H bomb started gymnastics this week. She’s 5, almost 6 and has decided she is done climbing rock walls and is moving on to tumbling until her Mom can get her act together and find some kinda hussy hip-hop dance class for her.
She’s officially began her professional-tumbling-Mary Lou Retton-American Flag Leotard wearing-career. And she rocked it. She was cartwheeling, she was bouncing, she was high bar hopping. She was all who’s looking at me in the audience and big grinning it. It was going on for her.
Until the last 5 minutes. When she took a nasty spill. A nasty tumble of approximately 6 inches and hurt her knee. Twisted it, if you will. And when she twists or bends or sprains something, it’s often so serious that she insists, through her tears, that it’s definitely broken. Her gymnastics teacher is new to this routine. I am not.
After convincing both Hannah and the newbie Instructor that nothing is broken and all is right in the world, we limped our way home. Sometimes we forgot we were hurt so bad that we walked normally until someone said you look all better. We then remembered we *broke* our knee and started our serious, though probably not necessary, limping. On hobbled knee. With a side of drama.
We found our way to the couches and started relaxing for the night. Then the house phone rang. Yes, I’m the last human being that still owns a land line. It was ringing and since I didn’t recognize the phone number, I, like all other normal people, ignored the call.
Then they called again. This time I answered. That was a mistake.
“Is this Julie?”
It sure is.
This is ____, Hannah’s gymnastics teacher.
I was just calling to check on her knee.
Oh she’s just fine. She’s got a bit of a dramatic flair, but she’s doing fine.
Okay, great. I was really worried about her twisting it and crying so much. And umm was that you that picked her up tonight or was that her Grandma?
I finally speak – Yeah that was me.
Okay, well I was just wondering if that was you that was there.
So many thoughts are running through my head I don’t know what to say next. That really doesn’t happen to me. Ever. She says something about how great it’ll be seeing me next week, and I’m not sure if I responded or not. Someone just thought I was Hannah’s grandma. GRAND-MOTHER. As if there is someone that looks much, much younger that Hannah refers to as mother.
My hair is not gray.
I’m not particularly wrinkly.
I do not wear high waisted jeans/pants/khakis.
I was not wearing a skirt to my ankles with pumps.
I had even showered for a great first impression.
Someone just called me my daughter’s Grandmother and I really don’t know what to do. Or how to process. Or how to move on. Or how to look younger. Or how to accept that I’m getting older. Or how to make pigtails with my really short hair.