Somedays, I promise you, I need stretching exercises for my attitude as much as for my body. I understood perfectly when my cousin said, “Most mornings I grab the wall for a few steps after a night of sleep,” I am there with her.
It didn’t used to be that way. At 23 I scampered up the ladder without a thought. clambered over children’s toys and ran when teaching a child how to ride a bike.
At 73, I shake my head at ladders, “we can hire someone to do that.” A cluttered floor scares me. And running for any reason? My feet refuse.
At 23, I wondered why our grandparents took the steps so slowly. At 73, I feel the lack of flexibility. I knew my joints would wear out, but no one told me flexibility would decline in other areas.
At 23, I took care of five boys and wondered why folks said, “You have your hands full.” Really?! I was having too much fun keeping them organized, checking their homework and bath times to think of having full hands.
At 73, when I watch any child I don’t want to learn or enforce another bedtime routine. “Just go to bed, all right?.” Hearing a toddler throwing a tantrum, I think, “Don’t they know that no matter how much they protest the situation will not change? No means no.”
When my young grandchild protested putting away the silverware, her angst surprised me. What was the big deal? It’s just a silverware sorting game.
Apparently she had to protest when she was told to do anything. At 23, I might have done as her sister did that day. Sissy talked and showed little sis how easy it was. At 73, I didn’t want to be flexible and reason with the child. I wanted her to know, “it has to be done. Don’t bother crying, just do the job. You will have a lot more play time if you don’t throw a fit.”
At 23 I wondered how my grandmother could say she did not understand the four year-old’s speech.
At 73, I can’t decipher them either.
I also find I have lost flexibility on social changes.
At 23, I shrugged at guys who let their butch haircut become a mop top and girls in short shorts. At 73, seeing men wear droopy drawers or hats and the rules of my childhood scream, “that is not respectful.” From athletic uniforms to prom gowns, I mentally protest “too short, too tight, too much skin.” Obviously fashions have changed while my inflexible mind has not.
At 23, I shrugged when my mom said that my oldest son reminded her of a hyperactive child. I found him a lot more interesting than a child sitting there like a lump on a log.
At 73, I do wish that child would sit there like a lump on a log.
At 23, cooking with children meant a happy time with a big mess to clean up afterward.
At 73 I want to hold the mixer so it does not fling dough everywhere.
At 23, I had a repertoire of distractions to try when a baby cried.
At 73, I don’t want to even think about trying any of those distractions. I just want that child to hush.
At 23, I carried my children anywhere and everywhere. No problem.
At 73 when I bent to pick up a 25 pound child, I feared tipping over.
At 23 I was flexible, ready to roll with the punches. At 73, no way! I do stretching exercises for physical flexibility. For all the rest? There is just one option: bite the tongue and adjust my attitude.