Tuesday, August 7, 2012

This is Why Fertility Has An Expiration Date.


Conversation (totally one-sided, mind you) between myself and my four year old granddaughter:

"Grandma, when we get home we need to play Candyland, you can be the blue, and I can be the red, and Dylon (her twin brother) can be the green, and Grandpa can be the yellow, and then I want Sponge Bob Mac and Cheese, but Dylon wants chicken nuggets and then the dinosaur will eat the walls and we're going on vacation with Mommy and Daddy and Aunt Kelly was playing a game on her 'puter and I want to play Candyland when we get home, you can be the blue, and I can be the red, and Dylon can be the green..."

I'm exhausted.

I love my grandchildren dearly. They make me smile, and I cherish every moment we're together, from listening to their sweet stream-of-consciousness conversations, to their hugs and sticky-faced kisses, to their tyrannical control of the television. I love everything about babysitting them.

Including the part where I get to give them back to their parents.

Human fertility comes with an expiration date for a reason. As we grow older, our patience wears thinner in direct proportion to the number of years since menopause. There's probably an algebraic equation for it, but since my memory has atrophied in conjunction with my patience, I don't remember it.

Plus, keeping my work separate from the wee eyes continually trying to peek into my office  is a trick and a half. Right now, they're too young to read, so it's all good.

Grandchild: *Points to one of my book covers* "That man has no shirt on."
Me: "He's going swimming."
Grandchild: "Oh. Can I have gummy bears now?"

That lie will not hold for very long. I suppose I'll have to hide my books and man-candy from sight in the future, at least when the kids are over the house. Maybe I could get the hubs to install one of those cool revolving walls. Push a button and my bookshelf swings around, revealing a wall that looks like Walt Disney threw up on it. Yeah, that'd work.

On the other hand, they have no prejudice, and no bigotry, which is refreshing and wonderful, and I hope they never, ever outgrow it.

Grandchild: *Points to one of my book covers* "Those two boys are kissing."
Me: "They love each other."
Grandchild: "Oh. Can I have gummy bears now?"

Ah, youth. Sigh.









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