This is my 52nd post. Not quite exactly a year ago, I started this little blog. By “started,” I mean actually committed to writing it. It existed in other incarnations for…years. But a year ago, I told myself that I was going to post every Monday, and I have lived up to that internal promise. I’m glad for that. Continue reading “And Then There Were 52”
Tag: reflection
936 and Counting
Time flies. We all know this. The only case where time does NOT fly is instances like when you’re stuck in a boring workshop where they have the thermostat set so cold it just may crack off a body part and all you can think about is lunch. Then it’s slow. But typically, another week comes and goes and it feels like a blip on the radar.
Recently, I had a 1-2 punch that was the kind of coincidence that makes me stop and think. I saw a framed graphic at a family member’s house that said something along the lines of “940. The number of Saturdays until your child reaches 18.” Me being me, I checked the math (52×18=936) and wondered why they added the extra month. Googling it, 940 is the number used again and again, but I like the number 936 better than 940 anyway, so I’m sticking with that. (Why the extra four? Can you guess?)
The very next day I was speaking to a friend, and she said her pastor’s message that Sunday was on pretty much the exact same thing. He had a jar of marbles that visually represented how many weeks were left before his daughter turned 18. The emphasis being, of course, that we use our time together wisely. It is fleeting.
So there I was, with two totally different avenues leading me to the same wakeup call: we only have so much time with our children before they are off and running in the world.
Of course, I know this. But when you put a finite number around it, it drives it home even further. Tick…tock…and another week is gone. Another marble leaves the jar.
I have issues with time management. I just do. I aspire to knock the hell out of each day, and before I know it, I’m brushing my teeth before bed.
But the clock of life is wound but once…
My son had his feet resting on my lap the other day, and…they were huge. What happened to the teeny ones that I nibbled on and made him giggle?
He was just sharing with me his fascination with the circulatory system that he’s learning about in science class. Only yesterday he was learning the alphabet.
I tell him—like my dad always told me—there will always be room on my lap for him. But the last time he tried it, we laughed together at how comical we must have looked.
936.
If my math is right, we’ve had 541 Saturdays together…and only 395 left before he turns 18.
395. 3-9-5. Holy crimony.
Thankfully, I am wise enough to know that these days do not need to be chock full and supercharged to be meaningful. I think back to my own childhood, and I realize that while there are some “big” memories of trips and special events—the real things that stick are the small things. The moments. It didn’t have to be anything special—just a time where I felt that I mattered. I don’t even think those thoughts typically cross our minds when they are happening—it’s like they just go into a special reservoir of love, where for some reason, we feel it and cherish it.
So, before I “lose my marbles” with my son, I need to remind myself that the moments count. That just because we may not be able to carve out the better part of a day to do something significant, I can still get out and play touch football with him and his dad.
I can genuinely listen to him catch me up on the first part of the “Full House” episode that I am sitting down to watch the rest of with him.
I can make time for a bike ride on a beautiful fall day, even if deadlines are looming.
I can share in his joy at the occasional 49¢ McDonald’s ice cream cone.
While we still do need to hit the “big” things and make those memories, it’s important to remind myself in the swirl of the day that not all is lost as long as we remember the moments, too.
Because that is what he will remember. The moments.
936 down to 395.
It’s not about us putting more stress on ourselves because who needs more of that? What it is about is keeping the perspective that we do have a finite time with our children, and it does matter—to them and to us—and it is all a blessing of unknown impact and meaning.
So amidst the flurry and chaos of everyday life, I’m going to strive to remember to jump in the leaves. Even if it means we have to rake them all over again.
Always at the Bottom of the Slide
(That’s me in the middle.)
Over time, the memories we have of people can almost become analogies for who they are to us—especially those who are no longer in our lives to make new memories. We hang on tightly to those vital reminders of what is no longer tangible to us.
My dad died just after I turned 21, and I am now well past the mark where I have lived longer without him than with him. Thankfully, even with my fuzzy brain these days, I still have many important memories of him, as I’ve shared here before. Continue reading “Always at the Bottom of the Slide”
What Have We Done?
(Also check out the nifty satin jacket behind me.)
