My son came over today — “Not To Visit, Mom!” he warned. “I just want to look through those boxes I stored in your attic for some notes I need.”
One year, I took my middle school 8th graders to see a play in a nearby town, although, on a school bus with a speed regulator on it and 40 screaming children, a teacher wouldn’t actually call it a “nearby” town. No, for a teacher it would fall under the heading “Might As Well Be Yemen.” But, as with childbirth, the heavens protect teachers from remembering the pain once it’s over, so that we’ll blindly trot right back into pregnancy and field trips as clueless as we were before.
Several Mother’s Days ago, my daughter called and asked me to come take care of grandson Charlie for the weekend. Her husband, God bless him, wanted to take her away, just the two of them, before baby #2 was born. I was thinking about that weekend today. Why? Here’s what I wrote that day — that never got published:
This is Part 2 of the story I began last week, regarding the 7 Dwarfs of the Menopausi family: Itchy, Bitchy, Sleepy, Sweaty, Bloated, Forgetful and Cries-A-Lot. I tell this story because there are women out there suffering through the dwarf visits, with no idea why, how, when, or, really, where they left their shoes. Also, for all the young women out there who will, eventually, join this family ... yes, girls, you can run, but you can’t hide.
Once upon a time, there were seven little dwarfs who lived deep inside the busy metropolis of a woman’s healthy, active body. They were only seen on rare occasions until the woman was around 53 years old, but at that point there would be a giant eruption, like a volcano, deep inside this mega-city, which caused the dwarfs to emerge and become very rowdy and, eventually, out of control, driving most of the more orderly and desirable inhabitants of this bustling burg far, far away.
I am frickin’ sick and tired of being “taken care of” by someone who “knows better” than I do how to run my life! I am sick of having things frustrate, delay and deny me because the big “THEY” (hereafter known as Those Who Need to Butt Out of My Life ... or TWNBOML, pronounced twin-bahm-el) decided on a better way “for my own safety”.
Happy Belated Easter to you all. I wish you peace, love and a basketful of jellybeans! I’m on Spring break…FINALLY! And, in honor of this wondrous holiday, I began a poem.
I’m your new Great-Aunt Vicki, and I’m so excited that you’re finally here! Not that I minded sitting in the hospital waiting for you to come ... and waiting ... and waiting ... FOREVER ... but, still ... I thought today I’d welcome you to the family, little Jack. Just warning you: In the days to come, I will hold you, cuddle you and kiss you until you protest really loudly. Get over it.
Aahhh ... Springtime is here. Trees are budding, flowers are popping up, birds are singing, and the grass is greening. It should be a time of happy beginnings, sweet expectations, and the bracing realization that there are only nine weeks left till we have to wear bathing suits.
Lent is here, my friends, and I don’t know about you, but I gave a lot of thought to what I was going to sacrifice this year, as well as to doing a little something extra each day.
When my little girl was two-and-a-half years old, she fell in love with angels. My son was only around a year at the time, so the bedtime stories I began to tell were mainly for my daughter. I found and read to her every classic book for her age, and she loved them all, but mostly begged for angel stories, and those were hard to find. So, I made one up.
At 7:30 Tuesday morning, my just-turned-5 granddaughter, Gracie, called. When I answered, she said, “Gaga, it’s vewy exciting news! It’s SNOWING IN NORSE CAWOLINA! AT MY HOUSE!” (I’m not sure where my grandkids think I go when I leave Charlotte after visiting them. Chapel Hill might as well be the moon, as far as they’re concerned.) And, she was right — it was snowing at MY HOUSE, TOO!
We had a friend, Michelle, over for dinner last week. First, we had a couple of Margaritas, and later, over her second glass of wine, she told us a story about her husband’s dog, Bubba — a story she hasn’t even told her husband.
My fellow Americans, although I have decided not to become a presidential contender in 2016, I am nevertheless keeping my finger on the pulse of the country, and it has come to my attention that folks are receiving packets in the mail from the U.S. Census Bureau in the last few weeks. What? The census was taken in 2010, and according to the Constitution, we’re only supposed to be counted every ten years, so ...?
So, today is Super Bowl Sunday. I’m sure everyone has been to church (ahem) to “keep holy the sabbath”...and to pray that their team wins, meaning Seattle, because I mean hasn’t Tom Brady’s team (their name escapes me right now) won the Super Bowl like 782 times in the last 783 years? Enough, already!