When I was about 10 or 11, my mother called me into her bedroom, one afternoon, and shut the door. I remember thinking this must be something really big and important. Boy, I’ll say. I sat down on the bed, while she proceeded to have “the talk” with me. I don’t remember all that much about it except there was a book, some repulsive, implausible concepts explained, and subsequent awkwardness and urgency to return to playing outside. You remember that. You’re probably visualizing in your mind where you were when your mom had the talk with you. Looking back on it, Blair gives me somewhere between a C+ and C- for my discussion with her. Most everyone can picture their mom on that particular day. Her face flushed as she stuttered and stammered trying to explain things without really explaining them. It’s one generation getting the next ready for a big change that’s coming their way, so they’re not completely caught off guard some fateful day in 7th grade math. Oh, but they could’ve never completely prepared us- as blissfully carefree as we were- for what atomic bomb awaited us, but it certainly helped softened the boom. 

I’ve been thinking it would probably be prudent for a mother to have a second talk with her daughter. When a daughter celebrates her, let’s say, 47th birthday, her mom ought to ask her to come over and talk again. Maybe the discussions could be labeled “The Talk” and “The Talk: The Final Saga.” This time, she should explain the next big transformation that lurks on the horizon. Something like- Now, you may be noticing some changes in your body and that is perfectly normal. It’s called a muffin top and you will have it until the day they put you in the ground. You may find yourself more irritable and impatient than usual as I, too, have found you to be. You might hear your friends talk about having trouble remembering things, but don’t let that frighten you. You, too, will start to notice you can’t even think of names of everyday objects. You might say to your husband, “Please, hand me the…the….that….over there…you know…..the black thing that changes channels.” Again, no cause for concern. Like generations before you, you will walk into a room, stand there, and wonder what you’re supposed to be doing. Your chin will start to grow stray hair that will remind you of your Grandpa Jones. And, one day, out of nowhere, you’ll start to sweat and burn from your forehead to the small of your back. You might suspect you’re having a stroke, but it’s all very normal and natural and you should never feel weird or self-conscious. Don’t forget you’re still special- just in a changing way. 

Last week, I went for my yearly appointment and mentioned my increased hot flashes/night sweats to the doctor and he offered some prescription remedies for my unpredictable overheating. I wasn’t interested in adding to my medicine stash, so he said I could try the natural supplement, Gingko Biloba, for the flashes and accompanying brain fog. I came home and ordered a big bottle from Puritan’s Pride. I skipped right over their 1 and 2 month supply options and went straight to the cheese ball tub size. I took my first dose yesterday and I’m expecting big things. Cold, icy, and rainy may describe conditions on the outside, but heat and fog are the weather systems that have moved in and stalled over me at the moment. 

I filed into the choir loft on Sunday with the rest of the singers and, as soon as the air in the sanctuary hit my face, I knew it would be a long service. With the weather outside being unusually cold, the powers that be had obviously overcompensated with the heat setting. You know, those nameless captains of church climate who stay in the shadow of anonymity so to not attract criticism from the cold crowd or the hot herd. Not wishing that their parishioners succumb to the cold lest the hospital list get out of hand, it was apparently decided to err on the side of incineration that day. To splurge on the electric bill and envelop the congregation in a blanket of fire. And so, it was. 

Did I forget to mention the choir wears robes? On any given Sunday, this isn’t a big deal one way or another but, on this particular day, it became a considerable factor. The robe serves as, let’s say, the aluminum foil on a baked potato- trapping in the heat and moisture for faster cook times. Quickly, the heat enfolded me and, making its way under the robe, it set off one of my hot flashes. The kind of heat that burns and tingles the nerve endings and comes up from deep within- I suspect somewhere around the kidneys or small intestines and working its way up through the chest, neck, and face before finally rolling down the back in drops of sweat. It’s the kind of heat that will make a woman look down to be sure she hasn’t accidentally caught herself on fire. 

