Two Tuesdays a month you will find me at MOPS--Mothers of Preschoolers.
Today I woke Hope up from her nap to go. Guarding nap time is my main rule, but for MOPS, I will bend it. There is childcare, you see, and chocolate on each table; door prizes and coffee--and flavored creamer--at every meeting. Most of all, there are a lot of like-minded women who reassure each other we are going to be okay.
I know I have ten kids and have been at this for a long time. "You could do this in your sleep," moms often tell me.
I was doing my usual Saturday morning routine of cleaning everything in sight. With toilet brush in hand, I heard the familiar request.
"Play with us, Mom. You can be the General."
Sigh. "I can't. I am cleaning the bathrooms." Cory and Silas, in the middle of a game of battle, knew it was futile to ask again. Especially on Saturday morning.
As I swished the Comet around the toilet, an idea struck. I stepped out of the upstairs bathroom and peered over the railing, searching for my two little soldiers.
Last Saturday night just after dark the Sims family was sitting in the den enjoying the fireplace and a little TV when the doorbell rang. The kids ran to answer, but no one was there--only a bucket of Halloween goodies and a note that read "You've just been booed!"
I don't get the warm fuzzies very often, but this made me fuzzy all over. It was a feel good moment for the whole family. "What kind of neighborhood have we moved into that has such fun traditions?
One of my new friends from the bus stop had to have foot surgery last week. In a lot of pain for a long time, she finally went in for an x-ray and, much to her surprise, discovered her foot was broken. Not only was surgery a must, but the doctor said she cannot walk on it for over a month.
On Friday, I met her husband, who had baby in tow, at the bus stop. I introduced myself and told him I was bringing dinner over that weekend, and daughter, Emma, would be helping them out, to boot.
I knew before it ever happened that it would happen. And it didn’t take long.
Hope was just two weeks old when I was out
with my two teenage daughters, Mary and Emma. She was fussing while they shopped for clothes
at Plato’s Closet. I told them I was going
to take the baby outside. “That’s right,”
a lady chimed in, “let Grandma take you
outside.” I flinched for half a second,
but like I said, I saw it coming.
It is increasingly comical to me how many people mistake me
for Hope’s grandmother.