Only 65

I mostly believed the doom-sayers in childhood who predicted I would never see my 30th birthday. "Girls like you" seldom grow old. As a teenager, my 30th birthday was an unsavory imagining, in any event. These doom-sayers werenae ever my favorite sources of counsel and I shrugged them off with, "Live fast, die young and make a good-looking corpse." Adult life looked worth missing, in any event. It is too late for me to die young or make a good-looking corpse, but I still often quip that if God wants me to see my 100th birthday, She is going to have to drag me there, kicking and screaming. "Destination Older" still doesnae look like a lifestyle I care to embrace.

Are these three orphans God's agents to do that job of dragging me to, "Destination Older?" As Hubs and I continue hammering on the adoption process that will spring them from the Foster Care System, I am verily haunted by the spectre of parenting teenagers in my 80's. Yea, I'm a fiesty old broad, but even Mother Teresa had her limits. Picking up the toddler from the floor uncounted times every day is a harsh reminder that my 65 year old back ain't quite as strong as it was 30 years ago. Nor is my balance. Balancing her weight in addition to mine is an on-going challenge. We have both nearly toppled several times as I struggled to get us off the floor unassisted. There are no other adults close to hear cries of distress. We will be on our own if that slip should happen. There is a far greater chance of breaking 65 year old bones than 30 year old bones. That slip could grow into serious trauma for all. Not to worry, Dears. The social workers will be checking in on us next month. Gampy will be home from work in a few hours or so.

The good news is that these grim scenarios havenae joined the OCD thought loop chaos. Well. . . Nay much. I am processing them as "Reality Checks." These are real dangers, nay to be trusted to the youthenizers who seem to be endowing me with Super Woman powers as I work to stabilize this little ship of fools. "Only 65" sounds even more patronizing when held in front of the realities of a second parenting career. Hearts donae beat to metaphor. A 65 year old heart is still beating to 65 year old rhythms, whatever your taste in music and metaphor. These young, growing children will be teenagers before I know it and . . . Sorting. . .

I have been filing these reality checks under, "Let Go and Let God." I donae *get* to know the future. I can only do my best with what I have to work with today. Works in progress. Letting God lead the dance. Thine will be done.