The South

Lessons In Growing Older

My 42nd birthday was last week. It’s crazy how these birthdays keep happening, faster and faster every year. And as they move faster, other things start to slow down. Like my metabolism and reflexes, digestion and remembering my multiplication tables. I find that my joints hurt more, I can’t stand up without a little limp, and my feet shuffle more than they run.

Honestly, I’ve never been one to worry about getting older. I’ve enjoyed the years. I hope I have a lot more of them to come. But the problem of birthdays lies in the fact that I don’t think my mind has caught up with the years. My mind never agrees with the number of birthday candles on the cake. My mind stays stuck somewhere in the past – a time when youth was on my side. 

This problem is so bad that when people ask me how old I am, my mind shouts out “23!” before my body can say “42”. And when the number 42 comes out of my mouth, my mind laughs a little – like what a good joke to tell people I’m so much older than I actually am. 

And then I stop and realize I am 42 and it’s always a little bit of a shock, a punch in the gut to my 23 year old mind. “What? Is this really true???”

It is true, I tell my mind. Remember Sliding Rock? 

Ah yes – Sliding Rock, the golden place for young people. It’s a haven for those who don’t know about mortgages and insurance premiums. A giant nature-made water park in the beautiful mountains of Arizona, where those who have lived less than three decades go to frolic and play in their blissful youth. 

It was the whoops of laughter that drew me in. Watching kids and teens and barely adults slip and slide down rocks made smooth from flowing water. It looked like so much FUN. The sun was dancing on the water, calling me to jump in. Enticing me with it’s sparkle and rhythm.

Seize the day! My mind told me. Live! Dive in! You’re 23!

So I took the plunge before I remembered that I, in fact, was not 23 at all. 

As soon as that icy cold water washed over me and I began to slide down the first rock, my body screamed out “Stop! You forgot you were 42!”

Within seconds, I had analyzed all the parts of me that were in danger of snapping in two. I had calculated my deductible and how much money it would take to put me back together. I felt every bump and knew that giant, blue bruises would soon appear and that I wouldn’t be able to sit down in a chair for a week and a half. My body turned into some sort of stiff board that refused to bend and flow like all the other young bodies I saw around me. I was going to die within seconds, I just knew it.

As soon as I came to a stop, I stood up. Shaking from the cold water, I looked around for the fastest way to get out of that death trap. My kids were standing on the edge of the water, pretending not to know me. Scott was shaking his head and laughing. The youth were stacking up behind me ready to slide and it was then that I realized with a sinking feeling that I had no way out. 

The rocks were too slippery to walk on. The water was rushing past my ankles making my balance questionable. And there was no way on God’s green earth I was sitting back down to slide to the end. I looked around, desperate to get out. 

That’s when a young man, probably in college and hanging out with his buddies on a sunny afternoon, stood on the rocks and reached out his hand to me. 

“Ma’am,” he said. “I can help you out if you give me your hand.”

I stared at him and managed to sputter, “I’m just so c-c-c-cold.”

“I know,” he said in a soothing voice that I’m sure he used with his grandmother. “It’s ok. Just give me your hand and I’ll help you out.”

It hit me in that moment. I’m old. I’m old and this college kid is talking to me like an octogenarian who has fallen and can’t get up. While my mind was screaming “You’re 23!” the rest of the world was seeing a middle-aged mom who was creeping toward the elderly side of life. It was one of those moments that seemed to happen in slow motion – the realization that I have slipped on over to the other side. 

I smiled at the young man, still standing there with his arm outstretched.  And then I did what any self-respecting woman at my age would do – I refused his hand and got down on my knees. I belly crawled my way out of that misery and up the rocks to safety. I wrapped up in a towel and thanked God that I had made it out alive. No more crazy adventures for this 42 year old. 

Later that afternoon, I ordered a large pizza and mozzarella cheese sticks for dinner. I signed up for an off-road jeep tour. I contemplated a horse-back riding class for when I returned home. While my body had not yet recovered from the morning rock sliding fiasco, my mind was back to being 23 again. 

I guess that’s the best thing about getting older. It’s so easy to forget. 

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One Lucky Dog

It’s pathetic, really. The way we gush and carry on over a stray mutt. 

But she’s our stray mutt – and I would argue that she is probably the most well-loved and pampered mutt across this country. Or at least in the southernmost states. 

