Family – Page 4 – The Monica Chronicles

August 31, 2013

One Week Left!

Keep Calm and Marry On

One week left! By this time next week we will be in the zone; following a routine of carefully laid plans that will transform Dave and I from parents into “in-laws”.

September seemed so far away when Maggie and Jan announced their engagement last November and yet tomorrow, the calendar page will be turned once again and it will be September and there will be seven short days left until “the big day”.

Today I’m heading down to Richmond for Maggie’s bridal shower and “girls’ night out”. I’ll be taking the necessities: pj’s, toiletries, a change of clothes, a gluten-free chocolate cake and lots of wine. My only fear is that I won’t be able to “hang” with the younger gals and won’t make it past my usual ten o’clock bedtime. I don’t want them to regret that they invited “Mom” to tag along.

It’s difficult to describe how I feel right now. In many ways I’m much more nervous about this wedding than I was about my own! I don’t remember all the details, but then, like Maggie, I let my mother handle most of them. I know the day will be beautiful and the party great fun and, as always there will be something that won’t quite go as planned that will give us a good laugh in the future, like when Dave and Mike, his best man, got their tuxes mixed up and Dave ended up with shorter than usual sleeves and trousers while Mike’s were unusually long. Nobody even noticed until we looked at the pictures!

So, today, as with the next few days to come, I will do my best to take a deep cleansing breath and as the Brits say, “Keep Calm and Carry On”.

August 22, 2013

Affairs of the Heart

heart art

Yesterday Dave and I spent the entire day together – in the Emergency Room. He’d been experiencing some discomfort in his chest along with fatigue and decided to give his doctor a call when he got to the office. Having been around the block more than once, I wasn’t at all surprised when he called me later in the morning and to tell me that he was down in the Emergency Room hooked up to a bunch of monitors. It was only appropriate procedure to follow when a 58 year old smoker walks in complaining of chest pain.

When I asked him if he wanted me to come join him, he said he was resting comfortably in a bed with wires attached to him and they told him he’d be there for several hours; I could stop by and say hello if I wanted. So, I unplugged the iron, put on a little makeup, grabbed a large Vera Bradley tote bag and gathered his reading glasses, IPad, the latest editions of National Geographic and Consumer Reports, my IPad and knitting and headed off to the ER.

Thankfully, I was very calm. Having grown up watching a slew of Soap Operas and medical shows, my mother’s favorites, I have a better than average working knowledge of things medical. As I said, I was reasonable sure the tests they were running on Dave were routine. As I drove I said a few prayers and gathered my female relatives who had passed around me for support and guidance. Call me silly, but I fully believe in the communion of saints and know that my grandmothers, aunts, mother-in-law and female friends who have passed are with me, ready to help in any way they can. Yesterday I they surrounded me with peace and confidence, lifting me up in love to help me get through whatever I would encounter.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I found a space near the entrance right next to a minivan with an advertisement for a company called “Affairs d’Amour” with a big heart logo on it. Seeing it made me smile. Earlier I received a series of text messages from Maggie alerting me that Jan wanted to make a couple of changes to the wedding plans. With their wedding is just a little more than two weeks away and I was initially a little annoyed, but then decided to let them handle the changes to their “affair of the heart” while I dealt with mine.

I was greeted at the door by a really nice guy who directed me to Dave’s room. I have to admit he looked kind of silly in his suit pants, dress shoes and hospital gown. I asked if I could take a photo of him to use in my blog but emphatically declined the request.

Soon I was comfortably seated at his side, playing solitaire on my IPad as he rested. Tiring of that, I pulled a hank of yarn out of my bag and to my delight, discovered that a hospital bed side table works extremely well to hang yarn on when rolling it into a ball. Once my yarn was ready, I grabbed my needles and cast on a the stitches for a sock.

During the course of the next several hours I took a trip to McDonalds for lunch, chatted with the doctors and nurses, let Maggie and Andy know what was going on and continued work on my sock. By two o’clock, Dave was fully rested and getting restless in the bed. Fortunately Martha Jefferson offers a guest Wi-Fi and we were able to tune into our Netflix account. We spent the next two hours watching an interesting documentary by Ken Burns called “Death and the Civil War”. Again, maybe not the average choice to watch in the ER, but it was engaging and helped the time go by.

