exercise illness

According to my children, I have an exercise illness. I tried jogging. I tried really hard to like it. The only thing I liked about it was how I felt afterward, and that just wasn’t enough to inspire me to continue. Going to the gym? Just no. I used a stationary bike for a long time and read while I exercised. But I have to be honest. It just wasn’t hard enough. So I finally got into dvd exercise. My favorites have turned out to be kick boxing and step routines. Now there are plenty of tough dvds out there to exercise to. I just need to be sure I have them all, so I add and subtract to and from my library, honing it down to the perfect set of dvds. Do you think I've been fairly diagnosed with an exercise illness just because I own thirty dvds? I think not! And I'm sure there are a few more I need. They just might be listed on my Amazon wish list.

Where was I going with this? Oh yeah.

I have an exercise illness, which I have described for you above. Miley doesn’t have an exercise illness. She does, however, think that this exercise mat should be her own personal rest mat. I remember in kindergarten when we rested on our mats every day. (I actually fell asleep the first day and had to be awakened.) Anyway, back to Miley’s own personal rest mat. I threw the mat out the other day to do some ab exercises, and Miley shot onto the mat for a little kindergarten rest. I had to physically remove her. She loves this mat. Then when I was done, she returned, trying once again to stake her claim. I picked up one end of the mat and began to lift it slowly, thinking surely she would jump off. She scrambled those desperate little paws on it trying to keep her hold on it. Well, here you go, Miley. Happy resting time.

So much for my exercise illness. I’ve just lost my mat.

what's it all about?

I went to a wedding recently. It had the normal ingredients: the beautiful bride, the handsome, young groom, mother of the bride who was worrying about everything, father of the bride opening his pocketbook to pay the caterer, a darling little ring bearer, who right on cue proudly presented the pillow with rings tied to it, a wonderful luncheon. It was all there. My favorite part of this event was when those of us seated around the luncheon tables were asked to introduce ourselves. Now normally this is not my favorite part, but for good reason, this time it was. When it came time for the grandma of the bride to introduce herself, she stood. This is a lady who is nearly eighty years old, but she’s still got it all together, spunky and so cute. She said, "I’m mother of the father of the bride, grandma to the bride, and great-grandma to the baby (infant son of the bride and groom). Then her husband, who was sitting next to her rose, and he said quite simply as he looked at his wife with obvious love and admiration, "I’m her husband."

That grandma and grandpa are what love is all about.

almost

My youngest daughter informed me that I can’t have just a Miley blog, that I have to blog about something else too. Sometimes our roles get confused. Sometimes she becomes the mother and I the daughter. She issues orders, and I call her Mommy and dutifully obey.

So since I have been commanded to blog about something besides Miley, I chose to blog about a very exciting event that is about to happen. This is my oldest daughter, who will soon give birth to my first grandchild. I guess that means this is my baby and my baby’s baby. This baby will be the first grandchild on both sides of the family. I’m thinking that this child will be royally spoiled. Just a guess.

And just for the record, we don’t know if it’s a girl or a boy. I know. I. Know. Shocking. Breathe. It will be okay. Aside from the fact that I’ve had to go into double-mania crocheting for both a pink baby and a blue baby, I think it’s been lots of fun, this guessing game, but it sure does put some people into cardiac arrest when they hear we don’t have any idea whether it’s a boy or a girl. Like I said, breathe.

Some people get all upset about becoming a grandparent. They think it makes them old. I think you make yourself old. Okay, I admit we do age, but we can be defiant about it. I’m all excited that I’m almost a grandma. I’m really excited that my daughter is almost a mommy too. She’s been a little mom since she was . . . well, about two. I remember a time when I went into the bathroom. (Bathroom breaks when there’s a two-year old and an infant in the house are precariously dangerous.) When I emerged, there was my little first-born packing around my infant. You see, the baby had been sitting in her carrier and started to cry. When first-born couldn’t comfort her, she picked her up and started to walk around with her like she’d seen mommy do — the only problem was that she had grabbed the wrong end, and the baby was dangling upsidedown in her motherly little toddler arms. My perma-mom daughter has been waiting a long time for this. She’s going to be one really awesome mommy, provided she figures out which end is up. I can’t wait to see that little infant in her arms. It will be a perfect picture.

