One more year of winsome math. One more year in the archives.
When my mother-in-law turned 67, my four year old said, “That’s almost to the end, isn’t it?” My countdown is uncomfortably close to an innocent child’s vision of a human life span.
We went to see the Minnesota kids last fall. An effort was made to explain generation links to the 5 year old. Honey said he was his daddy’s daddy. The 5 year old laughed and said, “No, Poppy, you don’t look like a daddy. You look like a grandpa.” Is that almost to the end?
At this moment, I’m trying to follow a new TV program while blogging, which isn’t working really well, and Honey has nodded off on the other end of the sofa. I know that from the snory sounds. Oop! He woke up!
It’s Friday. I’m poo’d. I’ve been putting in overtime, 9 hours last week and maybe 7 or 8 this week. Add drive time to that, and I’m definitely aware of not being as young as I used to be. Tomorrow I sleep in, hopefully at least an hour past when I’m used to getting up.
We clean the house for company tomorrow. Eight friends are coming into my house to help me mark (celebrate isn’t computing right now) a number that can be described only as “on the edge.”
A lady, a deeeeaaar Christian sister, once told me when I turned 50 that 49 was the old of the young and 50 was the young of the old. I’m sure she meant to make me feel better to be considered young again even if it was in the “next up” age group.
Maybe after a good night’s sleep and a bunch of laughs with friends—-in spite or because of the ugly cards, I’ll be able to blog a bit more chipper-ly on Sunday. Until then………
Hey, Honey got me flowers.