Finally, after eight hours, and half a sock later, with all troponin tests coming back as normal, Dave was released with an appointment for a follow-up stress test set for next week. He was both relieved he hadn’t suffered a heart attack and a bit disappointed that they hadn’t told him what was wrong with him. Ah men, so unaccustomed to the working of the medical world, assuming there is always an exact answer for every ache and pain. Thank God he doesn’t have to go through menopause with all it’s quirks!

This morning, after a good night’s rest, and an extra hour of sleep, Dave awoke refreshed and feeling a lot like himself. Still bewildered about his undiagnosed discomfort, I suggested he give his primary physician a call to help him sort it out. As for me, I also slept well, feeling relatively secure that we are not facing a medical crisis in our lives, but glad that we did have this little exercise. Out of this little dark cloud came one very shiny silver lining; it provided that little oomph necessary to get Dave to finally quit smoking again! It was his equivalent of my falling in the shower a couple of months ago; a reminder that life is fragile and we have to take care of what we have.

We still have the stress test next Tuesday to see if there is anything else going on with Dave’s heart. I’m more inclined to point a finger at his gall bladder. We’ll see. Until then as the saying goes, I will Stay Calm and Carry On, with the help of my friends and family, here and passed.

PS. To clarify my position on calling on my relatives that have passed, I also call on my grandfathers and uncles, but mostly for assistance when I am handling power tools, etc. In many ways I remain a traditionalist.

August 20, 2013

In Your Face Book

When did Facebook change from being a place you could go to find old friends and spy on your kids into a place to vent political positions and make hurtful statements?

Back when I first joined the Facebook community, my main goal was a watchful eye on my children when they were away at school. I enjoying seeing them enjoying themselves at parties and attempted to gauge how well things were going by their updated posts. From time to time, I would get a “Mom vibe” and call to see how things were going. It was healthy spying; a way to check in on my little ones from the shadows, just like I would do when they were little and asleep in their beds or peeking out the kitchen window while they played in the yard.

As a side benefit, I have been amazed at the number old friends and classmates I have reconnected with through Facebook. Each time I hear from someone I haven’t seen in ten, twenty, thirty and in some cases, more than forty years, it is cause for great celebration. Moving around as I have, I’ve made so many more friends than most folks can expect to in a lifetime. Being able resume relationships has been an incredible gift; a miracle of modern technology.

But, just as every black cloud has a silver lining, white fluffy clouds likewise seem to contain dark centers. In the past few years, Facebook has been a place of political slamming. I’m not talking about a healthy debate for the purpose of sharing ideas and exchanging information in respectful manner, (which is really best done over a glass of wine or scotch) but outward attacks on anyone whose opinion may differ in down-right mean-spirited, highly spun one-liners crafted with the finesse of a bitch-slap. Not only is this kind of thing unpleasant to read, but it can also be extremely hurtful and divisive.

I have recently become aware that some of my own family members’ profiles have blocked or been blocked by other family members because of these online disagreements. It saddens me to think that because of opposing political ideas, the choice has been made to excommunicate family members, preventing the sharing of the things we all hold so dearly in common; love of family, love of country and love of God. To coin an old saying, the baby has literally been thrown away with the bath water.

Through the years I’ve heard people complain that they don’t want to read each time a friend has been to Starbucks or where they went on vacation. I gotta say that I would much rather see those kinds of posts than the ugly, at times malicious posts from both liberals and conservatives. And, like any experience parent, I’m really not interested in who started it; I just want it to stop.

August 16, 2013

Holding It All In and Letting it All Out

The other day I was chatting on the phone with my sister, Barb about my recent blog about our Dad’s chickens when she asked me how I was able to come up with the connections I do. (She’d never realized the “thread” of chickens in our lives.) She asked, “What did you do before you began writing your blog? Did you just walk around with this stuff in your head?” After a brief conference with the voices in my head, I realized that yes, I had. Actually, I kidding about the plural, voices. There is only one voice and it is most certainly my own.

