We used to tell our kids to act their age. Now they tell us to act our age. We try, but it’s not easy when you are 20-somethings trapped inside the bodies of seasoned citizens.

The husband spent five days last fall channeling Paul Bunyan, swinging an ax at the roots on a 60-year-old maple tree that a removal service had taken down. In addition to getting most of the roots out, he got two frozen shoulders, a wrist injury, steroid injections and months of physical therapy.

Not to be left out, I injured my back lunging over a seat in a moving SUV to retrieve a coffee mug. The vault went well but my landing was a disaster. I pose no threat to Simone Biles

We are now trying (at least temporarily) to time our heavy lifting to whenever someone younger stops by. We don’t tag just anybody. We size ‘em up, study their spines, guess how much they can lift and whether they’ll sue us if something goes wrong.

We had new gutter filters installed last week. We signed the paperwork, offered the installer a lemonade and swiped our credit card. The installer hadn’t been out the door for five seconds when the husband charged after him on a dead run.

He caught the fella just in time to help move some heavy patio furniture back into place.

We have a huge hedge that requires being on a ladder and leaning over somewhat precariously to give it a flattop. Our son often spends the night on his way to and from jobsites in the area but usually arrives late at night and leaves before dawn. We’re not sure how the neighbors would feel about electric hedge trimmers buzzing while they sleep.

On the upside, if a delivery guy has a heavy box and I see him coming, most of the time he will gladly set it in the front hall.

Our house is on a crawl space that needs checking every year or so to make sure it is dry. To get in the crawl, you remove a metal partition from a window well, drop down on your arms and squeeze through the opening like a gator. We presented this opportunity to two grandsons as an adventure that would be second only to camping in the Rockies with no adult supervision.

They slithered down, reported the crawl was bone dry and emerged with a dead mouse. Naturally, other grands wanted to go down, but when the boys told them there weren’t any more mice, they lost interest.

We are now eyeing a large, worn, matted area rug in the family room that anchors an extremely heavy sofa sleeper. We may have to wait until the entire family comes for Thanksgiving.

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