365 Random Days of Team Zybko
Day #300
January 13th, 2013
Hands Don't Lie About Your Age
I am certainly no rocket scientist but I can assure you I am smart enough to stay away from a few majorly loaded questions asked of me in this lifetime.
How much do YOU think I weigh?
Do you think my kids are weird too?
How bad is my menopause mustache?
How bad is my menopause mustache?
My husband said the 70 pounds I gained this time around
is all baby, what do you think?
is all baby, what do you think?
How old do YOU think I am?
Thankfully I have enough Irish running through my veins and my IQ, while I am not curing cancer anytime soon is sufficient enough to wriggle out of conversations like these to safety. Yes, it usually works something like this. I begin with a cheesy joke, laugh a toothy grin even though I messed up the punch line, stand there briefly pretending I forgot the question, they ask again, I tell them their fly on their yoga pants is down and then run for cover as fast as my soccer mom legs will take me out of the city.
Every man for themselves.....exit stage left! Abort, abort, abort!
Every man for themselves.....exit stage left! Abort, abort, abort!
Why we ask each other these double edged questions is beyond my knowledge of anything I ever learned and retained from Psychology 101 back in 1989. I suppose I will have to do some more modern type research and some serious people experiments, preferably in a crowded Starbucks over an extra hot latte. Yes, that sounds perfect. I will get back to you, stay tuned, it may take a few trips. Ya' know, to get it just right and all.
Oh yes ma'am I would like the usual today and that last pumpkin scone sitting there so lonely in that wonderfully lit bakery case.
The question I seem to get the most these days is the last one mentioned. Apparently people my age are a bit wigged out about getting old. I will admit, turning 40 really did hit me hard, smack dab across the face like a cold wet nasty decaying tuna. I was all fine and good, rolling along with no problems up until 39 and 364 days. I even surprised myself by getting all tripped up with the actually #'s thing. Sometime during the year I even looked into how to un-age the pictures taken of me on my very own camera. Something had to be done, the quality of digital film has gotten way to clear and detailed. Eeeeekkkk.
Fast forward 12 months.
I eventually came to my senses about getting older and looker older, realizing that faking my pictures would only give others a false representation of what I looked like in real life. Yep, that's how mature and good I am with the increased number of candles on my Birthday cake. Ok, you caught me, that's a big fat hairy mole lie. Truth is I never figured out a way to download, upload or even install the stupid wrinkle defying program onto the computer. Dang. I had no choice but to get over myself and I did, for the most part. 41 does in fact sit better with me than plain ole 40.
And that is no lie.
If I were too have looked at this picture of my hands a few months ago I probably would have panicked. Panicked hard. Geesh, are those really my old, veiny overused hands? No way, no way...hand me the camera....now...hit delete, hit delete...yes I wanna to delete...hit the button again...aaaahhhhh.
Not today though. Today I look at my hands differently. Ya see hands do not and can not lie about your age even if they wanted too. Unlike people they can't run out of the building when asked how old they are. Truthful 100% of the time.
Since we are being truthful, I remember as a child being bored to tears in Church every Sunday. Like filling the seconds by counting everything in sight or spelling every persons name I had ever met in my young life, over and over again. That kinda bored. To earn a fast track ticket to hell in a Catholic Church during the 70's you did one of two things. Chew gum or talk. To do both would cause one to burst into flames, right there in the pew, I was certain of it. So, because of this accurate information about where I would spend eternity, I was in fact really good, well behaved most weeks. The spot next to my mother was chosen by picking straws or strategically staging oneself correctly in the long line of ducklings behind her. Who ever wants to sit next to the head po po? Being the youngest of seven I had very little chance of not picking the short straw or obtaining a spot using brute strength in the back of the line.
Beside my mother I sat, many times. I would later realize this to be a blessing, not til many years down the road. During the long winded homily no slouching or accidental dozing off was allowed. My mom would place her 40 something year old hand on my leg in the most loving way to encourage me to listen intently.....or else. Sorry mom, another truth here, I'm pretty sure I didn't successfully listen and understand the message til I was about15 25. In case you are wondering, St. James Church on Park Avenue, where I received 4 Sacraments has 235 rectangular ceiling tiles, 22 beautiful stain glass windows, 44 hard stiff pews and 348 hanging candles. I liked when my mom let me hold her hands, it was super special quiet time that literally fell into my lap. As the priest spoke about, well....not to beat a dead horse but I have no idea what he was going on about. But for those 25 minutes or so I examined my moms hard working tender hands.
