morning.
I was positive the bus was not leaving the kids’ respective summer sites until 9:30 a.m. but my argumentative ten-year-old protested it was 8:30 a.m. I didn’t take him seriously because, well, he argues about everything right now. Here is an example. Trevor (to my near five-year-old Brooklyn): “Brooks, what is 5+1?” Brooklyn (guessing): “Um, six, is that right, Mom?” Me: “ Oh wow, honey, that is right!” Brooklyn(excited): “I can do math!” Trevor (killjoy): “ No, you can’t do math.” Brooklyn: “Yea, I can!” Trevor: “Okay then, what is 229 + 365?” Brooklyn: “I don’t feel like telling you.” Trevor (beating a dead horse): “It’s because you don’t know the answer. See, you can’t do math.” Brooklyn (getting angry now): “Yes, I can!” Trevor: “Okay, what is 457+ 193?” And it goes on and on like that for as long as I let it. So you see, I didn’t think anything when Trevor started to argue with me about the time. It’s just what he does right now. Anyway, I got tired of hearing it and so I told him I would look on the schedule. Of course, as I uttered those words I recalled throwing it away the night before because there was NO WAY I would mess up the Adventureland trip. However, I still wanted to prove my correctness to my arguing son, so I sifted through my old emails so I could find the electronic version of the schedule. Meanwhile, time is ticking by but I’m not worried. I have until 9:30 a.m. so I’m cool as a cucumber as the pdf starts to pull up. As my eyes focus on the date, I do a double take. Written in bold face is the departure time and it reads 8:30 a.m. So much for the mom victory today. #parentfailone. Trying to keep as calm as I can be, because these kids can sense fear like it’s their job, I admit to my kids I was wrong and let them know the buses will be leaving at the time Trevor said. As I’m talking, I try to give a nonchalant glance at the clock, which reads 8:03 a.m.
DEFCON 2 procedures are required if my kids are going to make the bus in time. Breakfast is thrown together-thank goodness for Eggo Waffles,- pajamas are thrown off and replaced with whatever was on top of the drawer, teeth are brushed for less than the standard two minutes (#parentfailtwo), and I forego wearing any makeup to save time. I hurry the kids out to the car with my hands full of hats, sunscreen, water bottles, and refillable slushy cups for the park. As we are driving I locate the kids’ season passes in my purse, pull out the treat money I thankfully had the foresight to get earlier in the week and had my victorious 10-year-old put the items in a separate plastic baggie for each child to take along. I seriously contemplate passing the wood chipper truck that I end up behind and literally did not go faster than 10 mph but then wisely reconsidered. The fact the idea even ran through my head, however, exemplifies my desperation.
I dropped off Brooklyn first and asked her to walk fast, which apparently had the effect of making her walk even slower because it caused her to pause so she could lament to me that she could not walk fast and I knew it so why did I ask her to do that anyway? #parentfailthree. When we finally get inside, I sign her in for the day but the staff flags me down on my way out because I need to sign for the purple shirt Brooklyn is receiving to wear to Adventureland. I sign my name like I’m a physician, meaning no one would ever be able to prove it was me who signed for the shirt anyway, and ask the staff if they can help my daughter change her shirt because I have five minutes to get my son to his summer program location #parentfailfour. They agree, which is good, since I already have one foot out the door and I sprint back to my car, which I’m sure looked supremely cool, calm and collected. So much for hiding my stress, it’s written all over my face at this point #parentfailfive. Back in the car, the 10-year-old senses my anxiety and drums up a fresh batch of tears because I took too long. At this point, I half-heartedly try to reassure him, but my cover has been blown so it falls on deaf ears.
After we hit every red light possible, I’m starting to sweat bullets that we aren’t going to make it. My son’s prophecy that we are going to be late is repeating inside my head, oh wait, never mind, that is actually him saying it over and over in the car. We pull in to my son’s location at 8:33 a.m. I rip off my seat belt, jump out of the car, make sure Trevor has his stuff, and burst inside. The minute I have eye contact with one of the staff I yell frantically across the hall, “Are we too late?” This was apparently embarrassing to my son, who gave me a look that was a cross between mortification and disgust #parentfailsix. Fortunately, the staff person responds that we are still okay. I find myself doing a fist pump like I just won a championship cage fight. The staff did not appear to be as impressed with my ability to get my son to his summer program three minutes late and seemed confused by my exuberance #parentfailseven. I strut back to my car and one of the other parents is walking in after me. Poor chap, he must have had a worse morning than me!
