The Company We Keep

It's considered a desirable quality on a person if they are a good friend.  Accepting, generous, trusting, always there for the other person.  I never quite mastered that.

Each one of us has strengths and weaknesses, some traits that come more easily than others and some that, frankly, are always a bit out of reach.  For me, being a "good friend" is one which I have just accepted is not something I naturally gravitate towards.  I have good friends, thankfully, who are very thoughtful, loving, generous, funny, and wonderful people.  I'm nearly a complete parasite in those relationships, though in my pathetic little way I honestly do try to reciprocate.  A phone call or text, maybe some cookies.  I have a great deal of uncertainty about what is too little and what is too intrusive. 

Talking to other people is a bit of a mystery to me, as well.  I'm sometimes too candid in my revelations, yet less forthcoming in things that really matter.  I have no problem listening to and sympathizing with the daily frustrations of my friends, yet can never find the right words when it gets a bit too personal.   The real "party pleasing" stories I can tell are the easiest for me, even when it involves sex offenders in prison, disfiguring accidents, and terrorism.  The daily things that say much more about who I really am are extremely difficult for me to disclose.  I like to maintain a good arms length (and maybe an extra arm) between me and other people.

I haven't always been as cautious.  We moved every year or so while I was growing up, and one side-effect of that for me was to make friendships very quickly but not always prudently.  Since I had a limited amount of time to assess the pool of potential friends in front of me, I usually went for the more accepting ones in the bunch.  That nearly eliminated the "good" kids who were really churchy and pious, and opened the door to those that could fly under the radar a bit more.  I did have some friends who were very good children, but not as many as I probably should have.  From out of those questionable friendships, I remember very candid phone calls talking about boys, fights with my parents, parties I had snuck out to.  Lots of whispered secrets, listening vigilantly for a suspicious parent to pick up the other phone and listen in.  Those are the conversations I wish I could undo, the ones where someone knows too much about me, might remember things I've long forgotten.  I've found some of those confidantes on Facebook, cringed at their aging faces, and blocked them in my privacy settings.  The thought that some of me could linger in their consciousness disgusts me, and frightens me a bit, too.  They wield power over me with their memories, and I resent that. 

But for those that I have connected with in recent years, I have the opposite feeling towards.  I'm surprised and gratified that they remember me (unless I dated them--that's a whole different thing).  I worry sometimes that I'll be forgotten completely since so many friendships I had with truly nice people were so fleeting.  To talk with someone from college and to realize what about myself they remember is eye-opening.  Are they talking about the "real" me, or someone I used to be?  Who was the most authentic version of myself?  The high school girl who was a social butterfly in one country, and a shadow-dweller in another, an overly confident college student who had a pretty good secret life going on, the ambitious Yuppy living in Chicago who left the corporate life to explore more socialist leanings with the masses, or the wife and mother in a religiously and politically conservative place who worries about being more open about her opinions because it could hurt her husband's career?  Well, I think we can get rid of the last option right off the top.  There is nothing authentic or "real" about living like that, and yet that's what I've done for half my life.  The rest of it is still very much a part of me, even over the last 25 years, just in a more surreptitious way. 

I'm still here, all those parts of me, but the less forthcoming part of me is dying a slow but steady death.

Some Goals for the Final Fifty

Now that I know I only have about 50 years left to me, I need to get a move on.  Here are some of my goals, which are vastly different than goals I would have made even a year ago.

1.  Learn German again, but this time really well.  I've heard German spoken since the day I was born, probably (since I was born in Germany), and yet I still don't speak it more than a few phrases here and there. 

2.  Give French a good try.  The accent completely kills me, but it's such a beautiful language and I'd love to (see #3)

3.  Live in Paris!  It would be so fun for Sweetie and I to do a study abroad or sabbatical there.  "Midnight in Paris" is a favorite film of mine, and though I've been there once before I can't even say that I got close to scratching the surface.  I'd be really happy living in Italy or Germany, too.  I'm not too terribly picky, as long as I get back to Europe.

4.  Make a quilt for all four kids.  Anything beyond that is a bonus, and yay for me.  But at a minimum, I'd like to make one for each of them.

5.  Be a grandmother.  No pressure kids, but someday it would be nice.  Preferably in the next 10 years, but I'll be happy whenever it happens.

