A minute before midnight and then a minute after, as the clock ticked away one minute my son was 7 and the next 8 years old. Yet he didn’t look different. He is still my precious little boy full of piss and vinegar and topped with sweetness. Where has the time gone? Only yesterday it seems that my precious son was born at 8:31 am in the eighth month and on the thirty first day. 8:31 on 8/31 seems like quite the phenomenon to mark the birth of my only son.
I watched as he transformed from a baby to a big boy growing taller each day. I watched him stumble, fall, climb straight up, dive onto his head, and finally learn to walk and run. I have prayed as he recovered from concussions caused by his over exuberance and tendency to act the dare devil andcried with him when he got stitches. His 7th year was full of milestones. He completed 1st grade, read oodles of books, mastered math facts, and conquered lots of video games. He even won first place at his school’s science fair and won the right to show his project at next level. He completed his first year of 4H and brought home a blue ribbon. Often I look into those big baby blue eyes that sparkle with happiness and mischief, see that big smile, and fall in love with him all over again just as I did the moment I first laid eyes on him. I have endured his phases of everything Batman to his current fascination with Spiderman, and during it all worried that he didn’t eat enough and that he would waste away. I still haven’t figured out how he could love vegetables when he was a baby and avoid them like the plague now.
I was determined that I would not have another baby in September. In our little family September is filled with events: our wedding anniversary, and my daughter’s and husband’s birthdays. Even though my due date was in September, my son obviously agreed and made his big debut on the last day of August. As if by magic he went from 7 to 8 in the blink of an eye. One minute he was a precious little baby fresh home from the hospital wearing a preemie outfit and the next a little boy who will never be 7 again, but no matter how big he grows or where in the world he ends up, he will always be my baby, my little man, and my precious little miracle.
Thank you to Bhavya Nk at ishithaa.com for this Writer's Post Challenge!
Have you ever noticed that birthdays seem to lose their luster as you age? When I was a kid I used to count the days until my birthday. I looked forward to the cake, the balloons, and the presents!! Let’s face it, when you are a baby or even a small child everyone wants to celebrate your birthday with you. Everyone you know wants to see you shove that first birthday cake in your mouth and make a mess out of yourself. Everyone wants to see you open your presents. When you are a kid your birthday is right up there with Christmas in the holiday pecking order.
Over the years something happens. The amount of people who gather to see you blow out those momentous candles fizzles down to your immediate family, if that. For a long time I expected the birthdays of my youth where my mom decorated the whole house, showered me with mountains of presents, produced my favorite things to eat, and sang happy birthday as I blew out my candles. Time passed and things changed. My mom died, and then my dad and then all of a sudden whether a birthday party happened became solely my responsibility. If I wanted decorations, I had to put them up. If I wanted presents, I had to go pick them out and wrap them. If I wanted a special meal, I had to cook it. If I was lucky, I would go out to eat. All of a sudden I joined my husband in a make it happen duo. The surprise went out of birthdays and it was a big slap in the face.
As the years go by, the expectations bar falls from
expecting the whole she-bang to being delighted that so many people wished you Happy Birthday on Face Book, your kids drew you special birthday pictures, and when your husband finally came home you got to go shopping for something you had been needing or hoping for as a special birthday present. You settle for blowing the seeds from dandelions for your birthday wishes and bypass the birthday cake, because let’s face it your ass is big enough. People just don’t expect to make a big deal out of an adult’s birthday. It makes me wonder why a toddler’s birthday is more worth celebrating than someone that has reached the ripe old age of 45 or 50. Do we lose our worth or need to be celebrated as we age?
There have been a lot of lessons to learn as far as birthdays are concerned. Bottom line, they are for celebrating that wonderful person and the life they live and getting a year older. As longer as nothing terrible happens, it is always a happy birthday. It is another day you woke up, breathed in air, and appreciated that you were alive another day to enjoy life.
Have you ever noticed that washing is a never ending chore? I wash the dishes, wash the clothes, and wash myself only to find the very next day there is more to wash. Clean, clean, clean, all the day through only to have to wash, wash, and wash again and again.