The vet tells us to make up our own breed for her – she’s one of a kind. Of course, we already knew that. Her fine pedigree causes her hair to be wiry all over, with the exception of the top of her head where a fluff of hair sticks up proudly like a mohawk. Her tail is curled and poised like a show dog’s, but her ears are floppy and too big for her small face. Her chin has gray hair so scraggly and long that it appears she is trying to compete in a goatee contest, and her frame is too small for her tall legs. In other words, she’s perfect. 

Grover Mae doesn’t know how lucky she is, although we try to tell her often. She doesn’t realize that not every dog gets hugs and kisses until it becomes obnoxious. She doesn’t realize that not every dog gets to choose where she will sleep at night – a cozy dog bed nook, or snuggled in between the pillows of a comfy couch, or even better, on top of her human’s legs in a bed that was once only meant for people. She doesn’t realize that not every dog gets a birthday party, complete with a home-made cake and cards. 

No, Grover Mae spends her days happily chasing squirrels and begging for doggie snacks, not once stopping to think about how her life could have been so different. 

If we hadn’t decided to keep her. 

But we did. We couldn’t resist her the day she wandered into our backyard, skinny and shaking. Amelia threw her toddler arms around Grover Mae’s flea infested neck and cried, “Can I keep her?” with all the emotion a little girl can have. We relented to that tiny but strong-willed girl, and bought the dog a blue collar since we knew it was a boy. Hence the name Grover (we later had to feminize it after a quick check from the vet who was disappointed in our knowledge of dog anatomy). And then came the sickness with worms, and even worse, Parvo. And a stay in the doggie ICU. And lots and lots of dollars later. 

Perhaps Grover Mae could have never found our yard that day. And she would be so lonely without us. She would never know the love that comes from somewhere deep down, the love that is shaped out of pure joy and selflessness. She wouldn’t know that she was missing out on all the hugs and kisses and snuggles on the couch. She would never understand all that she was losing by not being with us. 

I tell her all of this as she sits on the couch beside me in the early hours of the morning and I stroke her belly. I tell her how wonderful her life is because we are in it, how lucky she really is that we saved her all those years ago. I tell her that she would be missing so much if she weren’t here and how life is so much better with humans in it. 

She looks up at me with these perfectly round, big brown eyes. She cocks one floppy ear slightly higher than the other. She lets out a little whine to tell me she knows the truth. 

She knows who saved whom all those years ago. She knows who would be so lonely if she had never shown up that day. She knows who the lucky ones are. 

“Good,” I tell her as she settles back down on my lap. “I’m glad we have that straight.”

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Why I Chose to Say No This Summer

If  you are familiar with reading music, you know that there is a symbol for rest that means no music is played on that beat. The Merriem-Webster dictionary defines this symbol as a rhythmic silence in music. Musicians know that the rests are just as important as the notes when playing a piece of music. Without the rests, the music would not be the same. We need the silence to hear the melody.

This is my Summer of No.

I know what you’re thinking. That’s right, I name my summers.

I have had the Summer of Peurto Rico. One of my favorite summers of all time, that summer was marked with not only a vacation to the beautiful island, but lots of Latin music in our home, many attempts at food and drinks native to Peurto Rico, and days spent daydreaming about how I could move there permanently.

There was the Summer of Oh Yes We Can Do That, which was the summer after Hugh’s diagnosis of Type 1 Diabetes. I made sure we took a beach vacation, participated in all summer activities, and did everything we normally would do just to prove that we still could. It was overwhelming and exhausting at times, but I knew we needed that summer as a family to prove to ourselves there were still happy times ahead.

I have had the Summer of Fun, where I planned secret missions and exciting outings for us to do every week. I hid notes around the house with special instructions or an itinerary for the day. Since the kids were still young, it wasn’t anything too outrageous – the anticipation was the most fun of all.

But this Summer? I chose to name this summer THE SUMMER OF NO.

Last summer (which was the Summer of Adventure if you’re interested), I felt it necessary and absolutely essential to cram every single week with something for my kids to do. Travelling, camps, lessons, paddelboarding (ok, that one was for me) – if my kids were interested, sign us up please. Even if they weren’t interested, go ahead and sign us up anyway. What other way is there to learn and grow if we don’t try it all?

I’m sure some of you can guess what happened at the end of our summer. We were exhausted and cranky. And of course, we all got sick the week before school started. The Summer of Adventure had almost killed us.

