I’ve been doing a lot of work lately on this little house. A couple of days ago I finished tearing down an old deck – all by myself – and loved every minute of it.
When the last post was knocked loose with the sledgehammer and pulled out of the ground, I did a little dance.
Minus the blisters on my hands and the one rogue screw that jammed itself into my shin, I had no aches or pains.
I looked at the job and thought to myself, “Not bad for a girl. Especially one way closer to fifty than forty-five.”
I thought of my little great nephew, Shooter, and a fun Sunday we had a year ago. He was three at the time, and gave me some great advice.
“Aunt Mandy! Come to the tree house!” Up the steps we went.
“Aunt Mandy! Run!” We ran.
“Aunt Mandy! Jump on the jumpoline with me!” We jumped.
We swam, we chased each other around the pool. I taught him how to hide toys in his hand and fake sneeze them out of his nose. I jumped up and down with him on my hip, splashed, swam under his float.
He wore me out.
“Aunt Mandy! Let’s jump on the jumpoline some more!”
“Kid, you’re wearing me out. I’m old.”
“You’re not old!” Disgusted look on his face.
I showed him the wide streaks of gray in my hair to prove it.
He raised his hands in the air, made a hilarious face and said,
“Cut your hair.”