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Monday, July 19, 2010

Party of 15 and the Red Light District

They say, you know you're a mom when private peeing goes out the window; tiny fingers pry open your sleeping eye while a small voice asks, "R-yo in 'dare?"; and you hear your own mother's voice coming out of your mouth. 

You know you're a grandmother when you hear, "I want gwamma to do it"; you trade loose change for a million dollars worth of hugs; and perfect love comes in smudgy feet and sticky fingers. My grandmother days started fifteen years ago. 
 
Yesterday, we celebrated my grandson's golden birthday. July 15, 1995 was his grand entrance, but as many birthdays go in our family we usually party on the closest Sunday. 

It seemed fitting that the weather was somewhere up of  90 degrees because the day Josh was born it was so hot the birds had to pick up their worms with potholders. I remember that day. One minute my daughter was helping me put in a window air conditioner with mouths so dry we salivated out our armpits, and the next we were off to the labor union and local delivery. 

Speaking of that wonderful gestation strong enough for a man but made for a woman, I do believe God has a sense of humor, since the only thing that shrinks in that nine months is your bladder, while boobs, butt, and baby enlarge. I often wonder about Eve in the garden. How many bushes did she have to water on her way to the fruit aisle?  

Theresa's labor was a lot like this blog. Straining, crying, pushing for it to get to the point. So, here it is. We had a birthdaylicious bash yesterday. The babies and other terrorists hijacked gramma's house and there's nothing more fun in the world than being held hostage for a family party of 15. 

We started out with a taco dip and swam 'til we were pruney, sipped sloppy ice-pops, milked the chocolate cow dry, had birthday cake in a tub, and did our crazy candid camera thing. But, what made the day was the red lights and district ambulance.

My hernia on hiatus made a surprise visit. Why it decided to show up yesterday is an esophageal mystery. But there it was; vomiting, boa type constricting, shortness of breath, and insurmountable pain. After forty minutes and feeling like I would be the death of the party we dialed 911. 

It must have been quite a sight. Eight people crammed in my bedroom, and me with my head in the toilet, gasping for breath and white knuckling the seat as if I'd go down with the next flush. But, like a mother in delivery I didn't care what I looked like or who was in the room. I just wanted the pain to go away. 

With vitals read, levels good, and attended to by three handsome paramedics in blue, I was back on my feet quicker than a jack rabbit in a stew pot. It was time for my gentleman callers to pack up and head back to the station in Husher.  

Husher, is a four corner, blink of an eye town consisting of a combined police and fire station, a town hall, a used car dealer, and Husher bar and grill. With the wee alehouse being just across the street from the fire station, many a firefighter has been known to stop for an off duty brew or taco Tuesday.

Being that the pub is just a half mile from our house, it also made a convenient place for my daughter to work a few years back.

So, before my rescuers left, paramedic #1 asked daughter #3 if they had met before. My daughter politely replied in the negative and #1 insisted. With a slip of the tongue he left out the all important "at" and said, "Yeah, didn't you use to work the corner?"  

We all looked at one another in sparkling shock and burst into side splitting laughter.  Of the two, I'm not sure who blushed brighter, my dazzling daughter or the radiant rescuer.  But it certainly made me feel in the pink on a golden birthday!

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