Shortly after 6:AM this morning, my five-year-old granddaughter entered my room.  I am a very early riser, so I was up, but I had planned to spend my first waking hours finishing the book of Isaiah (I’ve been reading through the bible this year), praying and just generally doing spiritual stuff, because it’s a good thing to do and also because I need to see some things change in my life.  I also planned to finish my Dabney Hedegard book (Wow! what a woman) and then delve into my Practical Guide to Walking in Healing Power, because I figure the sooner you get a handle on a book like that, the better.  My sheets were stripped off the bed ready to be thrown into the washing machine, and the books that I keep on the bed were on the floor, because I would be replacing the fitted sheet and blankets after the clothes were washed.  I also wanted to do my 30 minutes on the exercise bike.  I have accomplished everything (with the exception of the healing power book, which I haven’t yet cracked open), but I wanted to do it all in my early morning time frame.  Why that seemed to be so important to me, I can’t say, other than my sometimes unrealistic desire to “be productive” in a house that contains two grandchildren, one of them under a year old.

I was not happy to see my granddaughter bogarding her way into my room.  Just like I’m not delighted when my youngest daughter (nanny of the almost one-year-old) thrusts him into my arms as I check my emails or whatever I may be doing at the dining room table.  “I want to make my breakfast” or “I want to eat my breakfast” or any number of things she feels cannot be accomplished with a velcroed on baby in tow.

“I have raised my kids and didn’t sign up for this,” I want to proclaim even as my arms grudgingly reach out for the baby or I turn on the Disney channel.  Then I have to consider why I bought this house with my daughter.  I am divorced and not a spring chicken.  In fact I’m more of a winter chicken, and I didn’t want to live alone or far away from my four grandchildren (the other two are ten minutes away).  I tend to get into my writing or my reading or my singing or my praying, and when I’m in that zone, kids are a distraction.  For that matter even a friend in need of a listening ear is an unwelcome intrusion, and then I remember I had no friends when I first moved to Los Angeles and I was lonely, and I couldn’t really play with my grandchildren when I was recovering from a car accident.

So I think I will stop looking at these lovely human beings as distractions, intrustions, irritations.  Is it really so important to check my emails when the baby reaches out to me?  Sometimes a child needs my touch as much as my prayer.  God is available 24/7, and I don’t think he will mind waiting till after I kiss and soothe a child.  Coincidentally here is the baby tugging at me to pick him up, so no spell check or trying to turn out a perfect post.  Bye computer, hello baby .



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