My grandson, in discussing the serious subject of who he would want to have on his team in the event of a Zombie invasion, laughed when my daughter suggested to him, “I’d want your LoLo on my team.”
Without missing a beat he shot back, “Momma, LoLo can’t run.”
Why should it bother me that an 11 year old would automatically assume I couldn’t run? This is the child with whom I spent nearly every day of his life from the day he was born until just last year, when his mother’s career change allowed her to get him off of the bus every afternoon. I was under the impression that he thought I was a super hero. I’m the one who hard boiled and packaged an egg for him that just few weeks ago beat out 70 others in some weird egg boxing match at his school. I have spent many summer days doing cannonballs into the pool with him. I was stunned that I would not be someone he would automatically want on his team should Zombies ever invade.
Today I went to my daughter’s house to help her prepare for a yard sale, and just in time to meet Carter as he got home from school. I challenged him to a race. I told him that I wanted to run across the front yards. He actually laughed at my crazy idea and me. To be honest, I don’t think I’ve actually moved faster than a brisk walk in at least 15 years.
We stood side by side at the edge of the neighbor’s driveway. My daughter called the race, holding her hands out so that whichever of us slapped her hand first would be declared the winner. I gritted my teeth, dug in my feet and flew off the start, determined not to let this boy win. Arms pumping, I pushed off with every step, digging in and using my feet to propel the rest of me forward. My eyes squinted shut and I reached out toward my daughter’s hand, smacking it square in the palm. I then ran into my car, which was parked in the driveway. I turned around, panting and puffing, to see my grandson standing there with a look of disbelief on his face. His eyes were wide and his mouth hung open. I stopped on the way home for some lavender scented Epsom salts and a fresh bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol. My breathing has since returned to normal.
Who do you want on your team of Zombie fighters now? Huh? Because what self respecting middle aged grandmother isn’t going to want to beat an 11 year old in a front yard footrace?