6.  Build up my piano chops.  Once upon a time, I was a fairly decent pianist.  Now I'm more of a trained monkey who can spit out church hymns on command.  I never really studied theory (my fault, not my teacher's, who tried bless her heart), which I should probably do, and I'd love to get back some of my strength and skill.

That's a good start.  I always used to put things on my list like "lose weight" and "clean the house."  Boring, boring, boring, and I'm not going to waste a moment of my Final Fifty on those.  Those are things that need to happen, certainly, but they're no longer goals of mine.  More like daily routines I need to develop habits for. 

Now, I'm off to practice the piano. 

I'm 50!

Last week I turned 50.  I've been looking forward to this all year (I'm serious!), and here it is.  Years ago, my mother-in-law told me her 40s were her favorite decade.  I entered them with great anticipation, fully expecting to savour each and every year.  Of course there were lots of great moments during the last 10 years, and it was definitely a decade of self awareness and discovery for me, but I wouldn't say they were my favorite.

No, I think my 50s will be my new favorite.  I think I have a pretty good handle on who I am now, who I was, and the type of person I want to grow into.  I'm at peace with the first 50, and am ready to rack up a whole new half-century of things to occupy my mind with. 

So many changes in the past year.  I quit my job last December because Elvira was in need of some extra attention, as was pretty much everyone and everything else in my life.  I kind of forgot to put enough of that attention on myself though, and that's what I'm working on now.  The kids are back in school, Sweetie is back at work, and here I am blogging again.  I'm rusty, inarticulate, not particularly witty at the moment, but here.  I've missed writing.

Two weeks ago I had knee surgery to repair a torn meniscus.  I can't do this just yet, but soon!

But then again...

When I first started teaching Gifted/Talented six years ago, I went to a conference in Salt Lake.  The presenter was trying to describe the difference between how a gifted child perceives situations as opposed to a "normal" child.  She held her hands about a foot apart and said, "This is how a normal child sees the world."  Then she moved her hands as far apart as she could.  "And this is how a gifted person sees the world."  It doesn't mean they're necessarily smarter than a normal kid, it's just that the sheer number of possibilities aren't filtered down as much.  Where someone might identify three prospective choices that could be made, a gifted person couldn't possibly narrow it down that much.  Then she reminded us that gifted children come from gifted parents.  As the mother of four gifted children, I think I can honestly point the finger right back at myself.  It can be a cool thing, but it can be very frustrating too.

I really don't think of myself as a fickle person.  I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking through things, imagining every possible option and game change that a non-criminally insane person could reasonably imagine.  And yet invariably, the next day or so after a decision is made, I second guess my decision. 

It makes me nuts. 

Elvira is moving into the dorms this fall.  Between the added expense of the dorms, food, bus pass, tuition, books, etc., it became painfully obvious that I would for sure be going back to work.  Oddly enough, I don't mind so much.  I really love the people I work with, and I would miss them terribly.  I don't know if I could ever sleep at night knowing there was only one paycheck coming into the house.  I've been working since I was 10 years old doing one thing or another, and I don't think I could stop if I wanted to.  That was hard for me to accept about myself, but I'm okay with that, too.

So I'm right back where I was, with a class schedule that will bring me to my knees and make me weep.  If my new boss will agree, I'll leave 45 minutes early and head up to class every weekday.  I haven't figured out when I'll study, cook dinner, do laundry, or spend any quality time with my family, but I'll have to make it work somehow.  

OR

I could just work, go home at my normal time, spend irreplaceable "Mom" moments with my two loving children who will still be at home, throw on a clean apron and have dinner on the table at six.  Yeah, right.  How I wish I were that mom, but I'm so not.  I'm sure I'd get completely distracted doing something not even remotely important (or passed out cold on my bed), and the kids would be tactfully asking if they should just get a bowl of cereal before bedtime.  The truth is somewhere in between those two extremes, but it depends on the day.  So probably not a viable option.

OR

I could not work at all.  Budget carefully, watch my pennies, and still manage to put my two lovely older kids through college, pay for their dorm rooms, and set a little aside for a rainy day.  I could work on my insane number of projects, write charming children's books, keep an impossibly witty blog, and add a slew of ads to my sidebar that would allow me to live off my lovely readers like some weird sort of parasite.

OR

You get the picture. 

I was talking to an older friend today about all of this.  If I had a crystal ball, I'd know if I really need to go to nursing school or not.  She suggested that if the situation arose, the Lord would provide a way for us.  I replied that maybe feeling like I should go to nursing school was His very way of providing a way for us.  "Hmmm, there is that," she said.  I don't think it's a lack of faith on my part to stress about it all.  I love learning new things--I'm just a little tired of being in college.  But I really don't know another way to get from A to B.