“When I was your age…” is the start of a sentence that will almost certainly bring an eye roll from the intended audience. And, I must admit, as I get older, I hear myself say it more and more often. I mean…there have been leaps and bounds in day to day life from the time I was a kid till today, and they are amazing to note.
Indulge me for a minute or two, will you? Because while I will begin by pointing out some things that readers around my age will nod at with perhaps an “Amen, Sister,” I do have a little bit of a soapbox point I want to get to.
When I was a kid…
I didn’t ask my mom or dad to “play on their phone.” (Though I did play on the phone, technically, if you count prank calls), and I’m pretty sure we all knew the length of the kitchen phone cord for our “safe zone” when Mom was on the phone.
We had Pong and thought we were pretty cutting edge until the neighbors got an Atari. Living large, they were.
At the start of my schooling, if I had to type an assignment, I had to use a line paper gauge…remember those? And God forbid there were footnotes involved. Then you had to calculate how many notes would be on the page and how many lines you’d need left at the bottom. And if you were wrong? Holy cry. Do it all over again. It was totally exciting when the “element” typewriter came along where you could just backspace and type over your error without having to use the little white-out strip. And word processing? Well, the heavens opened up on that one.
We remember, yes? Now to get to a question I feel worth asking…
I remember when it was big news that we got a McDonald’s in our town. It was a BIG DEAL. And if my mom and dad said we could eat there, we were drunk with excitement. A burger and fries! Woohoo! Life is good!
So…how did the need arise to give kids TOYS to eat junk food? At what point was the food itself not enough? I mean, it’s not like you’re taking your kids to McBrusselSprouts or McLiver. Why the bribe? Why the reward for eating something that the average kid would be happy to eat all by itself? Wasn’t it a “happy meal” already?
What did it sound like around the conference table when that corporate decision was made? “Well, Ronald, I think that in order to convince the kids to eat the French fries, we should give them toys. This way, they can get something for getting something! And then they’ll scream and whine for their parents to get them a Happy Meal for the latest toy, and the parents will cave in in order to get them to shut up and then they will come to McDonald’s more often! Make sense? Let’s vote!”
Exactly what we needed!
I look at the toys they give today (YES, I have purchased many a Happy Meal for my kid), and I think of all the plastic waste generated from these ridiculous payoffs for eating what should already be a treat in and of itself. (And NO, I’m not looking for an argument on whether or not a child should even eat fast food. I live in the real world. My kid eats fast food here and there. If yours doesn’t, that’s great, but I don’t really want to hear about it.)
After about 30 seconds, the average meal toy has used up its entertainment value. I’m sure that landfills are stuffed with these unnecessary prizes, as well as many a kid’s bedroom. All of this just adds to the sense of exaggerated entitlement that “these kids today” are being raised with.
But along with their über sense of entitlement…is the flip of this issue our lowered expectations? Maybe we should start expecting more of our kids so that we don’t continue to foster the belief that the world owes them something. Because you and I both know it doesn’t. It doesn’t owe anyone a damn thing. In fact, we owe it. We owe each other. And that can be a challenging principle to uphold in a world where a treat deserves a treat.
Whew. Okay. I have dismounted my soapbox. If you’re still here, thank you for listening. Now let’s go through the drive-thru…
*The McDonald’s shirt was something I received for participating in a basketball tournament. At least I had to sweat for it.
My Own Little Lake
As much as I love the beauty of the Southwest, I don’t think I could do a desert for long. I need water. The ocean, a river, Lake Michigan…it all feels like possibility or hope to me. Even my little ol’ lake tucked away within my neighborhood. It’s just a small body of water, but for some reason, it always lifts my spirits.
Every season around the lake offers its own take on life. Spring brings newness and the promise of summer. Summer is life in full bloom, where goldfinches swoop in for a nibble on a sunflower and swans that the village brings in to keep the geese away…swim with the geese. Autumn offers different blooms and colors that are at once invigorating and bittersweet, as I know that the flora is getting ready to tuck itself in for the winter. And winter…even though it can be harsh and cold, still has a beauty all its own. Some times are more beautiful than others around the lake, but there is no “bad” time.