The informal studying was carried over from Mass to the next Mass, 52 weeks a year plus of course any Holy Days of Obligation. I can't say for sure what I was looking for. I can only remember how it made me feel, even 30 years later it warms my heart to recall tracing every line with my pudgy soft kid fingers. The smoothness of her short overworked nails, tracing the puffy blood filled veins and playing connect the dots with various freckles. Then it was time for the congregation to stand, to be continued.
Of course appreciation of our parents sacrifices and love for us is often delayed until we reach a pivotal point in our own parenting journey. I believe facing the facts and being comfortable with more wrinkles on my own hands, I have safely arrived. Wow, this mom gig is tough. Doesn't really seem to get easier with experience. The trenches seem to get deeper as you face new stages in your kids life. As I type, backspace, re-type and think, I catch glimpses of my own hands. I know I am over thinking about how to get my point across. Realizing now after 30 minutes I only needed 4 simple words.
I love you mom.
I am blessed you are still on this earth. I am beyond thankful for you. No Hallmark card could ever do you justice, at least not one I have ever read. Maybe I will right my own one day.
It would read like this.
I love you and your beautiful old lady hands.
I know you would laugh but I really mean it. Your hands are as loving as you are. An extension of your heart. The hands that with love made countless dinners, cleaned piles of huge un-sorted, in side out laundry and signed permission slips given to you at the 11th hour. They drove us to every event under the sun, getting us there on time despite the fact you don't do highways. Hands that clapped their way through long boring band concerts and super hot 4 hour swim meets. Your sewing hands which experimented on doll clothes before tackling entire wardrobes for 7 small people and of course that one green, polyester leisure suit for dad. Hands that nursed and took care of complete strangers while on 3rd shift at the hospital. When I was bad and deserved discipline in the form of a spanking these were the hands that explained to me, this hurts me more than it hurts you. Your super human sterile hands that never seemed to get sick even after a million rounds of the stomach flu, changing sheets, washing bowls and holding back greasy hair. Veteran mom hands turned instantly into grandma hands, teaching me how to properly swaddle a newborn so they would sleep for more than 2 hours at a time. Honest hands that led by example. Helping hands to others when you didn't think you had anymore giving in you. Studying late into the night hands, obtaining 2 degrees in adulthood amongst all your other life duties. I could go on and on but I am out of space on this imaginary extra large Hallmark card, the back side too. I am not surprised an entire page just flowed from my very own hands. I wish blogging was around in your day as I could certainly learn from your cliff notes of motherhood. How on earth did you make it all work?
Whether you know it or not your hands have set the bar high. I am ecstatic my hands are beginning to resemble yours. I couldn't possible be more filled up to be your daughter.
Back to my original point.
Hands don't lie, they tell the most wonderful truths about ones life.
So, if you ask me to guess your age any time soon, I will immediately look down at your hands before answering. Of course I'm no idiot, I will subtract 5-10 years for good behavior.
Fast forward 12 months.
I eventually came to my senses about getting older and looker older, realizing that faking my pictures would only give others a false representation of what I looked like in real life. Yep, that's how mature and good I am with the increased number of candles on my Birthday cake. Ok, you caught me, that's a big fat hairy mole lie. Truth is I never figured out a way to download, upload or even install the stupid wrinkle defying program onto the computer. Dang. I had no choice but to get over myself and I did, for the most part. 41 does in fact sit better with me than plain ole 40.
And that is no lie.
If I were too have looked at this picture of my hands a few months ago I probably would have panicked. Panicked hard. Geesh, are those really my old, veiny overused hands? No way, no way...hand me the camera....now...hit delete, hit delete...yes I wanna to delete...hit the button again...aaaahhhhh.
