What I read today will keep me jiggling like jello until I’m one hundred and twenty or more.
If my weary bones would let me, every time the colored leaves did their pirouettes to the ground below; every time the first hints of chill nipped at my nose; every time my umbrella had to raise its limbs to cover me – then I’d curl up by the fire, cuddle down under my vanilla fudge duvet, and I’d pull out the sure fire medicine of grandma’s diary.
I’ve trained my kids to capture the comments of their tiny tots and to send them across the airwaves to my waiting heart. I still cut and paste the old way after printing off the words that work their way from my mind to my heart and out through my lungs and my liver. Some days, I wish my kidneys were less involved in the fun.
The tear stains on those pages aren’t from the pain of picking myself off the floor. They are the price of joy unleashed. The silver streaks in my grey don’t matter because I am stress free while I’ve got a fire crackling and a leather bound journal stuffed full of classic originals.
I’m sure that if someone ever invented a cackle scale or a giggle meter then octogenarians like me would be tipping off the top. Tumors would tumble, tension would fizzle, temperatures would settle and the pain in my sternum would be an old memory.
Mirrors are hidden carefully in my suite. Seeing myself looking like a drooling fool unable to stop from holding my ribs as I rock in desperate relief from the latest childhood offering is not always what I want to remember as I close my eyes in rest. And no matter how many times I read my diary it seems just as funny as the first time.
Just today, I received a treasure from my pregnant daughter which escaped from the lips of her two year old. Pointing at her own stomach the little blond haired cherub said, “my baby hurts, I’m going to go frow up.” She’s been watching her mother do it for months so why not?
Most days I love to heat up a cup of hot chocolate with those mini marshmallows floating like icebergs across the surface. Yesterday I made the fatal error of sipping the comfort drink when I was reading some of the early utterances from my other granddaughter. One comment hit me as so funny I snurfed into the dark liquid and sloshed it all over my duvet. I’m sure I’ll never get out those stains. The stain is shaped kind of like Africa crashing into Australia so it shows my wild side.
Looking out at the moon surrounded by clouds, one of my little ones folded up her fists under her slightly cocked head and sighed, “the moon is so cozy.” As I made efforts to chase her down for a bath I declared, “you girl are trouble.” She halted her romp, peaked back around the corner of the hall and announced, “I’m not trouble, I’m cute.”
The second oldest of my nine grandkids several years ago had the habit of flexing his hip, pointing his finger at me, and inquiring in a squeaky voice, “what’s happenin’ dude?” These miniature people are like vocal sponges or recording parrots. I have to watch what I say now that we’re past the goo goo gaa gaa stage.
My other daughter and her husband tried all kinds of tricks to keep their little gaffer in bed. They told him when he was three that Jesus was with him while he was in bed. He still wondered into their room for comfort. When my son-in-law asked him if he was ready to go back to his own bed he announced, “nope, Jesus will have to sleep by himself tonight.”
Brother and sister combinations are fun. One of my grandsons had a cucumber on his plate. His sister snatched it and chewed it. When the five year old boy noticed something was missing he said “hey, who took my cucumber?” His two year old sister gave her prize a few more chews and then spit it back on his plate with the declaration, “there you go brudda.”
I’m not sure whether I’m developing a hernia from laughing so much or whether I just need a few more comments from the kiddies to keep me healthy. It’s cheaper than doctors.
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