I'll know what my decision is when I get to it.  If it feels good, I'll do it.  If it doesn't, I won't.  Announcing my plans way in advance is self-defeating and makes me feel like a fickle thing. 

I'm not fickle--just gifted.

Change Is In the Air

Lest one think that I whinge for the sake of whinging (isn't that a fabulous word?  Much more accurate than "whine", especially after you read the definition here), I am trying to restructure my life to resemble what I think it should, or at least closer than it does.  This has required a lot of re-prioritizing and soul-searching on mine and Sweetie's parts, and we've made some decisions.

I'm not going back to work after this school year.

I know that this seems a little silly, especially since my baby, Tinkerbell, will be in 7th grade next year and Kitty Boy will be a junior.  There is, however,  still much for me to do here at home.  As with most people, or so I assume, by the time I get home from work the very last thing I want to be is productive.  For some reason, this year has been much harder on me than others.  I feel nearly completely emotionally and physically drained at 3:20 when the school bell rings.  I don't want to hear one more child's complaints or requests, which does become a bit of a problem with three children still living at home.  And while I genuinely adore my fellow "soldiers in the trench," I don't feel that I make much of an impact on the students, particularly the way things are structured this year.  And as I have often said, you can give your heart and soul to your job, and your job won't ever love you back.

But your family will.


I do hear people talk about how being "at home" is thankless, and that they don't get the praise and feedback that those of us who work do.  I guess if I were the type of person who were exceptionally competent at being a homemaker, I might feel a bit taken for granted if my level of extreme excellence wasn't acknowledged now and again.

I'm not that girl, let's just say that much.

My family would be so stunned and appreciative if we could actually eat at a cleaned off table now and again, I think that could keep me going for awhile.  Add in clean clothes, ironed shirts, and a little bit of weeding, and Houston, we've got lift-off.

I've never stayed home alone without kids on a long-term basis (the odd sick day aside).  I worked until Drummer Boy was born, and as soon as Tinkerbell started first grade, I went back to work.  I do worry about being lonely.  I worry about having nothing to show for my time.  I worry that I might be bored.  I'll have to deal with those as I come to them.  Thank goodness for a pesky puppy--I'll spend so much time shooing her off the cats the time will fly by.

But today Kitty Boy was sick and having trouble breathing.  I took the day off because I was nervous about leaving him alone like that.  When I woke Elvira up for her college classes, she started throwing up and has been sick all day.  I was able to supply jello, ice water, blankets, heating pads, and just plain "Mom."  That's a pretty awesome feeling, and I didn't make a dime off of it. 

So a little less than three months from now I'll be officially embarking on a much more budget-conscious, solitary, but hopefully more fulfilling life.

Oh, and I'll be writing more, too.

Dear Dad,

Dear Dad,

Well, a year ago today you died.  Technically, it's tomorrow.  But it was a Saturday afternoon, so I think I'll always think of it then.  Mom and I were talking the other night about you, wondering what you were up to.  She wondered if you were teaching or learning something.  She got a little sad, I think, so I suggested that you were probably caught up in heavenly bureaucracy and  had been standing in line all this time waiting to get your paperwork processed.  She thought it was an appalling idea, but laughed anyway.  Mission accomplished.

Lots going on with us.  Travis is doing well, but I've gone back to school "just in case."  I'm working on my pre-req's for nursing, but there's a pretty good chance I won't even get in the program, so I'm thinking of back-up ideas.  Science and math aren't my strong points, as you well know.  Chris is trying to figure out what he wants to do when he finishes school.  We're trying to talk him into doing a Study Abroad in Berlin/Vienna next summer.  I think he'd love it.  Ellie graduated from high school and got into BYU!  She's just starting her first finals week.  She's majoring in Asian Studies, and next semester she'll take Chinese and Japanese.  Crazy, I know, but she says she can do it.  Hmm...  Nate is six feet tall now--getting close to you!  He's the only one with feet big enough to wear your shoes, and he wears your cowboy boots all the time.  He thinks you're very cool (which of course, you are!).  Maddie is in 6th grade now.  She won an art contest at school last month, and is doing the district gifted writing program again this year.  She got braces on in January, and she doesn't look little anymore.

