Granny's Girls

This is my granddaughter Zoey, at four days old. Her forearm is about as long as my thumb, and about as big around. Surely she'll put on some weight, right?

In the background is my oldest granddaughter Elizabeth, taking a break from eating eating her flavored lip balm. I'll have to find a picture of her with her head included to share.

My other granddaughter Leibe (the German word for love, but they're pronouncing it Libby) hasn't made her arrival yet, thank goodness.

There is a distinct shortage of boys in our family, and nobody feels it more than my step-son and my sons-in-law. You'd think we are suffocating them with estrogen. Poor fellas. Boo-hoo.

So, I'm thirty-something (almost forty-something), and I'm not one of those I'm-too-young-to-be-called-Grandma chickies. OK, I'm too young to be a grandma, but there's no use crying over fertilized eggs.

All of my grandmothers (including the greats) were called Grandma. *BORING* My grand babies are gonna call me Granny. That just makes me giggle. This granny drives a truck, works 40+ hours a week, wears big stomping lace-up platform shoes, listens to classic hard rock, and loves her girls more than they'll ever know.

(Original photo by JPendleton, some rights reserved.)

A Long Time Coming

So a few months ago (a year?...whatever) I woke up after a night short on sleep, groggy and fumbling for snooze, desperately thinking, “How much longer do I have to do this?”

I assure you, Dear Reader, the thought was alien. I have a retirement fund (recently dwindled to near non-existence), so I have consciously considered that far-off mythical date. But in that half-asleep shut-that-damn-alarm-off state, the word retire would sound like gibberish if someone uttered it. Pffft. The word shoes wouldn’t make any sense to me in that state.

That morning, though, I could feel it…it was as real as rain and just down the road a piece. It was like I had longed for it with every breath.

Just the act of thinking that phrase, “How much longer…?” woke me up, and I laughed like a loon. “What am I thinking? Retirement is an old people’s word. I’ve got a quarter of a century before I can retire. Where did that come from?”

*YAWN *

Never mind, I know where it came from. I guess I should ask why it took so long to get here.

(Original photo by twob, some rights reserved.)

Oh, My Aching...

Is it the memory or the knees that go first? It’s moot – both of mine are shot.

Were you kind to your knees? How about your back? Who, me? Ha. Ha ha. Um, no, I wasn’t.

A couple of years ago, I bent over to pick up a piece of paper and wound up at my doctor’s office, unable to move. Or stand. Or sit. Or breathe. WTF? I wasn’t lifting an anvil; it was paper.

X-rays confirmed there was a real you-can-see-it-on-an-X-ray-problem, and it baffled me completely. What did I do?! It was PAPER!!

The answer was obvious as soon as I heard it. “…a lifetime of bad habits.” Oh. Well, yeah, that’s me, all the way back to girlhood. I’ve never been able to sit in a chair the proper way. I was always sideways with a leg hanging over one arm and my head on the other. Or (my favorite) I was in my dad’s recliner sitting the EXACT opposite of the way you’re supposed to – my feet on the headrest, my back in the seat, and my head hanging where my feet should’ve been. The Dukes of Hazzard was funnier upside down.

Years later (don’t ask; you know I don’t know how many), the bill comes due – and the Piper will be paid, Guv’nah. I was forced to take pain killers (which I hate) for a short while. A chiropractor, proper stretching and exercise, and caution in every movement meant no more pain meds; at that point muscle relaxers were enough. Now I don’t take anything for it. I’m just very, very careful.

Now what to do about the knees? And what was the other thing?

Editor’s note: People scoff at the mention of a chiropractor. I was a skeptic; I am a believer. I would be dead now if I hadn’t given it a chance.

I was terrified; if he made it worse, I wouldn’t live through it. The first time my back popped (a machine-gun sound, loud and running the length of my back) I screamed. Then I was laughing and crying. It hadn’t hurt, and more important – MOST important – I could breathe; I could get off the table by myself, I could walk. The change was immediate. I was going to live. That was eight years ago (or so), and I only went maybe seven or eight times.

If your doctor recommends a chiropractor – please, do yourself a favor. Go.

(Original photo by {christy_b}, some rights reserved.)