Well, eight years ago, Motherhood and Muffin Tops was born and this is her 497th blog post. With a little better planning, the 500th post could have fallen on this special day and it would’ve gelled better with my almost obsessive partiality for round numbers, but I will try to look past the unevenness of it all and not allow it to ruin the day. 

We’ve talked about almost everything in the last eight years. The past. The future. Our worries and fears. Our joys and blessings. We’ve loved and nurtured. We’ve lost and mourned. We’ve held tight to some things and then had to let them go. We’ve felt the weight and the joy of our calling as women. We’ve laughed and cried and, sometimes, we didn’t know how to feel. We’ve aged and grown. We’ve giggled and digressed. There were serious topics and spiritual matters. There were silly topics and sentimental matters. We’ve done it all together and I’ve loved every minute. 

When I’ve been joyful, grateful, and optimistic, you’ve traveled to those places with me. And when I’ve felt down, discouraged, or cynical, well, I’m sorry if I took you along. A lot has happened in these eight years in my life and yours. I had a college freshman and a ninth grader when this started. I was 45 and slimmer and my neck skin was as taut as a trampoline. There was a bumper crop of estrogen in my storehouse. I had more eye brow and less goatee. My mind wasn’t this foggy and my thoughts were more focused. My memory was longer than the lifespan of a mayfly. I could come up with the word I was trying to use and remember what I was saying until I was done. Those were good times. 

I could be like Tom Brady and leave while I’m ahead, but what would be the fun in that? No, I want to drag this excursion out until you all start to wonder if I’m ok and begin asking each other who you should call. Yeah, we’ve beat some subjects to death. We’ve repeated and rehashed. We’ve had absences and dry spells and reruns and disjointed messes. But, every now and then, I have a lucid thought that flows to the keyboard so smoothly that I know there’s no way it’s my own. Those times keep me doing this. If only, every once in a while, I can relay a word that can be helpful, then I’m still in it. So, if you can muddle through with me amidst the fogginess of menopause and estrogen insufficiency, I think we’ll forge ahead. Together if you’ll come. 

I thought my day, yesterday, pretty much summed up the experience of womanhood in a nutshell. I had my yearly appointment with my OB/GYN. At my age, we’re down to just the GYN part only. Anyway, when you go to a doctor, who still delivers babies, you never really know what to expect as far as wait times go. So, I get there and check in and couldn’t help but notice the unusually large gathering of women in the waiting room. It looked like a Pampered Chef party or a WMU meeting. I took my seat and soon the nurse came out to tell us the doctor was still at the hospital, but he would be back soon and they’d get us seen as quickly as possible. Well, I saw that for what it was- nurse talk for “some of you will need your headlights to get back home from here.” It was then that I decided to count the women waiting and there were thirteen- not including me or the men, who were there supporting their plump-bellied wives. I was his 2:00 and, from the looks of things, these were all the women who had after-lunch appointments prior to mine. With some quick math in my head, I decided to reschedule- helping his appointment pileup dilemma, while kicking the can down the road another month for myself. Win, win.  

When I left, I went to run a few errands with my newfound time. Well, because I was going to the doctor, I’d selected one of the bras from my “going to the doctor” collection. You know the ones that are nicer, newer, and never as comfy. We all have them, so don’t pretend you don’t. The mamas of our day really emphasized the importance of reserving our best undergarments for medical situations. As much as we heard about it, we were brainwashed into believing that there was some heavy underwear scrutiny going on down at the hospitals and clinics. Anyway, I’d tightened the nice bra straps that morning, because they were a bit loose and nothing is worse than a falling strap or so I thought. But, when I was out and about, in and out of the car, reaching for things over my head- it didn’t take long for me to realize I’d been overzealous in my tightening and that “comfort band” kept riding up, up, up. I’d look from side to side to see if I had an audience and, when the coast was clear, I’d grab the band of that thing and yank it down. Repeating the process about a dozen times. Rides up. Check surroundings. Yank it down. 

Meanwhile, I’d also put on some pants right out of the dryer. Y’all know there’s a big difference in pants out of the dryer and the same pants after a day or two of wear. Well, those particular pants didn’t have a very high waist, which is very much a drawback when one gets to a particular age. Without the added coverage of the high waist, the pants have less ground to travel before they’re over the hump of the muffin top and, once they’ve cleared that, well, there’s nothing stopping them then. So, I’d get my bra pulled down and, after another glance around the aisle, I’d hike up my pants- as far above my muffin top as possible- buying me more time before having to do it all again. Pull down. Pull up. Pull down. Pull up. I was certain the people watching the security cameras in the back were enjoying this spectacle. Nothing will cut an afternoon of errands shorter than bad shoes or band and strap discomfort. 

It’s not always rainbows and butterflies being a woman, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Let’s travel this road together for a while longer. Journeys are always more enjoyable that way. 

Thank you for reading. You do my heart good. 