I was a complete slacker this year in the yard.  I didn't pick a single currant.  Nate picked a bunch, but I didn't do anything with them and had to throw them out.  We had to get rid of our demon puppy after he kept on attacking Chris.  It was really sad, but Chris was here first, after all.  And he attacked lots of the kids' friends, too, so it was more than just poor Chris.  He was really hard on the yard, though, so we have some major work to do back there.  Travis got the bathroom done!!  We finally have two baths, and the new one has a granite counter.  I feel very spoiled, and now I want it everywhere.  The housing market stinks, and our house lost a lot of value.  Looks like we'll be staying put for awhile, but you always tell me to do that.  I don't know why you like this tiny house so much, but you have a good real estate track record, so I guess I'd better listen.

So much going on in the world.  Arab Spring, Occupy, GOP race for next year...  Every single day I think of something I just want to call and talk to you about.  I'd love to get your thoughts on it all.  I'm sure you have much more interesting things to think about, but still...

Well, I'd better get back to studying.  I miss you tons and love you lots.  Try to visit me sometime.

XOXOXO
Love,
Di

A Life of Less Than

I'm back to my old tricks.  Back in school--again--with nursing as a goal--again.  Taking Math 110--again.  Worried about a certain child of mine--again. 

I find myself in this cyclical life, "Groundhog Day" without the laughs.  Every week is a repeat of the last, but with greater intensity and urgency.  Three days a week the kids do martial arts, two nights a week I go to class, every night I do homework for three or more hours, every day I work nearly 7 hours at my paid job, every night I work at my unpaid job.  As any mom knows, the unpaid stuff is the most important, and it's getting the least attention at the moment.  Sad kids (one in particular) that would love to talk but I don't have time.  I kiss their heads on my way out the door and try to get up enough energy to cook them dinner before bedtime. 

I want to say that I'm doing all of this for them.  Partly I am.  I don't want to show up on their doorsteps with my bags in hand and try to explain why Mommy couldn't get her act together and be self-supporting in her 70s and 80s.  I do worry about that, I'm not going to lie, but mostly it's for me.  I'm terrified of being poor.  I know, blessed are the poor and all that, but there is no glory at all in being old and poor.  None.  I've seen it up close and personal, and I will move heaven and earth before I end up like that.  So I'm pursuing a career that I can work at until I physically can't work anymore, and hope that's enough. 

My trade-off for this ambition, misplaced as it may be, is that I'm living a life I never imagined.  Everything about it is shabby.  I look like death, with dark circles under my eyes on top of all the other flaws.  My clothes are Wal Mart special, and I wear the same stupid pair of jeans every day until one morning they will wear out and I'll head back out to the Evil Empire and buy another pair for under $20.  My house is a wreck, there are holes in the furniture, my children are DVD/internet addicts, and spiders are building webs in the corners.  My mother is coming this week, and I know she'll be so sad for me, which I can't handle.  I'm the toughest person I know, apart from her, and the last thing I need is pity, thank you very much.  But isn't that what I'm asking for?  Pity would cover a multitude of sins.  Oh, poor thing.  She just can't do it all, can she?  That's not who I want to be.  I do want to do it all.  Every last bit of it, and better than 'well'.   


My mom wants to know what she can do to help.  What do I tell her?  Please iron these shirts?  The fridge is a little scary.  The pantry needs to be organized.  The walls are a forensic scientist's dream-come-true.  It's not the obvious things I need help with.  It's this internal struggle that I've faced since I was first conscious of it.  I want this "life" that I grew up with, that I was conditioned to want.  It's a beautiful picture, and I've lived it as a reality.  But for the life of me I can't create it.  The 'how' of it all eludes me.  It's a secret code I haven't yet cracked, that illiterate women for centuries have been able to figure out.  But I can't give up the picture.  This happy family sitting down to dinner when it's still light outside, with money in the bank and smiles on the kids' faces.  Children who know they are loved and are well on their way to creating their own beautiful lives.  Okay, my kids do know they're loved, but the rest of the picture is out of focus with curled edges.  My children suffer.  My marriage suffers, and I feel lost.

So I keep working at everything that won't fix the problem.  Because I already have a degree, and we both have jobs, and we're both artistic enough that we are capable of creating beauty.  So in desperation I'm doing what I know how to do.  Work harder.  Sleep less.  Worry more.  Run faster.

What would really fix it?  That's what I want my mom to help me with, because she figured it out decades ago.