Anyone who spends time with me knows that I can talk a lot, and not always sticking to the current subject. I must have hyperactive neurons firing on overdrive, making connections faster than the speed of my mouth, that causes me to jump from topic to topic in a seemingly random fashion. But, if you asked me how I got from point A to point B, I could easily provide the process. My good friend Bruce used to say that my brain worked like a record with a scratch in it; playing one song and then abruptly jumping to another.

I know it seems like that to people, but my mind is really an ordered chaos. Blogging allows me to slow down and order my thoughts, providing a clear, navigable path for my listeners to follow. It also allows me to clear out some of my thoughts, freeing up more personal RAM. I enjoy playing with words, starting a conversation, and waiting for my readers to comment.

corsette

Yesterday afternoon I went shopping with my friend Carol. We both had a stellar combination of Kohl’s cash and discount coupons (30%!) which made the expedition worthwhile. My main goal was to find an acceptable undergarment to wear under my “mother-of-the-bride” dress to reduce any chance of resembling the Michelin Man. Once in the lingerie department, Carol and I gathered a couple of possibilities to take into the dressing room.

I had a little trouble getting into the first piece of feminine finery. I thought it should go on over my head but the harder I tried to stretch the thing down over my shoulders, the more confined I became until I had to give up lest I be rendered totally constrained with no hope of getting the damn thing off by myself. I let out an uncomfortable giggle as I wiggled out of the thing. Carol, who was standing ready outside the dressing room door asked what was wrong. I told her I couldn’t get the thing over my head. She laughed and told me to step into it instead. That did the trick. I was on the road to a lump free appearance.

Did you see what I did there? I jumped from a story about chickens and my thought processes to one about lingerie without so much as the nuance of a transitional sentence. That is how my mind works. Chickens, Barb and then ZIP on to foundation garments.

The idea came to me when I was vacuuming this morning. As Barb pointed out, I’d been holding in my thoughts and then through my blog, found a way to let them out. On the other hand, faced with the reality I would soon be in pictures that people would look at for generations to come, I went searching for a garment to hold my body in. I’m not saying it’s a good connection; just that in a weird way the two things do connect and the connection reveals a lot about me. I’m not sure which is more intimate; sharing the interior workings of my brain, or the exterior imperfections of my flesh.

Now that’s something I’ll have to think about!

August 15, 2013

Driving Through the Mountains

Since April, I have four trips on the interstates through the Blue Ridge, Appalachian and Smokey Mountains. My companions and vehicles have varied on these drives, but the road and scenery remains much the same. Sounds boring doesn’t it? Surprisingly, it isn’t.

I have discovered that I am a mountain woman.

Don’t get me wrong, my dream is not to live in a rustic cabin miles away from my nearest neighbor, nor do I have any desire to dress in camo, roaming the hills to snap, trap or shoot woodland creatures for food. Simply said, I feel a deep connection to the vast waves of rolling greenery and peaks wrapped in clouds. To me, mountains are beautiful, challenging, and even holy.

The roots of my connection to vertical landscape may be in the rolling hills of Western New York where I was born and spent my early childhood, between the foothills of the Alleghenies and Lake Erie. The hills seemed pretty high to me, but I was little. Sometimes, as we approached the top of a hill in the car Dad, or “Daddy” as he was called then, would say, “we’re going to fall over the edge!” Playing along we’d all let out a feigned frightened “ah” as we “plummeted” over the rise. No matter how many times we did it, it was always fun.

Going for rides on Sundays after dinner were a popular summertime activity. Many times my Grandma and Grandpa Farner would join us as we retraced the rural roads passing the farms where they had lived while my Dad was growing up. We would take our station wagon, so there was enough room for all seven of us. (My youngest brother, Mark, hadn’t arrived yet.) Dad drove with Grandpa in the front seat and usually one of my brothers between them. Mom and Grandma sat in the back seat with my youngest sister Barb, while the rest of us were relegated to the “way-back’.

