out. Or you wouldn’t be reading this. And rewarded ourselves with a fantastic lunch. And some silliness (see below). Shucks. I might just have to send this post to Her Childness. She hasn’t heard this story. Yet.

Amagansett, New York. July 2024

The Emotional Support Rock

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‘When it comes to The Kidlet, no stone is left unturned.’

I know I wrote about The Child (AKA “The Kidlet,”) just last week. About how she can recite pi to like a googillion places. (Cool word, googillion. Thanks, Spelling Bee!) But tomorrow’s her birthday. And besides, I thought of a cute story about her Kidletness that I don’t think I’ve told yet.

This is about how, when she was small, The Child would carry a rock around with her pretty much all the time. This would not be a big rock — more like a pebble. (See the photo at the top of this post for a great example sitting right there on the picnic table.) Fortunately, she was attached to just one rock at a time, sort of like mineral serial monogamy. But she had to have that rock on or near her person at all times, usually in a pocket. (Yes, I’d have to check before doing the laundry; we almost destroyed a dryer once when I forgot. You never heard such clunking.)

Look closely and you’ll see a rock clutched firmly in that little toddler paw

It wasn’t just rocks she liked. She was into stuffed animals, too, and had a whole menagerie of plushy friends. There was Lion and Penguin and Bear and Squirrel. Also Cow and Lamb. Their names? Lion and Penguin and Bear and Squirrel and Cow. The Lamb was the only animal with a more namelike name. She called him (her?) “Lammie.”

The Child wasn’t the only one in our house who liked stuffed animals

When we’d go on a trip, she would select an animal to accompany us. “Squirrel got to go to Gramma’s last time; now it’s Penguin’s turn.”

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No, I didn’t skinny dip at that Canadian wedding

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‘But I did get up close and personal with scree.’

First let me remind you that I had a darned good reason to skip a couple of blog posts in August. (Actually, I had a couple of good reasons, but The Wedding is the one I’m talking about today.)

Dude and Child walking down the aisle to the shore of Lake Louise

Another reminder. This was the second of The Child’s two weddings. The first — and legally binding one — was held last May on the rim of the Grand Canyon. The second — the one family and friends could attend — was held a couple of weeks ago on the shores of Lake Louise.

The Child Bride at her first (legal) wedding. Yes, the groom was there too, but that was about it

The wedding itself was gorgeous but not without drama — though not of the will-the-groom-show-up kind. A thunderstorm blew in one hour before I Do Time, so freakalicious that it capsized several canoes on the lake, sending their (luckily) lifejacketed occupants — including one woman clutching a lapdog — into the forty-degree drink.

Me, with view of Lake Louise out our window. No capsized canoes in evidence. Yet.

Speaking of gorgeous, I was invited to the bridal suite to have my “hair and makeup” done. I was relieved when informed that I needn’t bring my own makeup, since I really don’t have any. I did relate a cautionary to the makeup artist. Once upon a time, my late lamented sis-in-law Patty got all dolled up to go out, whereupon her young son Aaron exclaimed, “Mommy! You look just like Clowny Boy!” (This was a stuffed toy of Aaron’s that looked, ahem, like a clown; Patty did not take this as a compliment.)

Neither Aaron nor Clowny Boy could make it, but his brother Joe sure did. That’s him with his dad, Oldest Younger Bro Scott

When I went back to our room all groomed and polished, I struck a pose in the doorway, and said, “Well?” To which Dude Man replied, “Huh?” I did a little spin, explaining about the hair. “Oh. It doesn’t look as stringy as it usually does.” I didn’t bother pointing out the makeup.

A gaggle of Henrys — plus Susan, my Scree Coach (read on), on the right. That’s me in the hair and makeup

But enough already with hair and makeup. What about that scree? Well. One of the cool things about Wedding #2 was, not only that we got to go to it, but that there was a whole week’s worth of fun run-up activities. Most of these took place in and around Banff. Which I swear is spelled with two “fs” because there’s just too much fun for one. (Or, as my experience will prove, maybe too much fear.)

Dude, Child and great-niece at the top of Sulfur Mountain, Banff. Yes, all three climbed the mountain. Me too

Most of these activities — mountain-climbing, white-water rafting to name a couple — were pitched toward the Younger Set. Dude Man and I did accomplish a couple of the more family-friendly climbs. But one day, puffed-up with our success at scaling Tunnel Mountain, we decided to “do” the glacier hike. Which ever after became known as the Horrible Hike — and not just by the seventy-somethings (us.) In fact, one of the Younger Set, a most fabulous female neurosurgeon whose hobby was pole-dancing (honest), is the one who dubbed this the Horrible Hike.

Nope. Not the Horrible Hike. Yet another beauty shot of Dude and Child

Before I heard her refer to it this way, I had been calling this hike just “Scree!!!” — pronounced just like you think, very loud and like a scream.

Me, practicing how to say “scree!!!!”

See, scree is a toxic mixture of dirt and loose pebbles. When a mountain trail is composed of scree, especially at, like, a 45 degree angle, the Hiker has little, if any, purchase on said trail. There is lots of slipping and skidding, and, if you’re afraid of heights like me, a panic attack or two. There were a couple of times I was frozen mid-slope, clinging to a root or a rock rather like that poster of the cat hanging from a ledge by its front paws.