The church bulletin has long served dual purposes of informing congregants of the order of the service and its lesser-talked-about side gig of the creation of air movement in warm surroundings. Did I mention our service is televised? Bulletins waving back and forth in the air aren’t the most becoming backdrop for a  pastor, but I suppose a choir loft full of fainting goats wouldn’t be that great either. I looked around and noticed most of the 50-and-over altos were red-faced and shifting uncomfortably in their seats. I did create a few gusts of wind with my bulletin until I deemed it too distracting for the level of comfort it brought in return. I listened intently to the sermon as my innards reached the temperature of rare, then medium rare and, by the hymn of invitation - well done. 

Mothers of 40-something daughters, don’t wait and let your daughters get their information on the streets. Change is coming. Knowledge is power. 

Night, y’all-

JONI 

First of all, I have to say we were all overwhelmed with the emails and messages concerning Blair and John Samuel’s miraculous turn of events. Whether you shared your own story of infertility, promised your prayers, or offered encouragement- every single word was a gift to us all. Thank you so much for taking the time to encourage them- to encourage us. You all really touched my heart and I can’t say thank you enough. They’ve delayed the transfer until the first week of April. With just one embryo, they want to have time to get Blair in the most ideal condition for the big day. We really would all appreciate your continued prayers for them through the coming months. 

So, did y’all survive the endurance test that is Christmas? For three or four days in a row, it feels like you’re off to the races. Bake something, put it on a pretty platter, get dressed in some shade of red or green, load gifts in the car, drive to family’s house or wait for them to get to yours, eat cream cheese, bacon, butter, almond bark, and refined sugars in various forms and shapes. Repeat steps for each side of the family- which can be a lot of repeats if you get together with your extended families like we do. 

Now I’m having trouble getting back up and at ‘em. Something about those two weeks- the one leading up to Christmas which exhausts you with all the things you have to do and the one after which spoils you because absolutely nothing is expected of you. Put them back to back and you become this lazy layabout  who can’t walk past a chair without plopping down in it……and, before you know it, you’ve been staring off into space for 20 minutes. Yes, I’ve done that a few times. And I can’t stop eating…..or sleeping. That’s all I want to do. Eat. Sleep. Sit in a chair. So, if anyone has the antidote for the two weeks surrounding Christmas, please share. I’m suffering from lingering effects. 

I don’t know how you all celebrate Christmas, but Christmas night is when we have our big meal, open gifts, and celebrate with our little family. After we’ve been with friends and extended family, it’s the night we have our most special celebration with our closest people. It’s my favorite night of the entire year. It’s just us, our children, their significant others, and my sweet mama. We open our gifts one at a time- one person at a time. I figure if I’ve shopped since July, gone to the grocery store about 42 times, and worked like a dog since Thanksgiving, by golly, we’re going to stretch this thing out as long as possible. 

I’ve loved watching all the Facebook reels of what people gave and received for Christmas. Especially the parents of little kids. I really miss those days. Somehow, they’re not quite as fun to shop for when they’re shaving and paying mortgages. 

I start asking for gift suggestions in the summertime. I give them budget perimeters and wait for the responses. Gift giving is my love language, so I enjoy every minute of the hunting and gathering. Blair wanted a specific purse- gold, sparkly, and conspicuous. Also on her list were workout clothes and a Pura scent diffuser. Carson wanted Birkenstocks. He’s into vinyls- mostly classic rock. And he asked for Dickie’s work pants- which I don’t get these young people and their trend of going out on the town looking like UPS drivers but whatever, son. John Samuel asked for sunglasses, running shoes, and he loves reading and baseball memorabilia. Davis- he’s the worst one. He’s a practical man and doesn’t have any wants. “I don’t need a thing…just save your money.” As a result, he gets a lot of stuff that probably makes him wish he’d given us suggestions. And since the kids grew up, stockings are now for socks and underwear with a few sugary treats at the top. Christmas night around here is no time to be sheepish about your undergarment preferences. Everyone will leave knowing yours. I did spare Carson’s girlfriend from this new family tradition and stuffed her stocking with more fun things. 

I didn’t realize until I was making my photo book for 2023 that I hardly took any Christmas pictures. It’s so unlike me. This about sums up all I have of Christmas ‘23, but what a joyful one it was!