My beautiful daughter is almost a mommy; I am almost a grandma; and today I managed to write a blog without Miley in it. Well . . . almost.
　

think twice

Miley: So Mommy, remember when you stole my chewstick from me?
Me: Miley, what do you have there?
Miley: This is a snotty tissue from the bathroom garbage, of course.
Me: That's really gross.
Miley: Yummy. Yummy. Booger Pie. Yummy.
Me: Miley, drop it!
Miley: See this foot next to me? It's protecting me from you. Feet are magic, not words.
Me: Naughty girl!
Miley: Maybe next time you'll think twice about stealing my chewstick.

that's my stick

Miley loves chew sticks. Well, she's a puppy, so what's not to love about chewing? She refuses to learn to read, but she'll chew on a stick all day. Go figure. One day she was chewing on a stick for hours. Those are tiny teeth, and it literally takes hours to chew up a stick. Finally, she got thirsty from all her effort with the stick, and she trotted off to get a drink. My mischievous streak got the best of me, and I picked up the stick. When she returned, I held it to my mouth and pretended to be chewing on it.

Poor little thing. She was so distraught. She stood there staring at me with those big brown eyes full of shock, head cocked, one foot raised, and trembling from head to tail. I was pretty sure I heard her say, "My stick. That's my stick. Woe is me. My stick."

dog days

You’ve already been introduced to my dog, Miley. The other dog in this picture is Chamine, my daughter’s daughter. Yes, she calls her dog her daughter. I guess that makes her my grandchild. I was sort of hoping for my first grandchild to have a little hair, but really this is too much.

Wouldn’t it be nice to be a dog? I have sometimes wished that I was a dog. I mean here they are lounging their time away, not a care in the world, and I’m rushing about, doing laundry, cleaning bathrooms, making dinner, you know, the like.

Sometimes they look so downright bored, I suggest to them that they learn to read. I tell them that the world opens up to you when you can read. They stare at me blankly, heads cocking back and forth, waiting for a word like, "treat," "walk," "go," "car ride," or "hungry?" to come out of my mouth. Then I suggest they develop a talent like playing the piano, dancing the tango, or whistling through their noses. Nothing. In desperation, I suggest if neither of those two are really great options for them, maybe they could take up a hobby, such as knitting, photography, beekeeping. Still the blank stares, heads cocking back and forth, and waiting on edge for a wonderful magic word that means something to them.

Yes, it would be very nice to be a dog. Sometimes, I really think I’d like that, but then I remember if you’re a dog you can’t read. They can keep their dog days, and I’ll keep my books, cuz after all, words really are magic.

clean genes

I was recently reading my diary from ages about eight to ten, and the following type of entry seemed to be quite prominent:

I cleaned the living room.

I cleaned the bathroom.

I cleaned the bedroom.

Today I cleaned the living room and so my sister did too.

I admit there were entries about playing with friends, playing jacks, (anyone remember that game?) my goldfish that "tried to die," and an entry about the time I ran behind some swings at the park, got smacked into by some innocent swinger, slit my chin open, passed out, and had to have seventeen stitches. However, the entries about cleaning were fairly prominent. It would seem that I started the "clean freak" thing at a very early age.

I've always wished I could pass this "clean gene" on to my children. As they've grown up, it has appeared that each one has entirely missed out on it until they become grownups and they begin to care about their own homes.

The above picture is my sweet little parti-pom, Miley. You will note that her toys are lined up in a neat little row. I know you're thinking that I did it, but I didn't. I left the room for some minutes, and when I returned, her toys were all lined up like this. The hard part was getting her to sit next to them for a photo. A few treats were involved.

It would seem I've passed on my clean genes after all.