If I were one-hundred years old, I would have wrinkles. I would be in a wheelchair. I would have short hair. I wouldn't have much money. I would shrug and be slow. I would live by myself. I wouldn't go to much places. I wouldn't like to go places. I would try to go to the store and get food. I would have a dog and a cat. I wouldn't have a love. I wouldn't see my grandkids at all. I would have grandkids.
Brooklyn looked at me expectantly as I read her paper. When I finished, I laughed a little and asked her, "You'll have grandkids, but you'll never see them? You won't have a love and you won't go anywhere? That seems kinda sad, don't you think?"
Brooklyn blinked, raised her eyes and spoke very slowly, as if I was a learning-impaired monkey. "Mo-om. I'm ONE-HUNDRED years old! Maybe I would visit my grandkids when I'm EIGHTY, but when I'm ONE-HUNDRED, I'm going to be TIRED."
I couldn't help but laugh, both because of her reasoning, and because of her expression as she explained to me what I clearly couldn't grasp on my own. "Don't you think you'd want to see your grandkids even if you're one-hundred years old?" I asked.
"Nah, grandkids are too loud. Well, maybe my grandkids could come visit me. For a little bit. But then they'll have to leave because they'll tire me out."
"I guess that's a good plan, Brooklyn."
P.S. Hey Mom & Dad, you might want to come visit your grandkids soon.