We kids did our best to stay quietly “under the radar”. My parents had a zero tolerance for naughty behavior or in your face crankiness. Whining was a sure-fire way to abruptly end the ride and dash any hopes we had for a small Tastee Freeze cone before we went home. The promise of soft-serve went a long way to keep five little kids under control. Grandma always came prepared to squelch the minor disturbances with a box of Chiclets in her purse, and sometimes bright pink Canada Mints.

The adult conversation was a travelogue of stories of the people who lived along those roads, past and present and memories of funny and sometimes sad stories. Names of people we didn’t know became familiar to us as did their stories I loved the stories best of all. Sometimes we passed the house where my father was born or the one-room school-house Grandma attended. There were lines of trees my dad planted and fields they worked season after season. Each time we drove, more details of days gone by were planted in me; grounding me in who I was and where I came from. Tones we kept just loud enough to be heard over the crunching gravel under the tires. Those days most of the back roads hadn’t been paved yet. Combine that with a lack of air conditioning and open windows the result was often Dad having to pull over to go to the back of the car to crank up the back window to protect us from the rolls of dust that would choke us in the way-back.

How different my rides now are from those of my childhood. I am driving with a purpose, a destination and a time limit in mind. Protected in my air-conditioned bubble I’ve driven without a cough. No longer am I siting in the furthest reaches of the vehicle, but instead, I sit in the front with plenty of space and sometimes even drive myself! I don’t know any of the stories of the people who live in the homes I see from the road, but I try to imagine that they are happy in such beautiful surroundings.

I know I am.

August 9, 2013

Up With the Chickens

This morning I am sitting on my parent’s front porch aside a mountain in Hiawassee, Georgia. I was the first to stir, so after turning on the coffee maker, I headed out the door to enjoy the peace of the day.

Before I sat down, I took a little walk around the garage to bid a good day to my dad’s “girls”; six of the sweetest little hens who greeted me with soft clucks and head bobs. I’m sure they were expected some feed associated with the early morning visit but as a visitor, I’m not about to upset the routine, so after a few moments of women to hen conversation, I moved on.

Our trip down here yesterday was beautiful. If you’ve never driven down I81 through the Blue Ridge in Virginia and into Tennessee, you should add it to your bucket list. The vistas through those mountains are sublime. I would have taken a few pictures, but it seemed as though every time I had a good view, a semi would pull into view. It was I81 after all.

I can hear someone moving around in the kitchen, my alone time is over. Some coffee would surely taste good. For now, I’ll have to say goodbye to the quiet of the morning until tomorrow.

August 5, 2013

For the Birds!

Like many people in America, I have become increasingly aware that this country is going to the birds! For instance, just this past June, the Richmond, Virginia city council voted to allow residents to keep up to four chickens (hens only) in their backyards! What a coop coup! Maggie and Jan have even discussed getting a few hens to complete their back garden. Is it a passing feathered fad or is it in the blood; like a genetic bird flu?

Growing up I always knew that my father’s career goal after graduating high school was to become a poultry farmer. Dad attended Alfred State University for one year and then dropped out. I was told the reason he didn’t continue on he was that he was allergic to chicken feathers. I always assumed that to be the only reason for leaving because in my child’s mind it made sense. I’m certain there were other reasons including the burden of cost of higher education as well as a desire to move ahead with his life. Not long after he left school he enlisted in the Army and joined the working world.

For a time when I was really little, my folks raised chickens in a shed in our backyard. I have little recollection of them except for “dressing” time. Mom says I sat on a little step watching the chickens get their necks wrung, asking if they were “ready to get dressed”. I have a vague mental picture of the experience which believe it or not was a pleasant one and not traumatic in any way. Chickens were food. Dressing them was just part of the deal. As the years passed, and our family grew and both my parents found themselves occupied with various aspects of raising a brood of children, the chicken rearing fell to the wayside, for a while.

Mark and his first egg from the suburban hens.

Flash forward fifteen or sixteen years. The Farner clan was living in the New Jersey suburbs just outside of Philadelphia on a quarter acre lot; not really where you’d expect to find a chicken coop. Yet, my freshman year in college, Santa brought my youngest brother Mark an incubator and some eggs to hatch. It wasn’t long before we had a pair of Banties and an Easter Hen living in a coop hung on the stockade fence of our backyard.

