It’s October 16, my mother’s 98th birthday; and had she remained married, my sister’s 60th wedding anniversary. I attended the wedding as a two-month old in a fancy pram. My sister was divorcing just as I was getting married, 22 years later. Odd, how life goes.
I have been doing lots of laundry and housekeeping tasks today. Our two grandchildren were here for four days while their parents went to a conference in San Diego, which is very far away from our house in the San Joaquin Valley. Thoroughly delighted to have the kids here, I was very relieved when their parents returned and joyfully hugged them and packed all their belongings and scattered toys and took them home. The house is returning to some semblance of normal.
I didn’t know I have arthritis in my thumb, but that must be the case. It’s been overused and it hurts very badly. It needs for me to stop lifting and toting the 19 pound grandson who thinks only grandma can carry him. In all the hubbub to get everything packed for the trip here and then on to San Diego, they forgot the stroller for Judah, so I had to carry him whenever we went out. Plus, carrying him at times at home when the world was not doing to suit him and he needed some comfort. Terry and I have decided that you must be young to raise small children.
After a phone call from a friend this afternoon, I go out on the patio and find a mouse scampering over the south wall. I chase it, screaming, “go somewhere else,” and “why isn’t there a cat around when I need one.” Then, I see a dead mouse in the backyard and I let out a bloodcurdling scream.
My next door neighbor, working in her backyard, hollers my name over the fence. “Delaine, are you all right?” I’m sure she thought I had been killed. I explain, and by this time, Terry has come out to see what all the ruckus is about. He takes care of the dead mouse. I sure hope the live one gets eaten by a cat or hawk.