13

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They turn 13 in 40 minutes.

My tiny babies, now both taller than me, will be teens.

Babyhood is long gone. The last moments of childhood are quickly slipping away.

This transition feels the hardest of all the transitions. Those first days, weeks, months are still so vivid. Piles of diapers folded and waiting, the endless laundry, a counter full of bottles. Holding tiny babies in the dead of night.

Tiny hands gripping my finger. Arms stretched high, begging to be lifted into my arms. Giggles. Therapy….endless days of therapy.

Tiny boys that grew day by day, until one day in May they were suddenly my height. It didn’t last long. Each day of summer they grew and now both are taller than me. When they walked in front of me today I noticed it more than ever.

It’s not just their height, many things are changing now. One takes it in stride. One fights it.

Sweet boy…there is no reason to fight it. You can’t stop it. Trust me, if there was a way I would have found it.

Or…maybe I wouldn’t. We laugh at the same jokes. We have deep conversations. They have thoughts and ideas all their own. I see glimpses of the men they will become and I like what I see. It is exciting.

I wouldn’t mind tucking a sweet baby head under my chin one more time. But I also don’t mind a sweet kiss on my cheek as one or the other whispers he loves me as he grabs his dinner plate.

The hardest part

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The hardest part about deciding to write here again is censoring my stories.

I have a lovely story about last night, a sick kid, and a sleeping husband (who was faking).

But my children are almost 13. People we know might read this post one day. He would probably be embarrassed.

I don’t want that top happen.

Determining which stories are mine to share and which ones are better left unpublished is a challenging task at times. Our lives are so intertwined it is often hard to tease them apart and just tell my story. Most of my stories involve them at some level.

So for now, know that I have a great story that took place at 1:45am.

Stuck

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My words feel stuck in my head tonight. They are swirling and chaotic.

I have written and deleted 4 posts now.

The words I type are rambling and when I read them I realize they aren’t the words I really want to type.

These are the times that always derail my journaling or my blogging.

So tonight I acknowledge the words that want to come but just cannot find their way to the screen tonight.

Maybe tomorrow.

44

~ Ginger ~ 1 Comment

Hello 44. You arrived at midnight. I was staring at the clock waiting for the numbers to flip over as I listened to my very congested husband snore so loudly I wasn’t sure how I would ever fall asleep.

The day wasn’t spectacular. I have two sick kids and a sick husband…and parents. Apparently they are all sharing their cold germs. I drove to work to get my stack of paperwork so I could work from home. I cleaned the kitchen. I drove to two different stores to find medicine for the sick people. I made tacos for dinner. I watched some of the Olympics. I listened to Podcasts. I made time for working on my stitching project (more than I normally would on a Monday). I ate cake.

Everyone felt bad that I didn’t have a spectacular birthday. But I don’t know…it didn’t feel so bad.

It rained this morning. It wasn’t 100 degrees outside. The house was quiet most of the day. It felt like my life and I like my life. I have more than I need. I was with the people I love. I didn’t feel sad or disappointed. I did feel angry at the laundry basket that I tripped over at least 3 times today.

All day I have been contemplating what I want for year 44. I keep thinking how next year it will be 45 and that feels big. Really the next 5 years feel big. The boys turn 13 in a few weeks and over the next 5 years we will steadily march through their teen years until we hit 18 and get ready to launch them into the world. My motherhood feels fleeting. I can almost see it like a sped up movie when they show the transition from babies to toddlers to children to teens to them leaving home.

I find myself wondering who I will be next. Motherhood and homeschooling has been all consuming. But soon it will be time to come back to myself. It feels like an opportunity to mindfully choose who and how I want to be. I have these years to decide and start growing into that person.

I think all of this is to say that I want (or need) 44 to be about finding the seeds I wish to plant and nurture over the next 5 years. I think 44 will be about writing here and on paper, thinking deeply, and trying out ideas. 44 feels quiet and contemplative, much like my birthday has been today.

On the Eve of 44

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My brother-in-law texted today to tell me happy birthday. I texted back and ended with “Here’s to hoping that year 44 is a little better than 43…I could do with less pandemic!”

Over the last 18-ish months I have had several conversations with friends about not just categorically writing off 2020. Sure, 2020 wasn’t a banner year with a pandemic and social unrest and a terrible political season. But 2020 wasn’t the worst either.

I feel that way about my 43rd year, it wasn’t the best and it wasn’t the worst. I’m still alive, and having survived COVID bad enough to be hospitalized, I think that is saying something!

I often make plans and lists for my coming year. By October those plans and lists lay forgotten for the most part. It feels a bit like the New Year when Carole and I make plans and goals for the calendar year. Some years we don’t and in those years I find myself looking back even wondering what I accomplished during the year. The years we do write down plans and goals, I might not finish them all, but when I look back I remember more of what I did, what I didn’t do, and what I did instead. I have come to realize these written down lists are important for me in many ways.

I am still working out what I want 44 to be.

In the meantime, I am going to have a piece of gluten-free cake and celebrate the end to 43.

Almost a year

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Last night I was trying to fall asleep. I had finally posted the boys’ first day of school photos to Instagram with a little bit about each one. I kept thinking about how much more I want to say about the start of 7th grade and was struggling to decide how best to post so many thoughts on such a small space.