I learned two things living with these chickens. First, roosters don’t just crow at the break of day; they crow whenever they feel like it. The first time Dave came to meet the family, I warned him that if he heard anything strange, it would probably just be rooster. He laughed and say, “sure” until I took him out back and showed him our feathered friends. I often wondered how our neighbors felt about our rooster, but I don’t recall any complaints.

Secondly I learned that you can easily entertain party guests by hypnotizing a chicken. For fun, Dad would take the Easter hen out of the coop and set her on the lawn. Then, he would hold her head down in the grass with one hand and begin to make lines away from her beak, one after another. After a while he would stop and let go. The hen would stay put for several minutes before shaking all over and walking away. The little kids loved it but I would wager that the roots of this trick lie in getting a chicken to stay still in order to chop off its head without endangering your own fingers.

I’m not sure what happened to those chickens, after all, I was away at school and just a couple of years later my parents moved.

All was quiet on the poultry front until this past April when Barb and I took our road trip to Hiawassee to visit Mom and Dad. One afternoon Barb, Debbie and I decided to take a look at a nearby antique store. There Debbie found a chicken waterer and thought it would make a good birthday gift for Dad who had been talking about getting some chicks. Dad liked the gift but said he didn’t think he wanted to start raising chickens after all. But, the seed was sown; or more properly, the egg was laid.

Just a couple of weeks later, Dad set about up-cycling an old display shelf unit from a local shop into a chicken coop and then populating it with six little pullets he procured from a friend at the town’s feed store. At first the chicks were too little to be outside, for fear of fox and frost so they stayed in the garage in a big cardboard box for a time. Eventually, with the remodel completed, the chicks were moved into their new home just behind the garage.

I asked for updates on the pullets when I had the opportunity to chat with Dad. A couple of times when we were Facetiming, he’d take his I Pad out to the coop so I could see for myself how his girls were doing.

Dad's first dozen pullet eggs — Dad’s first dozen pullet eggs

This week, his hens began to lay. First there was one little egg. Then another day there were three. On Friday there were five eggs in the cage! Finally on Saturday, Dad sent us this picture; a full dozen! Not bad progress to go from a maybe to a dozen eggs in four short months.

I have to admit, even I am envious. Fresh eggs at my threshold would be wonderful. I don’t know if my HOA will allow raising chickens in our backyard. I know Izzie would certainly enjoy it!

My brother Scott has also been inspired by Dad’s fowl success. He recently built a new, portable coup that would be perfect for urban poultry farmers. If you are interested in finding out how to get one for yourself, you can contact him at: scott.farner.9@facebook.com

Scott's delux Urban Chicken Condo. scott.farner.9@facebook.com — Scott’s deluxe Urban Chicken Condo. scott.farner.9@facebook.com

July 24, 2013

Bringing Home Baby

Like many other people, I too was caught up in the “Great Kate Wait.” What really touches my heart about seeing the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge and their new little one really has nothing to do with them as much as it has to do with me, and the fact that they are young and living through such an incredible event in anyone’s life and we are privy to watching it. Since I don’t have any movies of getting in the car with my own children, seeing them reminds me of what it was like for me so many years ago when my babies were coming along.

The day my daughter Maggie was born started gray and drizzling. Dave was away; four weeks into a seven month Indian Ocean cruise aboard the USS John F. Kennedy. Except for my kitty companions, Punkin and Blossom, I was alone when I woke up about five that morning with mild contractions. The misery I’d been feeling about the unfairness of life putting twelve thousand miles between Dave and me at this important time was quickly replaced by a sense of excitement that the moment I’d been waiting for was about to arrive. Soon, after only twenty or so hours of labor, I had a beautiful baby girl and I was somebody’s Mommy.

Maggie and I at the NAS Oceana O'Club Pool two weeks before Andy was born. — Maggie and I at the NAS Oceana O’Club Pool two weeks before Andy was born.

