Week 14: Getting on...

Crows Feet and other fun...

One of CK’s favourite moments in the mornings is to have a quick squizz at us in the mirror. She loves it. I am horrified by it. What has happened to me? Her peachy, perfect soft skin serves only to exaggerate my creased, lined, aged, old skin. And it is not just the complexion that is suffering...

I have always prided myself on my interest in everything current and as a music fan, have always tried to stay one step ahead of the charts - I like to think that I am ‘over’ most number 1s before they make it there. No more. I switched on Radio 1 the other day (having crossed over to Radio 4 during my pregnancy) and found myself mumbling under my breath, in much the same style as my grandfather, “What is this rubbish? It’s doesn’t even seem to make sense grammatically!!” I swiftly re-tuned the wireless and was wrapped in the warmth of my equally uncool friends Libby Purves, Jenny Murray and Evan Davis (although I think he is secretly very cool, he’s just not allowed to show it to the Radio 4 listernership).

I also tried logging on to Twitter this week (which is what has sparked off this tirade) and I just don’t understand it. I don’t know what I am supposed to do on there, why I would want to use it or what the point is. And I’m a media teacher for God’s sake!

Is this another ‘symptom’ of pregnancy? Is it nature’s way of making sure that CK can forge her own identity without me trying to hop on board the latest trends? I’m not sure. But I do know this. Tempah is spelt like this: temper. A chipmunk is a little squeaky rodent. Tweets are what birdies do. And gaga is what you are after childbirth, and no, it isn’t cool at all.

p.s. if you don’t understand the last paragraph... you know what that means... you are past it too! Hurray!
The Mummatron


Getting Old

With this topic I think I may have a bit of an advantage. My next birthday is the big 60, is that old? Well some mornings it feels like a Methuselah-fest and other mornings I can skip out of bed like the proverbial spring woolly thing, you know, the one you eat with mint sauce …. And there’s the main problem about getting old, never mind the groans, creaks and windy emissions it’s the lack of ability to access your random memory base that is the most frustrating part of it. It helps if you have been married as long as I have because my husband and I have known each other since we were 16 so we can sew a pretty good patchwork of memories between us, but some days that just isn’t enough for either of us.

As old age creeps silently up behind you with cold twiggy fingers outstretched you learn all sorts of new skills; how not to scream when the chiropracter chops down on your spine with the full force of her boney little hands; how to keep your opinions to yourself now that you have learnt that you will never change a racist Fascist; how to plan how you will get up again before sitting on the floor, and always, always avoid large bean bag chairs, especially when the phone is likely to ring – over there on the table – argh!

My latest lesson in ageing is that babies are not what they used to be. I hardly dare do anything with my little granddaughter CK without checking with my daughter if it is OK these days to: feed her banana; go within 15 feet of her if I am wearing any synthetic materials; lay her on her – side – tummy – back, although obviously not her head, we never even did that in the Old Days. And the nappies! My goodness how they have all changed. When changing CKs’ nappy I first have to find my reading glasses and get stuck into the introductory course on how to open the baby wipes and how to use them. Then the nappies themselves require quite advanced training on type, size and absorbability, not to mention which nappy cream to use when and where! I suppose this is all good training for when I shall have to start stealing her nappies for myself, but I am keeping my ever so slightly arthritic fingers crossed that that will be a long time in the future.

Granny Bloggins