These days, it’s harder and harder for my head to clear, but my little lake helps me take a breath and free my mind up a bit from the fuzz of life. If I find myself using the time to think of all the things I need to do, I tell myself to shut up and listen instead.
Listen and look for the beauty of the minute (mī-ˈnüt not ˈmi-nət, though I guess both meanings apply). Even though this little lake is smack-dab in suburbia and not in any majestic setting, there are still small wonders to enjoy. The occasional snapping turtle that takes a sun nap before continuing its journey back to the water. The herons dipping in for breakfast and a bath. The huge willow tree blowing in the breeze. The shimmer of the sun tap dancing on the current. Simple beauty.
Yep, I love my little lake. When my son was younger, there were times I would take him there for a visual scavenger hunt and make him find specific little gems, and I still enjoy going for a bike ride with him and seeing him notice something tiny and beautiful because he’s taking the time to do just that. I hope he always will.
I’m pretty sure my dog is a fan, too because no matter how many walks he goes for around that lake, he still acts like he’s drunk with delight. I always wonder what crosses his little peanut mind while walking…”Oh! A flower! Oh! A feather! Oh! Some goose poop!”…Uh-oh…our thought processes may have more in common than I’d like to admit…
I don’t know what it is about water, but it’s good for the soul. At least it’s good for my soul. There is the beauty of it, but also the reminder that life is a symphony of sorts and all parts are important.
I’m glad I have my own little lake to ripple away my cares—if just momentarily— and help me see the simpler side of things. Somehow it makes handling the more complex seem do-able. And that’s exactly what I need to start my week.
The Value of Wrinkles
My birthday is this week. It will mark my 46th year in this world. If I make it to 92, then I guess I can still entertain the notion of being middle-aged.
I don’t have a problem telling my age, though I’d be lying if I denied the clock’s ticking doesn’t make me sad sometimes. I don’t want to run out of time. When I feel this way, I reassure myself by remembering that there are no guarantees to the days ahead—I could get hit by a bus tomorrow. Hmmm. That doesn’t sound very reassuring, but my point is that there is no set time we have on this earth, and there is no limit for striving, seeking, finding, and not yielding.
Age for the average person doesn’t come without a few wrinkles, and while they’re nothing I aim for, I accept them—at least more than some people. I remember one bizarre conversation I had when I was the ripe old age of 19. I was in a college film production class downtown when these two very upscale girls came up to me after our first class. “How do you do it??” the one girl asked me as she smoothed her full-length fur coat after placing her oversized sunglasses on her face.
“Do what?” I replied.
“Stay so wrinkle-free?” I thought they were joking, but they were indeed very serious.
“Uh…I’m 19…there’s nothing to do…”
“Oh, yes, yes, there is. We are very careful. We stay out of the sun and smile as little as possible. We don’t want laugh lines! And we saw you just laughing away in class. Yet your skin looks so nice. So what do you do?” These two were maybe 21. I was dumbfounded. I think it was at that moment that they helped me see what value I would put on wrinkles in my years to come.
“Well, I guess I’ll be the wrinkled one who’s laughed a lot as the years go by.”
With that response, they simultaneously looked at me with disdain and turned and left. I sometimes wonder where those two might be today. I really hope they have a few laugh lines.
As a kid, I was very into collecting patches or stickers of places I had traveled to, and in a way, wrinkles are a variation of that kind of collection to me. While I don’t have wrinkles specific to certain experiences (that would be interesting!), they are still a reflection of the life I’ve lived so far.
It bums me out that wrinkles are such an issue for American women. There is more value to us than the elasticity in our faces. We should be proud of the journeys we are taking. And while I absolutely believe that we should take good care of ourselves, I don’t think the aging process should be a cause of shame, but more like a badge of honor.
Lately, my 87-year-old mother has taken to looking at me without her glasses and announcing, “You have no wrinkles!” I know she is trying to make me feel good, and I also know she has a pretty strong eyeglass prescription.
I do have wrinkles. For now, they’re mainly evident when I smile or laugh. As my 19-year-old self foresaw, it shows that I have indeed done some considerable laughing and smiling in my 46 years. Isn’t that something to feel good about? I think so.
thejugglestruggle.net 