Some Things I'm Ichin to Tell You
My daughter-in-law called to tell me she was eating alone for the first time in five years. She was over the moon, "I'm eating pancakes! By myself!" Ahh, the cherished moments of respite when your expectations have sunk so low that eating breakfast by yourself is a treat. "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."
The grandkids and I had such a great week together in Monterey, California, while their dad was at a convention and their mom took some time to herself. With the exception of an occasional drop-in visit from the responsible adults, I had them to myself.
We decided we'd see if we could make a flock of seagulls follow us down the path next to the lake. We'd bought the $12.99 bucket of Kentucky Fried and a pack of tortillas. I ripped the skin off my chicken as fast as I could and swallowed it whole; it seems like I'm always starving when I'm with them, diving for scraps that fall from the table. There's nothing but left-over triangles of syrup-soaked pancakes and scrambled eggs, the bottom inch of orange juice, and browned apple wedges. This time though, the kids took one bite of over-priced chicken and said they were full; I was so glad, as always, that I spent the whole $12.99. It's the grandma in me, the compulsive need to spend every penny I can while they're with me.
Anyway, the seagulls weren't interested in the tortillas but that fried chicken smell was calling to us all. I started doling out chumks to the kids until, voila, there were 30 gulls, wheeling and dipping, calling, fighting each other for our chicken. What a thrilling moment. It was like being in the center of a bouquet of balloons, like sharing a conversation with wild nature. It was a good thing their mom was at breakfast, she would have had a heart attack. She hates birds.
At night we snuggled into my king-sized bed. How can anything ever be more flattering than having people fighting to sleep next to you? "Maimie, Maimie, you HAVE to be in the middle! You can't just sleep next to Alex, I need to you tickle my arm! Here, let me show you how, then I'll give you a massage." You know how wonderful that is? Tiny hands you can barely feel, pressing carefully on your back and shoulders in perfect imitation of a grown-up, but so soft.
The next day, we rented a surrey bike for an hour. Unfortunately, mine were the only feet that hit the peddles. I pretty much didn't worry about the chicken calories after that.
We climbed rocks by the ocean. With impressive foresight, I wore my slippery leather sandals and the for whole time I was waiting to slam my knee on a rock and knock one of the kids into a watery grave.
But it turned out we'd saved the very best thing for last. The next day, my daughter-in-law called to tell me she'd noticed Alex really scratching and taken him to the doctor. The verdict was head lice. He was infested with head lice. My daughter-in-law was infested with head lice. Maitlan, my granddaughter, merely had head lice, she was not classified as "infested."
Imagine someone has just said you might have lice. A thrill races up your neck, your ankles begin to tingle, the insides of your thighs twitch, and every inch of your back stings with tiny bites. You are dying to escape your skin, scratch it right off. I remembered the time my kids had ringworm and I told them, "Sorry, Mommy doesn't want you anymore. You can only talk to Daddy until this goes away."
I was humiliated. However, I initially took a cavelier attitude and told people in a laughing way that I had it; but it turned out that watching them suddenly back away from me got to be too hard.
I've taken the cure, which turned my hair into stringy fuzz. I bought the little comb and Clay and I have learned what nit-picking actually means. I don't hug and I have a separate towel. Clay slept on the couch the first night but love overcame the creepies, and as long as I don't get too close, I can stay. I have a whole new appreciation of all those leper-curing stories in the New Testament.
Head lice can only live on your head, they die when they fall off. Nevertheless, my back still itches when I think about them, my little friends. Apparently, my grandkids are not the only ones who want me to sleep with them. How great.
The grandkids and I had such a great week together in Monterey, California, while their dad was at a convention and their mom took some time to herself. With the exception of an occasional drop-in visit from the responsible adults, I had them to myself.
We decided we'd see if we could make a flock of seagulls follow us down the path next to the lake. We'd bought the $12.99 bucket of Kentucky Fried and a pack of tortillas. I ripped the skin off my chicken as fast as I could and swallowed it whole; it seems like I'm always starving when I'm with them, diving for scraps that fall from the table. There's nothing but left-over triangles of syrup-soaked pancakes and scrambled eggs, the bottom inch of orange juice, and browned apple wedges. This time though, the kids took one bite of over-priced chicken and said they were full; I was so glad, as always, that I spent the whole $12.99. It's the grandma in me, the compulsive need to spend every penny I can while they're with me.
Anyway, the seagulls weren't interested in the tortillas but that fried chicken smell was calling to us all. I started doling out chumks to the kids until, voila, there were 30 gulls, wheeling and dipping, calling, fighting each other for our chicken. What a thrilling moment. It was like being in the center of a bouquet of balloons, like sharing a conversation with wild nature. It was a good thing their mom was at breakfast, she would have had a heart attack. She hates birds.
At night we snuggled into my king-sized bed. How can anything ever be more flattering than having people fighting to sleep next to you? "Maimie, Maimie, you HAVE to be in the middle! You can't just sleep next to Alex, I need to you tickle my arm! Here, let me show you how, then I'll give you a massage." You know how wonderful that is? Tiny hands you can barely feel, pressing carefully on your back and shoulders in perfect imitation of a grown-up, but so soft.
The next day, we rented a surrey bike for an hour. Unfortunately, mine were the only feet that hit the peddles. I pretty much didn't worry about the chicken calories after that.
We climbed rocks by the ocean. With impressive foresight, I wore my slippery leather sandals and the for whole time I was waiting to slam my knee on a rock and knock one of the kids into a watery grave.
But it turned out we'd saved the very best thing for last. The next day, my daughter-in-law called to tell me she'd noticed Alex really scratching and taken him to the doctor. The verdict was head lice. He was infested with head lice. My daughter-in-law was infested with head lice. Maitlan, my granddaughter, merely had head lice, she was not classified as "infested."
Imagine someone has just said you might have lice. A thrill races up your neck, your ankles begin to tingle, the insides of your thighs twitch, and every inch of your back stings with tiny bites. You are dying to escape your skin, scratch it right off. I remembered the time my kids had ringworm and I told them, "Sorry, Mommy doesn't want you anymore. You can only talk to Daddy until this goes away."
I was humiliated. However, I initially took a cavelier attitude and told people in a laughing way that I had it; but it turned out that watching them suddenly back away from me got to be too hard.
I've taken the cure, which turned my hair into stringy fuzz. I bought the little comb and Clay and I have learned what nit-picking actually means. I don't hug and I have a separate towel. Clay slept on the couch the first night but love overcame the creepies, and as long as I don't get too close, I can stay. I have a whole new appreciation of all those leper-curing stories in the New Testament.
Head lice can only live on your head, they die when they fall off. Nevertheless, my back still itches when I think about them, my little friends. Apparently, my grandkids are not the only ones who want me to sleep with them. How great.
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