Not today though. Today I look at my hands differently. Ya see hands do not and can not lie about your age even if they wanted too. Unlike people they can't run out of the building when asked how old they are. Truthful 100% of the time.
Since we are being truthful, I remember as a child being bored to tears in Church every Sunday. Like filling the seconds by counting everything in sight or spelling every persons name I had ever met in my young life, over and over again. That kinda bored. To earn a fast track ticket to hell in a Catholic Church during the 70's you did one of two things. Chew gum or talk. To do both would cause one to burst into flames, right there in the pew, I was certain of it. So, because of this accurate information about where I would spend eternity, I was in fact really good, well behaved most weeks. The spot next to my mother was chosen by picking straws or strategically staging oneself correctly in the long line of ducklings behind her. Who ever wants to sit next to the head po po? Being the youngest of seven I had very little chance of not picking the short straw or obtaining a spot using brute strength in the back of the line.
Beside my mother I sat, many times. I would later realize this to be a blessing, not til many years down the road. During the long winded homily no slouching or accidental dozing off was allowed. My mom would place her 40 something year old hand on my leg in the most loving way to encourage me to listen intently.....or else. Sorry mom, another truth here, I'm pretty sure I didn't successfully listen and understand the message til I was about
The informal studying was carried over from Mass to the next Mass, 52 weeks a year plus of course any Holy Days of Obligation. I can't say for sure what I was looking for. I can only remember how it made me feel, even 30 years later it warms my heart to recall tracing every line with my pudgy soft kid fingers. The smoothness of her short overworked nails, tracing the puffy blood filled veins and playing connect the dots with various freckles. Then it was time for the congregation to stand, to be continued.
Of course appreciation of our parents sacrifices and love for us is often delayed until we reach a pivotal point in our own parenting journey. I believe facing the facts and being comfortable with more wrinkles on my own hands, I have safely arrived. Wow, this mom gig is tough. Doesn't really seem to get easier with experience. The trenches seem to get deeper as you face new stages in your kids life. As I type, backspace, re-type and think, I catch glimpses of my own hands. I know I am over thinking about how to get my point across. Realizing now after 30 minutes I only needed 4 simple words.
I love you mom.
I am blessed you are still on this earth. I am beyond thankful for you. No Hallmark card could ever do you justice, at least not one I have ever read. Maybe I will right my own one day.
It would read like this.
I love you and your beautiful old lady hands.
I know you would laugh but I really mean it. Your hands are as loving as you are. An extension of your heart. The hands that with love made countless dinners, cleaned piles of huge un-sorted, in side out laundry and signed permission slips given to you at the 11th hour. They drove us to every event under the sun, getting us there on time despite the fact you don't do highways. Hands that clapped their way through long boring band concerts and super hot 4 hour swim meets. Your sewing hands which experimented on doll clothes before tackling entire wardrobes for 7 small people and of course that one green, polyester leisure suit for dad. Hands that nursed and took care of complete strangers while on 3rd shift at the hospital. When I was bad and deserved discipline in the form of a spanking these were the hands that explained to me, this hurts me more than it hurts you. Your super human sterile hands that never seemed to get sick even after a million rounds of the stomach flu, changing sheets, washing bowls and holding back greasy hair. Veteran mom hands turned instantly into grandma hands, teaching me how to properly swaddle a newborn so they would sleep for more than 2 hours at a time. Honest hands that led by example. Helping hands to others when you didn't think you had anymore giving in you. Studying late into the night hands, obtaining 2 degrees in adulthood amongst all your other life duties. I could go on and on but I am out of space on this imaginary extra large Hallmark card, the back side too. I am not surprised an entire page just flowed from my very own hands. I wish blogging was around in your day as I could certainly learn from your cliff notes of motherhood. How on earth did you make it all work?
Whether you know it or not your hands have set the bar high. I am ecstatic my hands are beginning to resemble yours. I couldn't possible be more filled up to be your daughter.
Back to my original point.
Hands don't lie, they tell the most wonderful truths about ones life.
So, if you ask me to guess your age any time soon, I will immediately look down at your hands before answering. Of course I'm no idiot, I will subtract 5-10 years for good behavior.
No comments:
Post a Comment