I'm HOW old?

JillWelllington via Pixabay

Yesterday morning, I got up early. Roofers were coming to work on our house and I wanted to be decent and ready to start the day before they started their work. Now, mind you, I’m a night owl so early to me and early to you are probably not the same thing. To me, anything before 8 AM is indecent but that’s because I usually go to bed somewhere around two.

As is often the case when I get up early because I have to (because I no longer get up early for any other reason), at some point in the day I find myself wondering why I don’t do this more often. Getting an earlier start seems to make my day more productive and I marvel at the additional things that get finished. I sleep well too, mostly because I’m exhausted, and I get up early the next morning to start fresh.

Except that I don’t. Sometimes, I get up even later than usual. It’s as though my body thinks I’ve played some sort of cruel trick and it wants to show me who’s really boss.

On another note (one that's related, I promise), I'm celebrating a milestone birthday next month and, to be honest, I’m having some trouble with it. Yesterday, a friend reminded me that it's just a number, which is my usual outlook on age. Yet, for some reason, this number bothers me more than any other that's come before (though, to be fair, forty was a comeuppance).

Then, this morning, I stopped and looked around – literally. Despite the warm weather (not my favorite thing) I wanted to start today out on our patio. Enclosed by a screened canopy, it's a teaser for the room we’ll be building in the fall. Even though it was late morning when I sat down under the canopy, the neighborhood was quiet, except for the birds who had quite a lot to say. The trees in our yard, so small when we bought the house are now (thanks to my husband’s TLC) bigger than we could have imagined. Butterfly bushes we planted years ago are now taller than I am and my favorite little hedge beside our patio is not so little anymore, giving us the sense of privacy we need on days like today, when we want to start the day out on the patio before we're appropriately dressed and coiffed. 

It's a pretty good life. But how does all of this connect?

Age is a number, but, as such, it's representational. Whether from my perch on the patio, the desk in my office or my place center stage (that's how I see it) running a classroom, I really can't complain. I mean, I can (and I do) but, if I take a step back and look at the big picture, what's missing? What is it that I wanted to do that I haven't done? More important, is there any answer to that question that's so substantial that it's worth clouding the picture and wasting time fretting over a number I can't change? 

No. There is not.

Sure, I could wish for a beach house and thick, lustrous hair and maybe even to be a morning person (but probably not that last one). Or maybe even the PhD I used to aspire to. Or I can enjoy what's right in front of me, own this number (that, quite frankly, I still don't like very much) and, in true Jersey girl style, decide what I want the next decade (or, God willing, several decades) to look like. 

So, here it goes.

Next month, I will turn the number below (I planned to just move right into the acrostic but, frankly, typing the number hurt a little bit). Here's how I plan to make it look:

  Sassy

  Intelligent

eXcellent (but not perfect)

 Teaching, theatrical & text-producing

 Youthful in outlook (The youthful appearance ship has already sailed).

JillWellington via Pixabay

In other words, the best of what I've spent decades (literally) honing. I don't need to be a morning person and I won't be a commercial for Botox. But I want to be wise enough to know that what I've built  to this point in my life is worth celebrating -- and building on -- because I'm not finished yet. In the end, that's a lot more fun than mourning some digits which, for the record, don't change until more than a month from now.

Just sayin'.

I'm okay with it. Really.

Or I will be, anyway.

Growing, Growing, Grown

quinnipiac.edu

Today, I'm in Connecticut with my daughter on a college visit, so I'm pulling a post from the archives. This one ran in June 2014 on "Six Children and No Theories," a community blog I wrote for WITF for a time, and since it's about milestones, it seemed about right for today, as we prepare for the next milestone.

I talk a really good game when it comes to milestones in my daughter’s life. Though I can’t believe how quickly she leapfrogs from one to the next (walking to running to a riding a bike to starting school to middle school to high school), I know that each is a necessary step on the ladder of independence, and I generally view these milestones with optimism. But today, she’s embarking on a whole new level of independence, one I’m not sure I am ready to face.

My daughter is getting her driver’s license. 

I must admit to conflicting feelings about this. To be honest, I never really minded transporting her. She's good company and we usually enjoy our time in the car together. Now that she's on the cusp of going it alone, I wonder how often we'll have those times. Not often, I imagine, and I find myself oddly unready to let go of those trips.

And then there are the practical concerns. I'm handing my child the car keys. No matter how good a driver she is (and she is good, if a bit, er, speedy), I don't know whom she'll encounter when she's on the road. I plan to adopt an approach I've dubbed "Prayerful Ostrich" -- praying a lot for her safety, and then burying my head in the sand.

Photo: Anita Peppers via Morguefile

Still, although she is sixteen and old enough to drive, with new privileges come new guidelines, guidelines my husband and I have discussed, but have not yet fully worked out. Thus far, we've told her only that there will be rules -- something I'm sure does not come as a surprise to her as most of her new privileges came with rules -- or at least guidelines. Some of our rules will reiterate what the state of Pennsylvania has to say (cell phone off, wear your seatbelt at all times, no more than one friend in the car with you, no driving after 11 pm), while others will be designed to put our minds at ease (we need to know where you are going and when you expect to be home) or reiterate common courtesies (if you're going to be late,  you need to let us know).

But setting up rules for a child on the cusp of adulthood is different than setting up rules for a toddler. Fortunately, the same concerns that have been persistent throughout her life (safety is non-negotiable, for example) still form the backbone of those rules. This license, many of my friends have warned me, is her first step toward real independence. Much as those first wobbly toddler steps signify a sea change, so does ready access to the car keys. Only this time, I can't hover and be there to catch her if she's close to a dangerous fall.

And for the first time since I watched those Lamaze videos in childbirth class, I don't know if I'm ready for this. But a big part of parenting is letting go, and allowing our kids to run ahead of us when they’re prepared to do so.

It’s just that no one told me she’d be prepared before I was.