Dude Man and Me, pondering our next move (straight up that scree-covered right-angled slope in the background) with Susan and Suzanne

The Younger Set had, of course, scampered up to the glacier’s edge well before the rest of us. In fact, I heard that The Child spied me below, mid-scree-festooned climb, and said, “I can’t believe my mom is doing this!”

The Younger Set, all set up by the glacier at the top

Well. I couldn’t believe it either. But, with Scott’s Squeeze Susan’s coaching and James’ Aunt Suzanne’s encouragement, I made it (almost) to the top.

Look in that circle to see me leading the line of descenders — The Child right behind me providing moral encouragement

Dude Man and I joined a group descending only when told the extra 100 yards or so — more or less straight up — weren’t “worth the extra effort.” Scott and Susan pushed on. “We’re only here once!” was their attitude.

Scott on top of the world — and a whole heck of a lot of scree

Their go-for-it attitude meant they missed quite possibly the scariest part of the Horrible Hike. We had made it all the way to the parking lot at the trailhead when someone said, “Look! There’s a bear!” Of course we all ran back to get a glimpse. We were only about ten feet away, peeking through some bushes, when someone said, “Gosh, he’s brown…and has a hump. It’s a grizzly — and he’s heading this way!”

Dude Man and our fresh new SIL stuck around long enough to photograph Mr. G. Yikes

So. I got up close and personal with a grizzly and hiked the Horrible Hike. But did I skinny-dip? Nah. That would have been waaaay too scary. Besides, it would have wreaked havoc with my hair and makeup.

Amagansett, New York. August 2022

 

 

Two weddings are better than one.

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‘Especially if they both involve the same two people.’

Yes, I’ve been AWOL for a couple of weeks now. But I have a very good excuse. (Many good excuses, actually, but I’ll stick with this one for right now.)

*sigh* The gorgeous Lake Louise setting. The Child pointed out that this is the second time she’s tied the knot in a National Park

The Child had a big ole wedding up in Canada. At Lake Louise — which, if you haven’t been there, is well worth the trip — with a whole week’s worth of ramp-up activities in Banff the week before. (Ditto Banff.) There was so much going on — hiking and rafting and gondola-ing and line dancing — that I didn’t have time to do my PT much less weigh in with blog posts.

Gondola-riding with a Great-Niece

Now, I have time — but so much material I can’t possibly put it all in one measly post. So I’ll focus on explaining why, since Her Childness has been legally hitched for more than a year (see the delightfully scenic “Runaway Bride” for the story) — why, oh why, she and the SIL had another wedding.

Wedding Number One: If you make a toast in the Grand Canyon and there’s no one there to hear it, are you really married?

I’m going to crib a bit from my wedding speech here. (Yes, I was asked to say a few words — but only after reassuring The Child Bride that I most absolutely would not entertain the wedding crowd with tales of Old Discarded Boyfriends.)

Child and SIL take their turn at the podium, Child looking decidedly relieved at my not mentioning old BFs

I started by pointing out that His Dudeness and I had not had a wedding. Yes, we got married, but that was pretty much it. We thought at the time that we would have a party for our family and friends after we got back from our wedding trip. Then it was, “Oh, we’ll have a party on our first anniversary.” Well, that anniversary passed, and so did the fifth and the tenth. The twentieth and thirtieth.

Mr. and Mrs. Dude, almost 40 years ago. A hot dog stand, but no party

And, gosh, the ole anniversary odometer will be turning over to 40 before too long — and still no celebration. (See “Party of Two” for a story of one of our non-celebrations.)

Another shot of Dude and Child strolling the aisle. Note uncanny resemblance. Yup, I was a conduit

Okay, you may be asking, but who cares? Why is having a celebration so important? I mean, other than that it’s so much fun to drink champagne and make toasts and dance like a crazy person and go skinny-dipping at two AM.

During the dancing, but before the skinny dipping

The reason is that weddings are pretty much the only time the family and friends of the bride and the groom ever get together. (Well, except for funerals, though I tactfully omitted mentioning that in my speech.) This was the first time I’d seen my brothers since my Mom’s 90th birthday party three years ago.

Here we are, all dressed up and ready to party: all five Henry kids, together again after three long years

And where else but a wedding am I going to get to trade sibling stories with the SIL’s great aunt on his mother’s side? Or scramble up a mountain with his Dad’s sister? Or dance with members of his college track team?

SIL’s Dad’s sister, plus Oldest Younger Bro Scott, Dude Man and Me, plotting our next move on the Scary Horrible Hike (story to follow, or not)

Yes, having another wedding — a wedding celebration — was a pretty cool idea. So cool, that maybe The Dude and I might rustle up a celebration for our 40th anniversary, after all. Though I think we’ll skip the 2 AM skinny dip. That’s a memory that would last a lifetime — but for all the wrong reasons.

