|Please don't retouch my wrinkles. It took me so long to earn them. |
While shopping in the produce section last week, my 11 year old son N whispered to me, "Did you see her? She's really old!"
I followed his (thankfully) discreet nod to a woman easily in her late 90's. Her stooped spine and hunched shoulders carried a shawl over a long dark dress as she shuffled along in her practical black shoes. She wore a babushka over wisps of thin white hair, her sunken face corrugated with deep ridges of her life's canvas. An artist's dream.
I smiled and explained how special it was to see her out and about, still shopping and getting around at her age.
A few minutes later he told me, "B's Grandma is really old like that, too. You should see her!"
"Oh, I didn't realize she was that old," I wondered, haven't met her yet.
"Yeah, she is," he mused, "Well...I think maybe a month younger."
Also last week while waiting for the schoolbus, G was wondering out loud if there would be a birthday celebration at school that day. I quizzed him on the ages of his friends and family, some right, some wrong. When I asked him how old I am, "He immediately responded, "5!" (like duh, Mom!)
I'm going to count that as an excellent sign that he considers me his peer, since we're working on Play Project, SonRise-inspired techniques. lol
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.