With disaster narrowly averted, I decide I need Starbucks given the fact my adrenaline is still surging from escalating to DEFCON 2. As I’m ordering, I decide to throw a spinach wrap on my tab, as I didn’t have time to eat breakfast. The person in front of me pays for my items, so I say I will get the next person’s even though I’m not in the mood to pay it forward. I think I was probably the grumpiest person that ever paid it forward in the drive-thru. The barista even asked me if I was sure, so I must have looked and sounded less than enthused. Regardless, I did the honorable thing. The way this day was going, I could just picture being on the news as the woman who broke the longest consecutive chain of paying it forward and that was the last thing I needed at the moment. A few minutes later, with a spinach wrap in one hand and a venti mocha with coconut milk in the other, I march into work wearing no make up.
Whew. Writing that was exhausting. This is how life has been since John left for Warrant Officer Basic. I can’t any quite seem to get things running smoothly in our home. I’m always a minimum of 15 minutes behind schedule. If I go somewhere, even somewhere important, packing entails frantically throwing things in a suitcase and praying I can buy whatever I forgot. I have a vague understanding of what I need to do just one day in advance and even that I manage to jack up and get schooled by a ten-year-old. But you know what, it may not be pretty, but like this morning, we are making it work somehow. It’s what we do when one of us has to leave. Embrace the suck, as the Army would say.
So yeah, I’ve got 99 problems and then some, but you know what? My age ain’t one of them. For those of you who went to High School with me, you know this is the year we are all turning 4-Gulp-0. Oh, sure, it was hil-larious when everyone else had their birthday before me, but when May rolled around and it was my turn, it didn’t seem so funny. Karma, baby. I had some coming to me. At any rate, I didn’t want to leave my thirties. My thirties were so good to me. They brought me 2 beautiful children, 7 marathons, 1 nephew, and a Masters Degree. They brought me to Afghanistan, St. John, Memphis, Chicago, Disney World, Boston, Hawaii, the Bahamas, Jamaica and Grand Cayman. Oh, and they gave the Cubs a World Series W! As I was pondering my 30s, and simultaneously looking down the barrel of the next decade, I became more unnerved than I would like to admit.
So like the pensive cuss I am, I kept thinking over the next day or so. And, I realized that my 30s had some truly rough patches, too. Trying to be a normal person after spending a year in Afghanistan; three or four major bouts of depression that nearly got the best of me; two miscarriages; career struggles; numerous mistakes as a parent, spouse, sister, daughter and friend; money lost buying and selling homes every time we moved; some complications from surgery, and a couple of mistakes so big, so devastating that I can’t even type the words to you all. So it wasn’t all rosy, by any means. But, I noticed that no matter what, I kept moving forward through it all, opening up new doors and trying new things. Searching for passion, meaning and belonging, where ever a few little sparks or ideas led me. And that’s what made my 30s great or at least caused me to remember them that way. The bad stuff, well, it most definitely happened but I didn’t get stuck, at least not permanently. As a result, the trials I endured were contained, buttressed by, well, a passion for living I didn’t realize I ever had. Turning 40 wasn’t going to change that about me, so what was the big deal? In the end, I decided my 30s had prepared me for most of what my 40s would throw at me. There would be unexpected trials and tribulations in the next decade. I still feared the visits by Grief and Loss and I truly did not want my long time companion, Depression, to come stay again. But that being said, I began to feel confidence that my 30s had made me strong enough to withstand my 40s, whatever they would bring.
So guess what? 40 came and went and I didn’t feel somber, I felt strong and motivated. Unpleasant things will most assuredly happen in this decade and Lord knows it won’t look perfect because I have already made some pretty significant mistakes. But like this morning, I will keep moving forward, even on those days I careen into a parking lot three minutes late, begrudgingly pay it forward in the Starbucks drive-through and show up to work with no make up on. Hey, this is 40, and so far, I love it!
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