A part of me is freaking out. Mess! OMG, as the grandson would say. Can I get it cleaned up all right? Has he done any permanent damage? And me, I hurt, and someone should feel sorry for me. I also fret that I can't think, can't concentrate, with others commanding my attention, either directly or indirectly. I make the excuse that I can't get stuff done because I am being interrupted.
And yet and yet. How many people can look around at their new home, all new, and enjoy the company of a bright strange little grandson, and have the time to fret about the arthritis, and be able to take bike rides near the ocean, and to write journal posts about whatever I like...?