Luckily, Navy wives are never really alone so I had a “village” all primed and ready to help me with everything and anything I needed in Dave’s absence. My neighbors provided me with meals, picked up my mother at the airport, showered me with gifts and checked in on me. One of them even came to the hospital with me as my birthing coach. They were so open and happy to help, and I was happy to let them.

When Andy was born seventeen months later, we were lucky enough to have Dave home, ever so briefly. When I announced it was time to go to the hospital he was in the middle of watching a Buddy Hackett special on HBO and wasn’t too keen on leaving. When I insisted, he got up, went to the kitchen and made himself a sandwich to take along. Of all the helpful literature he’d read about coaching a birth, the one thing he remembered was to bring a snack because he might get hungry during a long labor. As it turned out, I don’t think he had a chance to eat the sandwich, but at least he was prepared. It’s not that Dave is insensitive, only practical.

We brought Andy home in our first brand new car, a 1983 Nissan Sentra four door sedan in a deep burgundy. Our previous auto, a Volkswagen Sirocco was a two door coupe. It had been hard enough to climb into the back to buckle one baby over a bucket seat, two was out of the question. So, on that very hot day in July, we drove our new baby home in our new car in the heady fragrance of commingling new baby and new car smells.

Our first night home as a family was a little rocky. We started our night with Andy sleeping in a roll-away crib in our room but all his little noises kept us awake so it wasn’t long before Dave rolled him away into his own room. Hearing him when he awoke wasn’t an issue, the house wasn’t that big. The first time he cried he woke us all up. I remember sitting in my chair, nursing him while Dave held Maggie who when she heard Andy cry, starting crying herself. I was so torn, feeling tethered to this infant, who I really didn’t know, while my baby sat on her father’s lap, her little arms outstretched to me. I suppose I probably started crying too.

Eventually, Andy was fed and asleep, Maggie was comforted and back in her bed and I in mine. After that the nights were easier. Dave was soon back to sea for another seven month cruise and I was a more than full time Mommy. As I look back on those days now, despite the frequently interrupted sleep, poopy diapers and car seat buckling, those days of early motherhood were some of the happiest days of my life. My days had a natural rhythm, a cadence set by the day-to-day routine of feedings, naps, diaper changes, walks, hugs, and endless book reading. I never set an alarm, there was just no need. Most mornings I woke refreshed and most nights I fell asleep hard and fast. As a better writer than I once said, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”

Fast forward thirty years and here I am, a nostalgic middle-aged woman, delighting in the sights of another young family taking their first “baby steps” together; remembering the days when I was in their shoes with great warmth and joy.

July 18, 2013

Baby Turns Thirty; Mother in Shock!

Our little family; none of us were thirty yet!

A week ago today my baby turned thirty. Thirty years old. Thirty years since I gave birth to my last child. No matter how you look at it, thirty years is a long time.

Obviously I can no longer use the excuse that I’m “trying to lose the baby-weight” when in actuality I weight about fifteen pounds more than when I delivered him. He weighed seven pounds, fourteen ounces. Subtract the weight of the other associated birthing goo and the truth is revealed that I have found a bit more than I lost when he was born. You do the math. They are numbers that try to define us; weight and age.

I remember when I was a kid, thirty seemed ancient! In fact, I can remember crying myself to sleep when my Dad turned twenty-nine because I knew the next year he would turn thirty, be old and probably die. Luckily for me that didn’t happen.

As a teenager, the cry of youth was “Don’t trust anyone over thirty.” At fourteen, it was more than half my lifetime away. The irony was that my own parents were only in their mid-thirties at the time!

At thirty, my “baby” is finishing the last push on his doctoral thesis. He posted that he was on his “last push” and a friend commented, “Are you pregnant?” He replied that metaphorically he was and indeed he has been. The gestational process of this paper has been a long one; even an elephant could have dropped at least two calves in the time he’s been working on it. It has been a journey of hard work, study, research and thought on his part and a great deal of prayer on mine. When he finishes and becomes “Dr. Andrew Scott Waugh, PhD” he will be the third in his line to have embarked on the effort and the first to receive the prize.

