Captain’s log, Starday Sunday afternoon…

I come to from a three-day migraine, convinced Son’s graduation barbeque and pool party is two weeks away.

“No, D, it’s next Sunday.”

The Twilight Zone theme floats around my head. Full work-week ahead. In-laws arriving Wednesday. Pool not opened. Fifty people coming. Nothing started. I want to EEEEEEKKKK! but can’t: too drained from the migraine.

More proof that Murphy’s Law rules. Whine? Roll with it? Whine.

Hubby and Son open the pool. Yuk. Disgusting. I sigh. I go on-line and order a huge inflatable fortress. Hoping for the best? No. Locking myself in to getting that water sparkling clean.

I ponder the menu and dash off the first of many to-do lists. I’m exhausted.

Hubby and Son promise they will do whatever I ask, without attitude. Really?

“Your command is like an order!” quips Hubby.

OK then. Forward march.

THREE PART SECRET JUST REVEALED!!!

Got by you? Here it is, stripped down:

Keep a sense of humor.
Accept help.
Soldier on.

Simple in theory. But tough in the implementation. In other words, it's a spiritual practice. Sigh.

You can stop reading now if you want. That’s the gist. If you are a glutton for detail, read on.

Monday morning…

Weather forecast: rain through Saturday, maybe clearing Sunday. Wonderful. Now I have two parties to prep for: outside and inside. I go online and order three 12’ x 12’ canopy tents at $112 each. Shade for sun. Shelter for rain. Shipping and handling: $120. Well, I’m desperate. ETA Saturday.

There are piles, everywhere. I’d love to yell at Hubby, but some of them are mine. Stashing stuff in the garage leaves behind dust bunnies and cobwebs.

Wake up Son at noon, give him his honey-do list, leave one for Hubby, and get to work late.

Monday night, 10:30 p.m…

I gingerly lift the springform pan holding scratch lemon cheesecake and the bottom falls out. Cheesecake everywhere. I get to bed late.

Tuesday…

Wake up to the aroma of lemon cheesecake (pang of grief) with a brainwave: I’ll make blueberry icebox pies instead.

Pool murky. Heater not working. Rain. UPS delivers pool float I ordered Sunday.

Son retrieves a jar of pickles from the top shelf of pantry for me— “Here you go, Shorty!” and I drop it. Glass shards, pickles and pickle juice everywhere. I get to work late.

Pool guy comes while I’m at work. That night, three dear friends call, volunteering their signature party dishes. Yay!

Wednesday…

Rain. In-laws arriving late afternoon. EEEEKKKK! Launder sheets and towels. Clean guestroom and bathroom. Make bed. Prepare dinner. Get to work late.

Dance class after work— Yay! Arrive home in good mood to in-laws, who have morphed since February into frail oldsters. What the heck happened?

Thursday…

Check on line for ETA of canopies: Monday afternoon. Wonderful.

Fingers crossed for cancellations, I call in to work around 9 a.m. “D, you’re off today.” Happy dance around kitchen! O Frabjous day! Calloo! Callay!

Start slow barbequing an eight pound boston butt for pulled pork on charcoal grill, from beginning to end a ten hour process I pack with other tasks.

“Where are the crackers I left on the table?” Mother-in-law asks. “I need them to take my pills.” We find packaging and crumbs in Poodle-Oodle’s bed. We laugh.

“I’m missing a sock,” reports Father-in-law. I find it in Poodle-Oodle’s usual sock drop, my bed. We laugh.

Check transit of canopies after dinner: ETA still Monday. Mother-in-law hears canapés. Father-in-law hears can o’ peas. We laugh and laugh.

Friday…

Overnight the pool pump backwashes instead of filters. The water level has dropped a foot. Leave the pool guy a desperate voicemail.

Hubby has day off. He and friend Kirk jerry-rig a canopy over pergola with a couple of tarps from Lowe’s ($20 each). They pressure wash around the pool. Hubby paints the rusted base of the diving board with special white paint. Son is everybody’s Boy Friday. The pool guy arrives in shining armor.

“Let me help you!” begs Mother-in-law from the table, where she’s got her bad leg elevated on an ottoman. I give her the crudite veggies to prep.

I clean, cook and drive to the store too many times.

Hubby pulls me aside: “You should apologize to my mother for being short. While you’re at it, apologize for being irritable.” Ha ha, very funny. He bear hugs me. OK, I’ll keep him.

Saturday morning…

Son’s graduation. Eighteen, and done with high school. What the heck happened? I watch him and the kids I’ve known all his life walk down the aisle to receive their diplomas, brand new adults, on the threshold of new lives.

I, on the other hand, have stood still in the eye of a time hurricane, time flashing by around me.

We go out for lunch, three generations around the table.

Saturday afternoon…

Son away at a friend’s graduation party. Forecast for tomorrow: rain. My body wants to stop cleaning, but my mind says, No way, Babe. Mother-in-law preps fruit for me. I puzzle-piece pies into the fridge. Bake two cakes. Friends drop by with loaner chairs and tables, coffee urn, chafing dishes.

Pool looks good.

I lie in bed, motor revving. I toss and turn. Finally, it comes to me: I’m hurting, all over. I take 600 mg of ibuprofen.

Sunday— D-Day!

The sky spits. It’s too late to do anything more. I put out “Congratulations Graduate!” balloons, shower and dress. I’m hungry, but something comes along and I forget to eat. My legs weigh a ton. My feet ache. I take 600 mg of ibuprofen.

Friends start to arrive at 3:00. Yay! Boys flow in. Yay! It spits, it drizzles, it pours. Everyone laughs and crowds under the tarp-covered pergola.

The sun throws off its cloud cover— Yay! Son cannon balls into the pool, splashing everyone in range. The rest of the boys (and at least one adult) jump in after him, piling onto the fortress float. Hubby fires up the two grills. He mans one, a friend the other.

Poodle-Oodle enjoys herself, and why not? Manna falls from the sky and people’s fingers, for hours.

I want to sit and visit, but content myself with flitting, introducing people to each other, checking this, clearing that, asking “Who wants cake?” answering, “It’s decaf!”

How did the left-overs get put away, dishes washed, garbage thrown out, and pool covered? Our friends are the best.

“Son enjoyed himself,” I say to Hubby as we scuff to the bedroom. He nods agreement. “Great team work. You guys were awesome.”

Hubby accepts this as his due, and reciprocates: “You weren’t so bad yourself.” We smile at each other, and fall into bed like axed trees.

Monday…

I wake up incredibly stiff. I’m getting too old for this. What the heck happened? I take yet another 600 mg dose of ibuprofen. Stretch into my daily tai chi/chi kung workout for the first time in a week. Yow! Hurts so good!

Chat over breakfast with Mother-in-law, who gushes about the party (Hubby already off to work, Son and Father-in-law still sleeping.). Calls and e-mails come in: “Awesome party!” “Incredible food!” “We had such a good time!”

I am delighted to hear it. I wouldn’t know!

Later, while I’m at work, UPS delivers the canopies.

PHOTO CREDIT: D. Sharon Pruitt