Photo courtesy one of the 2 AM skinny-dippers (not me, thank goodness)

New York. August 2022

 

 

 

How could she forget about “Grampa crackers?”

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‘On little kids and how little they remember from being little.’

Some young friends of ours are going through the Nursery School Application Thing. Which, in New York, is like applying to the Ivy League, only way more stressful.

It’s felt that getting into the “right” nursery school can set your child on the road to not just academic success but life success. So the whole process is, well, somewhat fraught.

Me, not attending nursery school — enjoying the School of Hard Knocks instead

Fortunately for Dude Man and me, almost 30 years ago — when The Child was an actual child — the process wasn’t nearly so stressful, at least not for us. This was mainly because, having not grown up in New York City — and, in my case, having been unaware of even the existence of nursery school — we didn’t realize how cutthroat and competitive it all was and blithely went about things in a relaxed and matter-of-fact manner. “Hey, this school looks good — it’s close to our apartment!” was kind of how we rolled.

Our Child at her Very Good Nursery School when Aunt Eleanor was visiting

(You can read about our experience in “The Bears are Watching a Movie.”) Sometimes ignorance is bliss, especially when the ignorance involves education. Continue reading

My polio-shot marriage

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‘Mommy has something she sort of forgot to tell you’

(This story was originally published in honor of my would-have-been 43rd anniversary in August of 2015. Since many of you haven’t had a chance to read it — but mainly because I’m out in the Pacific Northwest enjoying the company of my mother, daughter and my sister’s family — I’m posting it again. Think of it as a summer rerun, Lutheran Liar style. Enjoy!)

Last week I told you about how once I dated Steve Martin. Now I’m going to tell you about how once I married a guy — a guy who was not The Dude.

The Guy in question is the one pictured in the rather awkward wedding photo at the top of this post. I doubt very much that he reads my blog, but, for all intents and purposes and in this story, he’ll just be ‘The Guy’. (That rather downcast-looking young girl — the one who’s not me — is my sister Laura, she of ‘Larry and the Nose Holes’ fame.)

Why am I telling this story now? Well, tomorrow would have been my, like, zillionth wedding anniversary if indeed I had stayed married to The Guy. The other is that it’s August. Which is like Blog Siberia, except that it’s so hot. So if I embarrass anyone, including myself, the collateral damage will be relatively minor.

I was married so briefly to The Guy, and had been married for such a long time to The Dude, that I sort of forgot all about my ‘previous marriage’. Until one August about 15 years ago when The Child was getting ready for her annual visit to her grandparents in Carlyle, my home town. Continue reading

Tough act to follow

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‘What could possibly beat this?’

One of my best Bridge Buddies (hi, Laurie!) says she always reads my blog (thanks, Laurie!) but that she can tell when I’m, well, at a loss for words. I won’t mention specific posts, but if you, like Laurie, follow me regularly, you probably have your “favorites.”

Who wouldn’t be at a loss for words? (Well, except the Bridegroom, I trust)

Last week this happened because The Child had just wed The Beau in a quickie ceremony to satisfy the immigration authorities. (See “Runaway Bride” for cinematic photos and storybook details.) I sat there at my laptop wracking my brain, then gave in and wrote about the wedding. I could literally think of nothing else.

How could I possibly think of anything else? This is my brain on “wedding”

This week it’s because that story got kajillions of views and likes and comments. I’m thinking, “What can I write about now that could possibly capture your interest, O Faithful Readers?”

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Runaway Bride

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‘The Child takes the plunge at the Grand Canyon’

I am seldom at a loss for words, but this week I find myself almost too stunned to start this story. I’ll cheat and share what friends had to say: “Wow. So exciting!” “Simply beautiful, Alice! Congratulations to you and the happy couple!” “Beautiful couple and setting!” “OMG how stunningly beautiful!”

“Stunningly beautiful:” Scenery AND bride

Yes. The Child and The Beau got married. Eloped, actually. Saturday, May 1. At sunset. At the Grand Canyon. I’m still pinching myself.

Just the two of them. Plus that Lucky Preacher Guy. Oh, and a hub-and-wife photography team — who also served as witnesses

You see, The Happy Couple got engaged last November (See “How on Earth Did THIS Happen?” for deets) and had intended to get married in a ceremony complete with family and friends early next year, assuming the Covid Tide had turned. But they were advised to proceed with due haste so that the Bridegroom would not be deported. (James is Canadian, you see, from Saskatchewan, in fact, and his green card was getting stale.)

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“Never trust anyone over thirty.”

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‘Unless, perhaps, she is your own daughter’

I’ll always remember my very first Big-Time Ad Biz TV commercial. It was for Q-Tips, and was called “Still My Baby.” I didn’t even try to find it on YouTube, not just because this was ages ago, but because it was a pretty awful commercial.

It featured this mom who has a baby on a changing table and a jealous preschooler sulking alongside. To mollify the older child, she asks her to “help” by handing her a Q-tips Swab. Then Mom reassures the child (a girl, natch) by thanking her and saying, “Such a big girl. But you’re still my baby.”

Here is The Child at sulky older sister age. She is not sulky, though, since she didn’t have a baby sibling to be jealous of

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