I'm kind of a stranger to preschooler tantrums. My son really never threw classic tantrums as a small child (although he has thrown many of a different sort) but T., as an independent and stubborn girl, has thrown her fair share of them.
So, I’m a few days into this 40 thing now. It’s not so bad. If I can just fill every day like I have the last three – this “life after 40” thing is gonna be a breeze. Would it be so hard to hang out with a group of friends while drinking all day, followed by nightly feasts of amazing food (junk and otherwise), while participating in a series of competitions (bowling, pool, foosball and so on)? I mean, that’s a life, right?
I had a long, and involved dream on Saturday night. It was one of those meandering dreams that takes you on a surreal mental journey, through dark and twisty roads, against the backdrop of an unfamiliar and menacing city. I won't go into the details of the dream, but it involved my son, and a parent's worst nightmare, and even though it all worked itself out in the end, when I woke up I still had that heavy-chested feeling you get when you have been run through the emotional wringer
This past weekend L. had a friend over for a play date. The weather was gorgeous, temperatures in the upper 60s, so the kids were out in the backyard playing. I made my way over to the hammock on our back porch, contemplating a brief rest in there while the kids were occupied. L.'s friend J. saw the hammock and swung it slowly back and forth with his hand, in a contemplative way that is usually quite uncharacteristic of this particular kid.
This is either the last or second to last post that I will write as a 30-something. I actually think that’s kind of cool. As I’ve written a number of times (here, there and everywhere) – age is a number. It’s more about what society has deemed appropriate (or inappropriate) than anything else. “Act your age!” Well, sorry, but I’m not sure what that means.
On average, I have more men in my classes most semesters than I do women; many of the young men have beat the odds, some still won't. They laugh, they joke; some work hard, some don't. Behind them the invisible women in their lives--their mothers, sisters, grandmothers, aunts, surface from time to time, voices over their shoulders telling them to push on, work hard, and keep their chins up.
Okay, before I venture forth and risk incurring the wrath of the millions of people who don’t have a dishwasher – let me apologize right here and right now. I’m sorry for this post. I’m sorry if it appears selfish and inconsiderate to rejoice in appliances. I fall on the sword and admit that I’m lucky to be able to afford modern conveniences.
I don't get much one-on-one time with my son anymore, despite often superhuman efforts to make this happen. Before T. was born he was my buddy; I took him everywhere, even to classes with me sometimes when he had a day off preschool, or wasn't feeling well enough to go to school. He always sat quietly in the back of the class, drawing on paper, or listening to me even while students snuck amused glances at him and tried hard to win his attention.
K-Man ate dinner last night at the table. No booster seat. Just hanging out with his plate, fork, sippy cup and eating like the rest of us. Holy crap. When did that happen? I know it doesn’t seem like it’s that big of a deal, but what? He’s just sitting at tables now? Just eating like a human? Huh? He’s not quite two-and-a-half. I kinda like having a toddler. Don’t go growing up into an actual boy. The time…it does go quickly.
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