My granddaughter, Nora, is napping. When she picks up her blanket and bopple, (bopple means pacifier in Nora talk) I know she’s ready to take her morning nap.
This morning we snuggled on the sofa–instead of watching the Mexican Hat Dance video, we watched a tennis coach give his two little girls tennis lessons. “Daddy,” she said. Not her dad, but he does play tennis.
Then, we watched a tennis match of two young female champions. She pointed at the one with a long swinging ponytail. “Mommy.” Not her mom, but she does play tennis, too.
I realized that someday my precious granddaughter would be on the tennis court and our days of snuggling on the sofa might be over. Who knows? When she’s twenty and I’m eighty-five (gulp…), she might not think that sitting with Momo and watching videos is such a great activity.
Boy, oh, boy. Where do the years ago? It’s been on my mind. Why do I think that I’m truly getting older? Could it, perhaps, be the mirror? The way that I don’t leap from a sitting position on the rug? The surety of the waiters who offer me the senior discount?
Last night my husband (the king of Cuban sweet talk) said to me, “Oh, you’re beautiful.”
“I’m getting older,” I mourned.
“You’re getting older?”
“Yes, I am.” I made a rueful face.
“Hmm. Did you know this would happen when you married me?” he asked sternly.
“Yes, I did,” I confessed, my head on his shoulder. “But, I didn’t think it would happen so fast.”
Has this happened to you?
Love to my readers,
Marguerite (Wunsch) Ferra
Cramer Hill resident