My Grandma loved to wash. The woman was nuts about it. The day finally came when her arthritis no longer allowed her to wash. It caused her too much pain. She couldn’t grip things like she once did. She couldn’t lift things like before. She actually mourned the day when she could no longer wash. She actually wanted to wash the dishes, wash the windows, and wash herself. When I was younger I thought the woman was crazy. Why would anyone mourn having someone else do all that work for her? Don’t get me wrong, I completely understand wanting to wash myself. Having some random health aide come in and wash my ass and lady parts would just be too mortifying even though I am sure I would appreciate the help if I needed it.
The answer came to me just recently. It was more the loss of her independence that she mourned. I get that now like I never did when I was younger. It wasn’t that she enjoyed all the work so much. It was the fact that she could no longer do it herself. Although I still think she was a tad off her nut for crying because she could no longer clean everything to a glistening shine, I can understand crying because she could no longer do it if she wanted too. Because of that I wash and try to appreciate being able to accomplish the task myself because someday there may come a time when I will no longer be able to and then I will wish I could.
It is where I go to cope with the demons in my head. The ones that tell me I am no good and my life has no purpose. It is a place for those moments when I look in the mirror and see for my undiscerning eye why my husband doesn’t come home, and why he hasn’t been home for so long.
It is in that dark place in my mind where I forget that he left because his job requires him too and has nothing to do with me personally. It is not because of the ugly, fat woman that I see staring back at me in the mirror and will always stare back at me no matter how many pounds I lose or what others see. Bills must be paid. We must survive. It is what he does. It is only me who has lost my way. It is me who can no longer sleep through the night because I have to pee NOW. It is me who needs the damn anti depressants to get through each day, not the real me who once seemed so strong. Where did that girl go that giggled uncontrollably at just about anything? It is in this peaceful setting by the sea I retreat to find her once again hoping if only I could find her; I would once again find my purpose for being. It is there I know without a shadow of doubt that I could find any hope of recapturing my youth before I lose it entirely. It is inside those four walls I may find a shred of sanity and the happiness this enemy called menopause and anxiety has stolen from me. That is my doctor’s excuse for all these dark thoughts that I struggle with. Where is that girl who would sooner say “Fuck you Menopause!!? You can kiss my happy ass!” before effectively dropping her drawers and mooning all who care to see? Damned if I should know, but I sure do wish she would get her happy ass back here before I go barking mad.
I sit inside and listen to the clock tick and the sea lap onto the shore. It is here I cuddle my dogs close and occasionally nuzzle my daughter’s cat. My fur babies love me no matter what and feeding them helps to flame that undying love. I am not so far gone that I don’t realize that. Any devotion is appreciated at this point. It is here I wait for them all to return to me. All music has left me. I don’t even think to turn on the CD player. There is no desire to find a beat or rhythm. There is only the reality of my desperate hope that somewhere among the ashes my soul will rise and soar again. Life is passing me by and I have all but lost the will to stop it. If only I could. My husband will return as he always does but what will he find? Will I be afraid to leave the safety of this haven even for him? Will I trust he will be happy to see me? I won’t think on that now. I will think about it on the faraway tomorrow when he finally returns. I will think of it then and force myself to smile each afternoon when the school bus returns because besides all these warring feelings, I really am happy to envelope both of those precious beings with my undying love for them.
I sit inside this small abode and watch the storm clouds of my emotions swirl struggling through each day praying that one day I will laugh again and my silly will return full time and not just for an occasional glimmer. It is my safe haven. It is where I go to process the feelings that bring me down and overwhelm me. I withdraw into my own little shelter beside the sea as the storm clouds gather and the hormones rage. I am not ready for this. I am not ready to be old. It is why I grasp desperately for any new signs of purpose and life: a class, a new job, just anything!! Like countless before me and even more who follow, I guess I don’t have a choice. I need to just handle it. It will be soon time to wade back into the deep end and leave this peaceful retreat. Until then, I will put it off and try to embrace what I don’t understand. I will retreat within and pray for peace longing to discover the inner flame that I once had.
There are few things in life that make me jump for joy. Something that makes me want to jump for joy is the sight of my husband’s semi truck heading down the road toward home. There are probably few wives out there that feel unbridled joy at the sight of their husbands especially if the new has worn off their marriage and the honeymoon is effectively over. I hardly ever see mine, so when I do it is usually a long anticipated treat. By the time he arrives, not only am I jumping for joy, I am more than ready to jump him. Even after all these years I am still thrilled to have him home and still happy for the pleasure of his company.
