Monday, March 12, 2012

Bedsores and Broomsticks

Hi everyone in Bloggerland. Sorry to have abandoned you for the past few months. Like Rosalind Russell said in "Auntie Mame," I can't possibly be a wife, I'm too busy being a mother," so it goes with me. I can't possibly be a grandmother, I am far too busy being a mother. I have bedsores on my bottom from sitting in the driver's seat of my car schlepping this kid or that kid to something--softball games, softball practice, baton, or soccer games in far away places such as Birmingham. Just this past Saturday I reluctantly crawled out of bed at 5:45am, washed my face and brushed my teeth, I think, then made my way to my suv. When my four grandchildren came to live with me, the first thing I needed to do was to buy an suv so that I could cart them, all of their sports equipment, and friends, all over creation. So, my sleepy-eyed 16 year-old grandson placed himself in the passenger side of the car and immediately nodded off while I sped ahead to the school's field house in order to pick up his new soccer uniform along with one of his soccer buddies. A group of boys and girls huddled outside of the field house waiting on the coach to show up. They, of course, were riding the school bus to Birmingham for the games unlike Jake, my 16 year old, who convinced me that he really wanted me to see him play. Just between us, the real reason that he wanted me to go to Birmingham was so that he didn't have to "ride the smelly bus" (his words). Riding in Oma's car also had other advantages like being able to quickly pull through McDonalds and jump back on the highway. I must say that watching him play made my heart quicken just a bit. He is so tall and handsome. I ruminated that this is how potters must feel after they have crafted an elegant plate or bowl from an unformed block of clay. However, Jake remarked to me the other day that I talk about him as though he were one of my portfolio investments (now don't get excited, the "portfolio" is massive in his mind, but in reality, as my grandfather often said, "if chicken were 3 cents a pound I couldn't kiss a hummingbird's behind)." I told him that he was my investment. He is the future. I suffered through raising his mother (my stock market crash) so that I could invest heavily in him and his future. Just like many grandparents, I often wonder if we couldn't skip the kids and go directly to grandkids. Oh the promise of cloning. Anyway, Jake took my words with a grain of salt. As for the soccer game, a grand time in Birmingham was had by all, especially me. We drove home, the boys slathered themselves with sunburn ointment, and crashed. I, of course, got out my broomstick and began to fly around the house with my hair on fire wondering why the girls left their hoodies on the floor in the foyer, sticky pecans with yellow cake crumbs on the kitchen counter, and the ever-present-mountain of white towels on the bathroom floor. I checked to see if my backside's integumentary system was intact, then shuffled off to bed with dreams of seniors-only cruises drifting in and out of my subconscious.