Musings on a 39th year

Editor’s note: This was intended to be post on February 8^th.

 

Tomorrow is my 39th birthday. When the hell did this happen and who stole my thirties?

 

On the eve of my 29th birthday I was in a sleep-deprived haze, a small infant permanently attached to my nipple. It occurred to me then that I had only one year left where I could justifiably use immaturity, inexperience, or the recklessness associated with youth as an excuse for any questionable behavior. Hell, the infant at my breast was already a startling reminder that if I had any last wild child ways in me, I best get a move on it or suffer the raised eyebrows of the thirty-something moms on the playground.

 

Well, as it turns out, I had nothing to mourn in my 29th year. My thirties have been filled with more turmoil, more risks, more rabble-rousing, heartbreaking and life changing experiences than any other decade since puberty. And so, on the eve of my 39th birthday, while I don't share the same sense of panic I did a decade ago, I do not fully embrace the moniker of "forty-something", just on the horizon. There is, indeed, something frightening about experiencing a birthday you distinctly remember your own parents celebrating. It was 1983 when my mother turned thirty-nine and I was an awkward thirteen year-old  silently wishing that David Skaleki would make eye contact with me in Spanish class. Now it is 2008 and my nine-year-old daughter is silently wishing I’ll stop trying to make eye contact with her and ask  about her school day.  I’d like to tell you I have experienced great growth emotionally between then and now, and on a good day, I can see some progress in myself. Yet, if I am to be perfectly honest, I can tell you the reality is. in many ways. I am 39, going on 13. I still care way too much what people think, though, I have made progress. It used to be everyone’s opinion I cared about. Now it’s just the opinion of those I know, love and admire. Will my forties bring an era of such complete self-knowledge and security that I do not need the blessing, admiration or benediction of anyone outside my self? I can only hope.

 

Now, in between school lunches and book fairs and parent teacher conferences and spin classes and relationship struggles and internal battles and fights about money and sex and power and piano lessons, books read aloud, essays not finished, jobs not found and the whole, messy, exhilarating, lot of my life— I will blow out my candles and be grateful for it all.

Logic of a 6-Year Old Scatterbrain

Both children had expressed interest in trying basketball. The YMCA has a great program, instructional but no-stress. A gentle introduction to skills with traveling aloud and no score keeping. Henry, the six year old loved it.  He had a natural affinity for the game and was eager to learn the skills he did not have. Nora, the nine year old was painfully reminiscent of me at that age–rather uncoordinated with a lack of natural instinct. Not surprisingly, again like her mother at that age, Nora did not want to continue after her first practice. Now normally, my deal is this. If you ask to sign up and I pony up the money then you need to stick with it. In this case, however, I saw that this was not going to get better but get worse. The girls on the team were classmates but more skilled and secure than Nora. They were also girls who routinely did things together socially and had a bond. I could see that Nora was going become progressively timid and self-conscious and it might prevent her from ever trying a new skill again. So, with some co-parenting bickering with her Dad we ultimately came to the conclusion that this time we would not force the issue and give Nora a stern warning about being very sure she wants to try something and  then sticking it out to the end.

This was a rather long preamble to an amusing incident with Henry yesterday. He was moody and looking for a fight and sauntered up to me saying, 

"Nora always gets her way. How come I never get my way?"

 "What are you referring to Henry?" I asked. 

"Nora doesn't have to take basketball but I do. You make me take basketball!" he whined. 

"But Henry," I said, "You love basketball." 

Henry paused, wrinkled his brow and then said with a smile, "Oh yeah. I do love it!" before sauntering off.

Good ol' space case, Henry.

Endless Snow

"See the snow and how it squashes.

Galumpf, galumpf go my galoshes"- Author unknown

This was one of my favorite poems as a child. It's best when read out loud. 

More snow falls today. I am not complaining, mind you. If you are going to live in the upper midwest, the snow is one of the more favorable accompaniments to the cold. There is nothing more depressing than a bare, dry and cold Wisconsin winter. So, let is snow, let it snow, let it snow.

The snow has a lovely muffling effect on the noises of the cars outside. I like to watch it pile up on the wrought iron railing outside my bedroom window. I don't even mind shoveling, really. There is something quite satisfying about it. The marks of your shovel are like raking a Zen garden.  You ask yourself, do I shovel just a path for people to get by or do I clear the entire width of the sidewalk? We live on a corner. I am often too lazy to shovel the entire width of both sidewalks. But then, inevitably, after I am inside and dry, I look out and regret that I didn't just clear it all.

Tentative

Can one, as their 39th birthday looms large, enter the world of blogging? Should one?

As an ex-zinester, I feel like I am cheating. Where is the tactile nature of pages turned? Why should so many random, unknown people know or care about my life, points of view, struggles observations or recollections?

We'll see. I dip in a toe. The water is cold. But I am of hearty Midwestern stock and chilly, unchartered territories are not unfamiliar.

Stay tuned.....