I'm tired. Too tired to go out partying on Fridays and eating breakfast before going to bed on Saturday. I'm so over hungover Sundays. That's not me anymore. I'm a granny. I start dozing on the couch at 8:00 pm. watching CSI (my generation's version of "Murder She Wrote") covered in blankets with only a solitary lamp lighting the room. Everything's different though, when the grandchildren come to stay. Why do grandchildren not have bedtimes? Last night we stayed up and stayed up, and stayed up some more. They watched movies and ate and popcorn and snuggled with 12 year old Uncle Charlie. Then Uncle Charlie disappeared to his room and we watched more movies. We ate sweets and drank chocolate milk and took countless bathroom breaks. I'm telling you, it was almost as crazy as a night on the town. You know those nights when you end up at a friend's house, everyone asleep on the couches and chairs, people snoring on the floor? That was my night. One fell asleep lying spread eagle on her back, smack on top of me on the love-seat. I found Charlie rolled up like a burrito in a blanket on his bed, the XBox controller still gripped in his right hand. Yet another lay drooling half-on, half-off the sofa. I put one of the party animals in bed with me and finally crawled under the covers to sleep. She immediately turned herself sideways in the bed and put her feet in my stomach. This was the sleep-dance we did all night. Feet in my stomach, feet in my face, elbow to my nose. She snored like a passed out 22 year old who stayed out too late with the wrong crowd. At 6:30 this morning when I felt her sitting up in bed beside me, I became aware of the throbbing in my head. I looked up at her. She was smiling down at me, her hair all askance. "Hi Momo!" She said. "Hi Athena." I said back, in my brightest granny voice. "Let's go get waffles." We all hit up the Waffle House dressed like we pulled clothes out of the hamper without the lights on. The food was good, the kids were fun, but I couldn't wait to get back home and take a nap. Life doesn't give you a break once you're a granny. Don't be fooled. You're still going to be up all night on Saturdays, eating breakfast too early on Sundays and walking around like a zombie on Mondays. The party never ends, it just changes into something different. Instead of tequila shots, you'll be slamming chocolate milk until 3:00 a.m. and let me tell you, there is such a thing as a chocolate milk hangover. It's only cured by a super sweet breakfast and lots of water and that's only if you're NOT lactose intolerant. The best part though? You get to take those sugar-rushed maniacs back to their parents once the sleep-over is done! And let me tell you, you've never had a nap as sweet as the one you get after a night of the granny life.

We live in a small town. Technically it's not really a town, it's a community made up of two former towns, now mere ghosts of what they once were. Created in days-gone-by, a different era when manufacturing was the life and breath of a town, Slater-Marietta still sits, a strange sense of pride imbued in every empty storefront building or run down tire shop. Only the businesses that are essential to daily life remain. A small grocery, a gas station, Slater Drug store where you can still get a milk shake or a float any day of the week as long as you don't mind waiting awhile for Bea to make it. There is a dearth of jobs where once this place stood as a bustling part of the Southern economy. The old mill, which still operates but requires far less manpower than in the distant past, puts out the smell of burned carpet now and then, and atop the big hill above at Slater Hall, you can look down on its big flat roof. Beyond it lies Beachwood Farms and a stone's throw away, the elementary school. We see our share of the odd. One morning we met a big blue-headed peacock prancing up the middle of the road as if he owned it. He dragged his big long tail feathers behind him,and stopped to stare at us as I stopped my car to stare at him. A standoff of sorts, we looked one another up and down before we both decided to continue on our ways. We never learned how he got there or from whence he came. We never figured out if he got rescued or barbecued but he was never seen again. Tonight I attended my son's Christmas Chorus performance at Slater-Marietta Elementary School. The front row already filled up when I arrived, featured an array of colorful folks. A lady who sounded like a man played with her cell phone camera and talked to her husband about someone's "Butt a showin.'" One lady sat alone like me, but with a giant Santa hat on. She didn't move a muscle or speak to anyone. Soon after I seated myself various smells began to assault my senses. The lady beside me wore flowery perfume, someone in the row behind us seemed freshly doused in Polo, and smokers must have made up the majority of the audience. A guy behind us talked so loudly during the play we could barely hear the kids. He loudly announced when a kindergartener scratched her rear during a song. Just as I started to get used to the blending scents around me a young mother came rushing in and took the seat beside me. We exchanged pleasantries, then she pulled out her phone and got lost in it. Then I noticed another indistinguishable smell. Suddenly, she turned to me and said, "I smell like potatoes and onions." I looked at her and smiled. That was it---Potatoes and onions. "I don't smell anything." I lied. As the performance was gearing up the principal approached the stage. He stuck his head between the curtains and said something, then turned around and walked back red-faced through the crowd. To the mom beside me he said, "Y'all couldn't hear what I said could you?" "No," She answered. "We didn't hear a thing." She looked at me and said, "He must have said, 'Are y'all not fuckin' ready yet?'" "Uh, yeah...right." I mumbled back. When her little girl came out, a first grader, round cheeked and curly haired, the young mom beamed with pride. "That's my little girl right there, second from the right," she told me, expecting me to look and comment. "She's adorable." I said earnestly. "Thanks," said the little girl's mother. As I sat through each grade's performance, I noticed my eyes burning, nose running, stomach churning more and more. I imagined my embarrassment should I end up fleeing my seat for the ladies room, trying to hold in a mouth-full of vomit. Because you know that never works. You just can't hold vomit in like that. I mouth-breathed my way through the performance and got to see my kid trying to hide behind another kid while he sang "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" and some songs about Santa. I'm ashamed to admit, these kinds of things bore the hell out of me. I wouldn't miss them for the world but none of us show up at Christmas concerts to see other people's kids. We show up to watch OUR kids hide behind other people's kids. At the end Principal asked for another round of applause. At any other school those kids might have gotten a standing ovation but at Slater-Marietta we aren't going to stand up to clap for a bunch of kids flubbing their way through "Jingle Bells" for two hours. We're tired and we want to go home. Afterwards, on the way to our car I overheard parents cursing at their kids. "Where's your damn jacket?" said the other. "Let's go," one dad said at regular dad volume. "I can't take anymore of this bullshit tonight. Git in the damn car and don't forget your damn coat this time." I think we all could share his sentiments.