We have a running joke in this house. When horse play gets out of hand and mom (that's me) fears that either I'll get trampled or my glasses broken, I slur in a very slurry voice, "Careful, I'm soft and sensitive." The first time I said that, what seems like a million years ago, the girls stopped jumping on me only to fall over in a gale of laughter.... You might to have had to be there to get the full impact. But it worked.
Now a million years later, I still say the soft and sensitive words when rough housing grows to a mommy extreme. But for mommy these words have taken on a different meaning. Before, when I would say them, it was a joke. Although sensitive, Mommy wasn't soft. I was a slim trim walking biking machine. I could handle my own in the horsing around arena, sans glasses. It's the glasses and the inability to see without them that truly frightens me, but I sort of digress.
Right after turning 50, I started, through no wish of my own, to take on that grandma softness. You know when you hug a grandmother and they are all warm, soft and cozy. Like a blanket without the fringe. With a soft and cozy lap; great for grandchildren to crawl up into. (Yes, I miss my nana.)
Granted I'm old enough to have grandchildren. But I was a late starter; very late. My girls aren't ready to be mamas. But that hasn't seemed to affect my hormonal clock.
Friends offer support by acknowledging, "It happens." Doctors offer encouragement, " Exercise and eat a good diet." I try, but still I'm becoming grandmotherly.Yesterday while wrestling off my sweaty tshirt from a stint on the treadmill, my arm brushed against my soft and sensitive belly. Immediately I had a vision of nana. A warmth filled my core, and for a nanosecond I was sitting on her lap.
Maybe being soft and sensitive is okay; something I will have to grow into.