At the end of the summer and amidst two sick kids, I remember looking out our kitchen window toward the pool and thinking, “How many times did we get to swim together this summer?” Eight, maybe ten times total. One of our favorite things we enjoyed doing in the summer as a family, and we hadn’t even made time for it. We were too busy to be together.

As the kids entered their 1st and 3rd grade school years, and I entered my 11th year as a teacher, we were all unhealthy, tired, and had very little tans. We continued with health problems throughout the year, and I felt like I was always playing catch up. We ended the year drained, and all I could imagine doing was sleeping for 48 hours straight.

That’s when I decided we needed The Summer of No.

I committed to only three activities for this summer that we felt like were essential for the kids and our family. That’s it. There was not one more thing I put on our calendar that we absolutely had to do.

And let me tell you, it was not easy. I said no to a lot of things we normally would have said yes to. But what I didn’t realize at the time was that by saying no to these things, I was saying yes to a lot more.

No to lessons, but yes to friends and family coming over on almost a daily basis.

No to camps, but yes to spending lazy afternoons in the pool with my kids.

No to extracurricular summer activities, but yes to having the time to read a book and actually finish it.

No to competitions, meets, and events, but yes to exercise and eating healthier.

No to obligating ourselves to one more party or one more trip or one more meeting, but yes to rest and restoration.

I have had the time to cook meals for my family. Amelia and I have made old-fashioned desserts together like lemon icebox and buttermilk pie. She joins me in the kitchen almost every morning for breakfast. Sometimes, if she’s lucky, I let her drink coffee with me and we take all the time we need together.

We have delighted in watching our small garden grow and flourish, and have had fun passing on the bounties of our harvest to friends and family.

We have lingered over long suppers with good friends at our dining room table, discussing our futures as we watch the summer sky fade to night and our kids run in the soft grass of our front lawn.

Scott and I have taken scenic drives with the truck windows rolled down and the music turned up.

I learned how to French braid Amelia’s hair.

I have washed approximately 352, 000 loads of beach towels and swimsuits.

I rode every single stinkin’ rollercoaster ride at Disneyland just so my kids could remember the summer when their mom did everything with them (I hope they remember it too, because I’m done forever with rollercoasters).

I have taken naps in the afternoon heat and stayed up too late and when I feel the urge to get busy and accomplish something, I stop and do a gut check. Am I rested? Yes. Am I healthier? Yes. Am I yelling at the kids or rushing off to another obligation? No.

And the kids? Well, Hugh has decided he is going to write a book. He has started several, but can’t quite finish them (a trait he has inherited from his mother, I’m afraid). Amelia has made friendship bracelets and practiced make-up techniques and designed a million different outfits with matching accessories. They have spent an abundant amount of time with their grandparents and cousins, have had friends over to play, made forts in the backyard, and have told me they are bored on more than one occasion.

Please don’t think that I am implying we have had the perfect summer – the kids have fought with each other and gotten mad at me and I have threatened to go on vacation without them. But overall, we are rested. We are well. And we are happy.

I am not naïve enough to think that all our summers will be relaxing and carefree. I realize that as our kids get older, they will be involved in more activities, and summer is the perfect time for them to hone their skills in certain areas. I am already trying to think of next summer and what I can name it. The Summer of Kitchen Renovation, perhaps???

And truthfully, I am a doer by nature. I like to set goals and then tackle them one by one. Part of me has felt a sense of urgency since Hugh’s diagnosis of Type 1 Diabetes to do it all and to prove to him that Diabetes can’t slow us down. One of the hardest things for me this summer would be when I would scroll through social media and see all the great things other kids and families were accomplishing. I would instantly think “Hugh could have done that” or “Did Amelia miss out on something important?” When I would run into friends around town and they would talk about how busy their summers had been with all the activities, I would have to swallow hard and resist the urge to exaggerate at how busy we had been.

In the South, summers can be competitive, and I would often have to remind myself that busyness was not a ribbon I needed to win.

Without the rests, the music would not be the same. We need the silence to hear the melody.

And so it is with life. We need the silence to hear the melody. The Summer of No has given me the rest I needed to hear the music in my life. My music sounds a lot like children laughing, crickets chirping in the cloak of night, splashes of water in the pool – your music might sound different, but I bet if you pay attention to the rest, you will be able to hear yours too. And if all of us listen very carefully and strain our ears to hear, our music might just be reminding us that this life we have looks an awful lot like the life we always wanted.

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