To say that I am in awe of this event and any part I may have played in this achievement as his mother is an understatement. Through his life, I have learned at least as much if not more from him than he ever could have from me. I like to think I just guided him through the early part of his life, although some pushing was required. He could be stubborn or more kindly put, dedicated to his position.

My little boy as he began his formal education.

In a few short weeks he will defend his dissertation and then move up to Washington State to begin teaching as a visiting Assistant Professor in the Political Science Department. My little one. I don’t know how he could be thirty and almost a PhD. He will always be my “Little Sweetie”; the baby who was full of laugher and smiled and flirted with little old ladies in the grocery store from his perch in the shopping cart seat.

Although at times it seems like the years have flown by, it is mostly because they were so full and rich. I’m sure in ten years, when he turns forty, I’ll be writing the same lament, “How can my baby be so old?” but I’ll really be thinking,” How can I be so old?”

Numbers. Huh!

May 21, 2013

Two Thirds of the Way There!

Maggie and Jan looking surprisingly calm during the prep talk!

With September’s “Big Event” a little over three months away, we all gathered in Richmond this weekend to discuss details. And, since Maggie and Jan’s wedding will be held at the Lewis Ginter Botantical Gardens, it seemed only fitting that we get together at the Robins Tea House for some lunch to scope out the room where the reception will be held and then leisurely tour the gardens.

I’m don’t know why I stress so while packing, but I seem to carefully choose my outfits as if I’m selecting costuming for a play. Perhaps it’s the fault of my recurring dream of running for the school bus in my pajamas, but I feel a tremendous weight on wearing “the right thing”. This weekend called for things appropriate to my role as “mother-of-the-bride”; stylish and perky, yet at the same time, wise and thoughtful.

As luck would have it, Saturday morning dawned damp and dreary with forecasted downpours throughout much of the day. My white crops and strappy sandles were cast aside for long pants, Sketchers and a waterproof jacket with a hood. There would be no fashion statements for me other than, “I’m comfortable and dry!”

Despite my wardrobe change and the persistent threat of rain we’ve become accustomed to this spring, our lunch together was very productive. We are blessed by a mutual enjoyment of each other’s company and our times together are full of laughter and love. Given the choice between a sunny day and pleasant in-laws, I’d go for the pleasant in-laws any day. At lunch, we were able to get some perspective on the size of the room, the tables and general decor which will come in handy as we finalize our plans for floral arrangements, etc.

Who's gonna stand where? — Who’s gonna stand where?

After lunch we took a brisk walk under our umbrellas to the Flagler Perennial Gardens, where the ceremony will be held. Even in the rain it is a beautifully peaceful place. The beds were full of spring bloomers but most impressive were the many varieties of peonies bursting with color at every turn.

On the lawn, sixty white chairs with puddles on their seats sat in two neat rows. I felt a moment’s twinge of sympathy for that day’s bride and groom and made a mental note that we really need to set up a back up plan in case of rain!

The rain stopped for just a few moments as we explored the pavilion and nearby walks, Teresa and I imagining what it will be like as our children enter from opposite sides and then leave together as man and wife. Then, all to suddenly, our dreams were interrupted by another downpour.

September seemed so far away when Maggie and Jan announced their engagement in November. Now we are two-thirds the way there and so many of the details we put off for later are in need of attention because it is later.

Dreaming will have to wait for another day. Teresa and I have important decisions to make; most importantly, what we will wear! More costuming. We spent a couple of hours scanning the web looking for “the dress” with no luck. (Heavy sigh.) So, that hunt will continue.

On the bright side, we have chosen a menu, booked rooms for out-of-town guests and have some working ideas for flowers, favors and decorations. Martha Stewart is doing a superb job of keeping us on track. (www.MarthaStewartweddings.com) I would be lost without her help.

Maggie and Jan’s wedding will indeed be a special day. Even if the skies open up and we’re sitting under umbrellas with ziplock bags pulled over our shoes, the celebration of their committment to each other will shine enough for us and more importantly, them.

It would be nice if the sun does manage an appearance though.