If I walked out to the mailbox and actually discovered money instead of bills to pay, that would be a big reason to celebrate. I have as much chance of finding a windfall in the mailbox as I do catching a fart in the wind with both hands and bottling it. The shock of finding any real money might just be the end of me but you can bet I would be jumping for joy and may even attempt a cartwheel before falling flat on my a$$ in the front yard. If the fall didn’t kill me, I would spend the next several minutes laughing my fool head off.
When you are a kid, it doesn’t take much to make you jump for joy. Hell, hotdogs for lunch could do it. Kids are able to grasp joy a lot quicker than adults. By the time you grow up you stop appreciating the simple pleasures in life like you once did. You quit jumping for joy. Stupid things that would have sent you into rapture as a kid like a double scoop of rocky road ice cream in a sugar cone on a hot day barely warrants a half smile and mumbled thank you as you age. Seeing a sprinkler making its rotations makes most kids giddy, and they go completely ape $hit at the mere sight of bubbles. They run around with silly smiles on their faces jumping up and down with joy in the attempt to catch them before they burst. Forget that example, I am 44 and I still do that.
The worse thing is that people expect the joy to evaporate as they get older. Why is it that after a certain age you are not expected to feel or show unbridled pleasure? People honestly look at you like you are three steps away from a strait jacket and the loony bin if you jump up and down in anticipation of a foot long ham and turkey sub from Subway with all the trimmings. I have done it, and people laughed a little uncomfortably and started passing out some pretty crazy looks. They don’t know whether to let it slide or run away. Happiness and sheer joy tends to scare the living hell out of people. To me, that is just SAD. Fortunately, I was too happy at the thought of devouring said sandwich to care. Where is it written that after you reach a certain age you have to act all pious and dignified?
I would much rather see people giggling and jumping up and down with sheer joy than crying or yelling obscenities at one another, or worse standing around looking as if they have a broom stuck up their a$$es and a piece of lemon in their mouths. I would be more scared of the people intent on killing each other than someone so obviously happy they can’t control themselves. Why not express our joy with the abandon of a child? Why not be happy and laugh? Is that so terrible?
Some would argue as a person ages, the old grey mare isn’t what she used to be so why jump? My back aches, my head hurts, my brain is tired, and I am just plain weary, so why jump? I may just fall and break something important!! I can’t! I might break my a$$! What would people think? What would they say? You don’t have to do twenty G0d awful jumping jacks, just a quick couple leaps into the air or prance around the yard like a fanciful unicorn or leap about like a pixie. Jump for joy for the sake of it, if you can catch your breath, you might just laugh yourself silly until next time when I give you another glimpse into the life of a trucker’s wife.
Right now, my husband is home watching John DeereYou Tube movies on his android phone. I have never understood why he gets such a charge out of watching them, but he does. What is laughable is that he thinks I might give a rat’s a$$ enough to watch them too.
Right now my favorite singing group is Nickelback. I love their music and like nothing better than to hear their music blaring from my CD player. I like about every song they perform. If I had to pick a favorite off their latest CD “Here and Now” it would be “Lullaby”. I love the song and the video!
Right now my husband says that one of the tires on my blazer is pregnant. Can tires be pregnant?? They can’t have $ex. He went to trade school and got an associates degree in auto mechanics so I think he thinks himself quite the brilliant intellectual when he throws out terms like that. All I know is there is a bubble on the tire and according to him it is there because of me. Evidently I got a little to close to the wooden railroad ties that line one side of our driveway. All I know is I am pleading the 5th, and my story is that it wasn’t me. It probably was, but it is just entirely beyond the point!! The bottom line is that I need to get a new tire, and unless I want to be alongside the road trying to figure out how to change tires I will have to drive the truck.
Right now my kids are at school so it is the perfect time to be creative and write my contribution for the letter N. Except for the sounds of the rumbling of John Deere tractors and idiots carrying on about them punctuated by my husband’s giggles and helpful comments to the stars of said You Tube videos, the house is as quiet as it usually is when he is on the road. The dryer can be heard running and yowling cats in heat can be heard from the other end of the house.
Right now my head is pounding and my allergies are raging. Since I am allergic to everything but cockroaches, spring is usually rough for me. I take my Benedryl and headache pills and walk around in a daze. Eventually as the season goes on I will become more immune to the Benedryl and it won’t make me so tired. As it is, my head feels as big as my living room and my nose keeps running full speed down my face. Right now, I wish the medicine would take hold and kick in!!