JONI 

The other day, I drove by the church that housed the Christian school that my brothers and I attended during our elementary years. I looked over at the far corner of the parking lot- the area that served as home plate for our kickball field. The large front lawn where we, girls, would sit in the grass and make wildflower chains during free time. The old playground area where we’d see how far we could jump out of the swings. There are a lot of memories in that church that was once my school. 

For some reason, I started thinking about the special jobs that would be given to us there. Being a small school, there was no cafeteria. Lunch was catered and delivered on individual plates wrapped in foil and we ate in our classroom at our desks. There was a large refrigerator in a common area that held little cartons of “white” and chocolate milk. So, every week, two people from each class were chosen to go get the milk and two to go and get the plates of food and bring them back to their class. The milk people would take the milk order down to the refrigerator and count out the right amount of chocolate and white milk cartons- counting and recounting for accuracy- and then bring them back to the class on a tray. There was one person on each end of the cumbersome tray so to not risk any lactose disaster. It was an important job to take that little sheet of paper with those vital numbers written by the teacher and to come back with the correct white/chocolate milk breakdown. I mean, if someone ordered chocolate milk to drink with their spaghetti, then they expected chocolate milk and if somebody ordered two cartons of white, then, by golly, they wanted to get their full .30 worth. The accuracy of the milk people was vital to class hydration and, really, the overall quality of their education. It was the same with the lunch order. The lunch kids were to go down with their tray and give the caterer the number of plates with which they were expected to return. Depending on what was being served that day, the numbers could be higher if it was something particularly good like hamburgers or lower if more kids opted to bring their Holly Hobbie and Evel Knievel lunchboxes to avoid the fish filet. I can’t put into words how excited I’d be when it was my week to have a job. It was a feeling of “If I don’t bring the children their food or drink, who will?” It was my mission. I’d been tapped for it and it was a good feeling. 

There were other jobs given in that little school building that gave us purpose. We all know the bittersweet responsibility of being selected class monitor when the teacher needed to leave the room. Basically, she was leaving class security in your hands until she returned. If mayhem and bedlam broke out, while she was gone, well, it happened on your watch. You’d rip out a piece of paper from your spiral notebook, have your pencil ready in the writing position, and keep your eyes and ears open for any funny business. Oh, the responsibility and the burden of that pencil. Wanting to do a good job securing the premises for the teacher, but the weight of causing someone to sit inside during recess was a load that cannot be overstated. Invariably, there would be some kid whose name, not only ended up on your paper, but also had a string of check marks beside it for additional offenses. There were some who could really rack up some checks by their name. As burdensome as the job could be, at times, there was a sense of fulfillment and purpose knowing that you’d been chosen for it and it was important. 

Besides milk duty, probably another favorite was being asked to deliver or pick up something from the office for the teacher. Of all the kids in the class, she’d decided you were the one and would send you on your way with an envelope to deliver or a stack of freshly mimeographed sheets to retrieve. When you held that envelope in your little hands, you imagined what kind of top secret, highly critical information it contained. Sometimes, it was to deliver the day’s lunch and milk money and it felt like your job was just slightly less essential than the man in the armored truck. You were tasked with getting whatever it was safely and securely to the highest school officials- of course, taking the slowest route to do so as the high pressure job did have its obvious perks. And if the job was to bring back the day’s mimeographed worksheets, well, you had all the pleasure of holding the warm papers in your hands and taking the first whiff of the damp blue ink. Nothing was better than being given a job that implied a level of trust and getting it done. 

Kids like to have jobs to do, but we all really thrive on having tasks and a purpose- especially those that we feel like God has given to us specifically. In my life, most of my callings or assignments from Him have been made obvious to me as they’ve appeared clear in their timing and my placement, or their alignment with my particular resources. Whether the assignment was a specific person or a need or a task, they always seemed to quietly draw me in as if to say, “hey, Joni, this is something YOU need to do.” Speaking to that little elementary girl’s heart that lives inside of my 53 year old body, it still gives me a sense of purpose and urgency to have a quiet charge with my name on it. 

As we get older, we start thinking more about making our days count. Maybe because we begin to realize that we don’t get as many as we once thought or that they really pass a lot more quickly than they once did. We have more of an urgency to fill our time with things that matter. With the kids grown and being retired from working, I find myself with more time on my hands. I’ve had some space open up in the last few months as tasks were completed or needs were met or circumstances changed and I’ve been praying, since then, not for time-fillers, but for some new meaningful assignments. I’ve kind of felt like I did back when the teacher was looking around the room, trying to decide who to pick to erase the board and I’d have my hand up and waving it. “Me, me. Let me.” I’m ready for new tasks to come up that bring my name to the mind of my Creator. He’s been slow in making those known to me, but I know they’ll become quietly apparent in His timing as they have in the past. Until I hear my name called, I’ll just keep doing what I know He wants from me in the waiting. 

“May the kindness of the Lord our God be upon us; And confirm for us the work of our hands; Yes, confirm the work of our hands. Psalm 90:17 ASB

JONI