It’s all good in the childhood.
I am obsessed with my kids’ clothes. I wish everything they had came in my size.
And looked equally cute. (I don’t love the mama size options for most kid-centric brands. They don’t work on my frame.)
Kneeling and squatting to play in the chalk and dirt and grass with them…that’s getting harder.
I’ve had stiff, inflexible hips for a while. They’ve got sorer bit by bit over the past few years. And a week ago, I found out I have severe osteoarthritis in my hips. The doctor said I have the range of motion of someone in their 80’s. Hereditary likely. There’s no specific event or reason for this.
I’m gutted.
I can do stretches and exercises (as demonstrated by models 3x my age in arthritis literature), but the cartilage is worn out and not coming back. Hip replacement surgery in my early 40’s seems inevitable.
It hurts to pick up my kids. To take the stairs. To crouch or bend. I wake up in pain in the middle of the night. Other (pipe) dreams, like running another marathon or rock climbing or a third kid are gone. Finished.
I want to preserve the range of motion I have for as long as I have it.
It’s been suggested I not pick up my kids. Or kneel down to their eye level. Or let them climb on my lap for giant bear hugs. No wrestling or running or piggybacks.
But I’m going to do it all anyway. For as long as I can.
I don’t want to stand on the sidelines of their childhood, so my bad hips don’t get worse.
I’m going to lean in, bad hips and all. My hips are already shot. I’d rather my hips give out while going rough and tumble with my kids than keep them at arm’s length for the next decade to maintain this current state of disarray.
You won’t find me running a 10K. But if you see me, crouched in the shrubs and not moving, there’s a good chance I’m stuck. So give Michael a ring to come collect me.
Originally published on Instagram.