Some days I do my best. Other days, I do the best I can.

Last week I was in Los Angeles visiting my son and his lovely wife and their 10-month-old Jonah. They treated me like royalty, wouldn’t let me lift a hand, except to pick up Jonah. And they fed me incredibly well.

My son is a firm believer in the value of good nutrition. He likes for me to eat a variety of healthy foods that, when he was growing up, I couldn’t have forced down his throat with a jack hammer.

Every morning while I was there, he made smoothies that were not only nutritious, but delicious. They were so good I vowed to start making them for my husband and me as soon as I got back home. It would be easy because I still had most of the ingredients and supplements from the last time I’d vowed to make them, and never did.

My only regret about the trip was it ended too soon. Our last visit was at Thanksgiving, four months ago. We keep in touch with phone calls and messages, but four months is a long time for a baby. And his nana.

I loved talking with my son and his wife and watching them be such wonderful parents to their little guy. But I needed more time with Jonah.

At first, he just stared at me, as if maybe he knew me, but wasn’t sure. Then he lit up the sky over the City of Angels with a smile that seemed to say, “I know you! You’re my daddy’s mama!”

There’s nothing quite like a baby’s smile to make us a little more thankful to be alive.

For four days, we were buddies, Jonah and I. We danced. Read books. Pointed at birds out the window. He’d reach for me and I’d melt. I’d make faces at him and he’d laugh. He’d kiss my cheek and I’d promise to buy him a car.

Finally, I bit my lip and said goodbye to him and his mama and daddy. Then I flew to San Jose to meet my husband and drive home to Carmel Valley.

That was yesterday. This morning I woke early, thinking I heard Jonah laugh. It was my husband snoring. So I went out to the kitchen to keep my vow to start making smoothies.

When we’re both home, my husband and I like to cook. But if one of us is away, the other will often eat out or make do with whatever. There wasn’t much in the fridge. A few eggs. Some wilted greens. And a piece of leftover pecan pie.

I know what you’re thinking. Who has leftover pie? We had eaten most of it the night before I went to LA, and apparently my husband forgot it was there.

But I found berries and greens in the freezer, plus the protein powder and other supplements I’d bought weeks ago. So I filled the blender and fired it up.

Few sounds on earth — except for leaf blowers or car alarms or obnoxious fans at games — are more annoying than a blender.

My husband stumbled out of the bedroom, poured a cup of coffee and mumbled, “Make a list and I’ll go get groceries.”

“Wanna smoothie?”

“I’ll get dressed first,” he said, wandering back to the bedroom.

I popped open the blender and spooned out a taste. Not bad.

So I poured a glass for him, set it down and poured one for me. Then somehow, I set my glass down just a little too hard. And it exploded in a thousand little pieces of smoothie shrapnel that peppered the counter, the floor, the cabinets, the stove, my husband’s smoothie and me.

When my husband offered to help clean up, I said, “Just go get groceries.” And he left.

An hour later, after I’d cleaned up all the glass and most of the smoothie, he still wasn’t back.

I was hungry. My choices were few. I could wait for him. I could scramble eggs with the greens for a fairly healthy meal. Or I could indulge my inner child with a stale piece of pecan pie.

Some days I do my best. Other days, I do the best I can.

That pie was good.

Sharon Randall can be reached at randallbay

@earthlink.net.

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