Then I thought of my blog. My poor, sad, neglected blog. People don’t blog much anymore. Or maybe they do. Maybe I just don’t read them anymore. So much has been lost to time in the last years. I used to blog everything, write almost daily. And then I didn’t. I would try here and there, much like now. It is always weird to see what I posted last.

My last post was from August 5, 2020. Mid-pandemic. It was before our life was turned upside down because of the pandemic. A couple of weeks after my last post Nathan’s dad was admitted to the hospital with COVID. A couple of weeks later he had died from it. The end of August and much of September feels like a blur of emotions. Then more sickness in the late fall. That was followed by my battle with COVID, the hospital, making it home in time for Christmas, and the weeks of continued recovery.

Now it is August again. We just finished our first week of 7th grade. Nathan just finished is first week at his new job. Our business is beyond busy for the first time in about 3 years. We are still living in a pandemic and it feels like most of my community thinks it is over.

All four of us, and much of our immediate family, are fully vaccinated. Only now we hear that the new variant can still make us sick. But the vaccines should keep us out of the hospital.

I am searching. Searching for something that might not exist anymore. Searching for the path forward in this crazy world. Maybe I can find it here.

74

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Today, at noon, on August 5, 2020 it was 74 degrees at my house.

74.

The breeze was cool and it felt like it should be late September.

The light is shifting.

The hummingbirds are back.

It isn’t light until 9pm anymore.

It won’t be “fall” for a long time still.

And yet…the tiny changes are adding up slowly.

I think tomorrow it is supposed to be 97 degrees so the delightful air didn’t last.

But that’s okay. We drove to work with the windows down and soaked up every glorious second.

Anger

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Anger, white and hot, burned through me. I fought to keep back the tears that were burning my eyes and succeeded. Hours later the anger is there, simmering and bubbling up at those that didn’t even cause it.

I have different types of anger. The kind like today that burns and makes me want to cry. The kind that makes me go silent with rage. The kind that bursts out of me with a loud voice and angry swears. The passive aggressive kind. The in your face kind. The kind that makes me regret for days, months, years.

A week ago my anger caused instant anxiety and an instant headache in the exact middle of my forehead. It later morphed into a migraine. I was caught off guard and questioned about a completely acceptable business practice of sourcing more than one quote. The person on the phone shared information that was never authorized and completely unknown to us and then I was made to feel like I was doing something wrong.

It still sears when I think about it.

Today’s anger was maybe more frustration at people talking around things and being obstinate just because. And then it morphed to more than frustration because now I was being forced to do something that made me super uncomfortable. I didn’t want to do it. Anger and anxiety don’t mix well. I think I was being forced to make a point. It’s time to step up and do what is expected of a business owner even if I don’t like it. It’s my job.

I sent the emails. I handled it. It was never a doubt that I could do it. I just didn’t want to and as I type it out and process it here on this screen, my anger wasn’t just with others.

I see that now.

It doesn’t make the anger less. It still burns. It’s the kind of anger that needs an early bedtime and a solid night of sleep to soothe it away.

21 years ago

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I was posting on instagram about our homeschool day. In that post I wrote that 21 years ago I was starting my first teaching job.

21 years.

It feels like a lifetime ago, and at the same time, I can close my eyes and be right back in that room. I can see the faces of my co-workers and students. I can remember the placement of the desks and the layout of the lab.

I was 22. A short 10 years before that year I was a 6th grader myself. I was mistaken for a student more than once.

I taught at that school for 3 years. During that time I worked with some amazing people and I worked with some really terrible people. I wrote curriculum. I parted ways with my first long-term boyfriend. I drank more than I should have. I dated guys I shouldn’t have. My last year there left me a parting gift of three ulcers and a slew of mental health issues that would plague me most of graduate school.

21 years after that year I am teaching 6th graders again. This time they are my 6th graders and our school looks a bit different. It is our 8th year of homeschool. I don’t just teach science anymore.

Today was the start of our third week of 6th grade. We are sliding back into routine easily. Emory is already wishing to hear less of my voice and I am working hard to set the routine so they can work more independently. A couple more weeks and I think we will be there.

21 years from now I will be 64 and the boys will be staring down 33. Our homeschool years will be long behind us. I might even have a daughter-in-law or two and, if I am lucky, a grandchild or two.

21 years ago I never could have dreamed I would be homeschooling my own 6th graders.

But here I am.

I wouldn’t change a thing.

43

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My first post about 43 was all about the pandemic.

That doesn’t feel like what I want to write for this 1st day of year 43.

Life feels overwhelming most days. Normal isn’t normal.

I’m not sure what I want for this year.

I feel a bit more clear about what I don’t want.

Maybe that is the same thing.

I want more slow.

I want less social media.

I want more time spent with hand work and crafts.

I want less time spent with a screen.

I want more time focused on my family.

I want less worry and stress.

I want more peace and calm.

I want more stretching and deep breaths.

I want less clutter.

I want to learn to drink tea and write in a journal daily.

I want to learn to make gluten-free pasta.

I want to pray and meditate.

I want to be a morning person again.

Maybe this is a starting point for year 43. It isn’t everything but it is something. It’s a place to start and for today, it feels like more than enough.