Next to doing things with my grandkids, the thing I most enjoy doing is messing with my children. Now I don’t get involved in their lives. Well, I don’t get involved unless they attempt to define what I can or cannot give my grandchildren. Generally, speaking I respect their space and they respect mine.
They are, however, typical kids who shake their heads in consternation at the “old age” things I do or will not do. A few years back they did apparently get some instruction from the Almighty that advice on living and living properly should be sent my way on occasion.
It used to be that I’d help them out around their houses, cutting the lawn occasionally, putting in a new bathroom floor, little things that occupied my time and gave me a sense of being useful. I don’t do that anymore. All my children have children. And I don’t care if this is the Twenty-first Century or not; I firmly believe children, I’m speaking of their children, should be required to do chores such as cutting grass and such. So I don’t do those projects anymore. Besides I’ve reached the age where my back hurts.
This reduction in activities, however, does not diminish my joy at messing with them. And I’ve gotten a bit cagey at it. Such was the case recently.
One of my kids, the oldest son, is an Artistic Director of the Pilobolus Dance Theater. His dance company was performing in Atlanta. I bought the tickets and made plans to attend. Not wanting to go alone, I called my two oldest granddaughters. The older one, the one with the car and driver’s license, informed me she couldn’t fit it into her schedule. I hate it when they start thinking on their own. Her younger sister, who doesn’t have a driver’s license or a boyfriend, jumped at the chance.
So, we made our plans, dinner at a nice restaurant and then the dance performance followed by a visit backstage to talk with the dancers.
Now to the part about messing with my kids. Well, wait before that part, here’s a note to a certain woman: There are people in this town who like to talk, to make something out of nothing. Therefore I’m not mentioning your name. But thanks for making it possible for me to mess with my kids.
Okay, there’s this lady in town to whom I happened to mention the dance company was coming to Atlanta. She bought tickets for herself and a friend. We’d planned for the two of them to meet my granddaughter and me at the restaurant and then head to the dance. It turned out at the last minute her friend couldn’t go. We rode together to pick up my granddaughter.
The woman of whom I speak is (How shall I put this?) The woman is a fox. She definitely above average. This head-turner and I pulled up at my daughter’s house. We walked in. I said to my daughter who’s four years older than this woman, “Hey Sweetheart, this is my friend (insert name here).” My daughter was transfixed for a moment. “Oh, how nice to meet you.”
We three enjoyed our dinner and especially the performance.
My phone rang a few minutes ago. It was my youngest son. “So, Dad, I hear you went to the dance last night. Did you have a good time?”
I love messing with my kids.