Right now I am still 43, but before long I will be 44. I won’t think about that now. I won’t think about how OLD I am getting. Like Scarlett O’ Hara from “Gone with the Wind”, I will think about that tomorrow until next time when I give you another glimpse into the life of a trucker’s wife.
My husband finds in his job there is a lot of hurry up and wait involved. Hurry up and get where you are going and then wait, wait, wait once you get there. We rush to be on timefor a doctor’s appointment only to wait once we get there to be called back to the exam room. Then we wait a little longer for the doctor to show up. If you still are sick by the time the doctor shows up you really were in need of the doctor after all. It wasn’t just some fart cross wise that could have passed at home without costing you a dime. Doesn’t really matter what you hurry for, inevitably once you get there you are going to have to wait. It must be some kind of sickMurphy’s Lawdesigned to grate on the nerves of those in a hurry.
We schedule our lives whether it is around a work schedule, school schedule, or the passage of the seasons. We can’t get away from the passage of time. The seconds, minutes, hours, and years continue to tick by. Even if you don’t work, you are on a time table. You make sure to eat at the same time everyday, you go to bed at roughly the same time, and when your television shows are on you make sure you are situated on the couch ready to watch or the DVR is set to record.
I have learned several truths about time over the course of my life. Time heals most wounds-physical or mental. You never forget, but time makes the pain a little less brutal fading as time passes. We hurry up and wait more than we do anything else. For those that are rarely on time, rushing in at the last possible second is as normal as breathing in and out. Still others would have a complete conniption if they weren’t on time if not early. Time waits for no one, and one can only keep going forward and can never go back.
Is that reflection I see in the mirror really me? Time has made its adjustments. Although my hair is still brown, a few grey hairs are evident now. Although I am still short, the middle age spread that plagues most plagues me too. I am not as young as I once was. Time has taken its toll as it does on everyone. From the moment we are born, we are constantly aging and nothing is under warranty. Eventually all our parts do wear out.
With the passage of time, experience is gained making us a little more knowledgeable and at times a tad cockier. We acquire a certain amount of self entitlement and our ability to sit back and take $hit becomes next to impossible. The older people get the bitchier they become. Why? Because they have lived longer and feel with the more years they have lived the more they deserve to have everyone else kiss their a$$es and listen to what they have to say. The older people get the more likely they will be plagued with a hell of a lot more aches and pains than they endured in their youth.
Regardless how much time each of us spend on the miraculous merry-go-round of life eventually we all get kicked off and get to soar off into the abyss and the here after. The expression being their time is now up. They accomplished all they were meant to. What about those who die suddenly? Did they have enough time here?? Obviously G0d figured their brief life served some purpose and their job here was done. There is a time to be born, a time to live, and a time to die. After we are dead and gone, those that remain will continue to measure our lives and deaths in terms of time. Time is a measurement of life, and as precious as life is, the time we have and the time we give is the most precious of all until next time when I give you another glimpse into the life of a trucker’s wife.
A minute before midnight and then a minute after, as the clock ticked away one minute my son was 7 and the next 8 years old. Yet he didn’t look different. He is still my precious little boy full of piss and vinegar and topped with sweetness. Where has the time gone? Only yesterday it seems that my precious son was born at 8:31 am in the eighth month and on the thirty first day. 8:31 on 8/31 seems like quite the phenomenon to mark the birth of my only son.
I watched as he transformed from a baby to a big boy growing taller each day. I watched him stumble, fall, climb straight up, dive onto his head, and finally learn to walk and run. I have prayed as he recovered from concussions caused by his over exuberance and tendency to act the dare devil andcried with him when he got stitches. 
I was determined that I would not have another baby in September. In our little family September is filled with events: our wedding anniversary, and my daughter’s and husband’s birthdays. Even though my due date was in September, my son obviously agreed and made his big debut on the last day of August. As if by magic he went from 7 to 8 in the blink of an eye. One minute he was a precious little baby fresh home from the hospital wearing a preemie outfit and the next a little boy who will never be 7 again, but no matter how big he grows or where in the world he ends up, he will always be my baby, my little man, and my precious little miracle.
