She grabs my ear, screams please don't drop me, wraps her bent legs around my waist, pulls at my nose, drools on my neck, by the third step she's leaning toward the ground ready to vomit.
I hate carrying grandma upstairs.
Grandpa, I just tossed over my shoulder. He was the quiet one. In fact, the last time I carried Grandpa upstairs he had stopped breathing. I realized he had passed on when I tried giving him cranberry juice at the kitchen table and it just sort of dribbled down his chin.
I wanted to mourn him, but there was no time.
Grandma was downstairs clamoring to be brought up.
Thankfully I have a good orthopedic doctor and chiropractor, who informs me my whole spine is out of line.
I am probably the most compassionate blogger out there, but it's costing me my health.
Now it's time for grandma's oatmeal. It calms her stomach.
You only get one set of grandparents. Actually two, but who's counting?
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