I do not feel as if I am in a batting cage with a machine pitching baseballs at me, but I might say I would compare it to being in the cage with a whole lot of machines tossing ping pong balls, tennis balls, baby rubber balls . . . hail, even . . . at me. And I have this feeling of “What now?” and a frenzied thought of “Oh, Miss Scarlett, I ain’t ever delivered no babies!” bouncing around in my head.

As I stand looking through the screen door – the old wooden one with the decorative knobs on it – at the rain pouring down, I am considering actually taking control of this situation and announcing: If you can’t handle peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth occasionally, get out of my way and maybe just get out.

However, I am fairly certain I will not say this. I will probably do the “take a number” thing and start handling issues in a triage manner, making unilateral decisions and letting the chips fall where they may. As Cameron cheers when my temper reaches a certain point, “Go, Grandma!”

So . . . I turn from the screen door, face the interior and the people within and get on with it.

This might be big talk for a short, soup-canned figured, coming up on being old woman . . .