It was a simple question. I shouldn't have been stumped so easily. All they wanted to know was my age.
It took some simple math to figure it out and, I have to admit, for just a few seconds, I was a little shocked. Everything around me, including my body, tells me I'm on a quick trip over the hill, but I'm having too much fun to care. I'm not sure how many scientists it took to come up with the age bracket for the prime of your life, but they're wrong, it's not between the ages of 18-35.
When you're comfortable wearing bib overalls with a pair of dress shoes, you are definitely in your prime. Pairing this outfit with a handmade rubber-band bracelet from a first-grader, reading glasses on the tip of your nose and a pocket full of vanilla wafers and it's called being a grandma, and this is my prime.
While on a family outing I decided to pack my purse with items for the toddlers to play with if they were bored. When I pulled out three contact cases, with a pair of dried up contacts in one of them, the toddlers looked at me like I was an idiot, while the kids just shook their heads in disbelief. When that didn't impress them I pulled out my measuring tape. The first time the line snapped back into place, one of the son-in-laws decided it was time for his kid to come back over to his side of the table.
When I can successfully juggle four grandchildren at once while playing air hockey, baby dolls and keeping two one-year-olds from falling down the stairs, I consider myself to be in good shape. Who needs an exercise class to work up a sweat when you have a set of toddlers who have figured out if they go separate ways to destroy something, I can only get to one of them at a time.
I know I'm getting forgetful, but isn't everyone? Sure I spend quality time looking for my reading glasses whenever they're on top of my head, but I'm the only one who will admit to it publicly. Walking into another room and forgetting what I came in for is a daily occurrence, and I'm OK with that, as long as it doesn't interfere with making dinner.
I don't consider cooking a daily chore that has to be done.
I look forward to planning it so everything comes together at precisely the right moment. I was trying out a new baked chicken recipe. The chicken was prepared, the oven was on, timer was set and I was off to another room.
When he came to find me 20 minutes later and asked why I was timing the chicken, to set on top of the oven, instead of in it, I laughed so hard my stomach hurt.
I'm sure he's wondering if I really am starting to lose my mind.
Maybe I am, but it doesn't matter, because my life is a winner, winner chicken dinner!
Sandy Turner writes about family and lives in the Midwest.