Losing My "Chops"?

A person asked to comment on Iran. I have no pretense of knowing anything that can't be found in print in this country, so this could be all wrong. The Iranians have set up a howl over the results of their recent presidential election, although there are plenty of folks who think the whole thing was done the way it was supposed to be. Our government has not said much about it, insisting that it is up to the Iranians to run their own system, an argument we sometimes use and sometimes ignore, depending on how much we dislike the guy in office at the time.
If you're looking to see how this all turns out, my bet would be to keep an eye on a thing the Iranians call "The Counsel of Guardians", a small collection of mullahs who seem to wield the real power there. They've already said that the election results will not be overturned or reviewed, and they have the country's military power backing them up. Our hope is that the current guy, the tieless Mr. A., whose name is impossible to spell, will recall this little favor we've done them by staying low-key. Advice for life: Try to avoid going against anyone known as the "Counsel of Guardians" if possible. And if you do, take a motorcycle helmet with you.

Once we learn how to do something, we can say we have "chops" for this or that activity. A few years back when I lined up for a little ping pong after many years away from the game, I found that my skills were gone, my muscle memory was drawing a blank, and that my "chops" were no longer anything I could count on. It's not the end of the world, but it's not the greatest thing to have happen, either.
We just finished a weekend visit to one of our sons, who has recently moved to the Golden State, within about six hours' drive from here. Things went fine until Son and Daughter-in-Law asked us to keep their three kids for awhile so that they could squeeze in a "date" to the big city. Sure, we said. No problem.
Without going into great detail, we found that our chops for child care were not at the level we had thought. The nadir of the evening came when son #2, who's still just two, but has a dangerous reputation, managed to climb fully clothed into a filling bathtub unassisted while his grandmother searched other places in the home looking for him. The worst part was that he was wearing a, ah, full diaper at the time. When he was finally located, with the water reaching his chest, some repair was required. It was my job to see that he didn't drink the water in the refilled tub, while Granny watched son #1, a lanky five year-old, finish his bath without incident. I later found that it had been too long since I had put pajamas on a preschooler, although eventually that got done, too. Everyone was safely in bed when Mom and Dad came home. That is, everyone under six.
I'm sure the chance to look after the little darlin's will come again. Maybe we should rent some children from the local church congregation members for practice to try to restore our childcare "chops".