Grandest and I rushed off to gymnastics last week. In her bag lay a new bright blue top with many straps, very stylish. I picked her up at an after school program, dragged, nagged her to run to my car and zoomed away. “Uh Grans. I’m changing and I didn’t get to buckle up yet so pull over and stop.”
This from the seven year old mouth of my girl who knows , apparently way more than her Grans. So I did as told. She changed, advised me to drive on and we got there just in time.
Watching through the window, I saw the coach adjust the straps of her new top. It comes to this, I thought. The once competent woman can no longer even fix the straps right. Geez. Later, watching through the window as allowed and tired from writing, I saw an older girl helping her with a move on the trampoline. How nice, I thought.
On the way home grandest told me about the older girl who showed her some moves. And then she said. . .”Speaking of OLD, Grans” . . .and we cracked up over the inference of my age.
This conversation resulted in me explaining age is good and important and as much fun as the two of us have, we should be grateful I’m here. My own Mom didn’t last past age 50 and Bud, my first hubs, died at 58. “So,” I said, “Don’t be embarrassed to tell my age to your friends.”