Now Serving No. 39

I’m right up against 40 now. Up to my shoulders at least. And I’m starting to take stock… because that’s what you’re supposed to do, I guess. That and panic. I’m not where I thought I’d be in some ways– and in others I am.

1.I thought I’d have more children.

2. I’m grateful, very grateful for the one I do have.

3. I’m glad to still be married.

4. No books yet, by which I mean I thought I might have written one by now. So that’s still on the ToDoList.

5. No real vocation yet. Which disappoints me. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing (outside of motherhood and wifehood)… When I was little I thought I’d be a writer, a teacher, a script-supervisor (blame Lucy VanPelt), an ad man, a Museum curator (blame the mixed up files of Mrs. F. E. B.), a photographer, and a restaurant owner. I’m none of those things.

6. I haven’t been to all the places I really, really want to go… but I’ve been to some.

7. The long, long list of Things I’ve Read is ever shrinking in the face of the Long, Longer List of Things I Haven’t Read Yet.

8. I’m not very good at not having a disposable income. I miss having pocket money. Mad money. See a new pair of shoes and get them money. Sometimes I can be very, very good and think of the Bizarro Terri that lives in some wretched, teeming place that has nothing and yet is joyful in the very midst of that less-ness… but mostly I wish I had some green in my pocket.

9. I am better, in most ways, than when I was 10 0r 20 or 30 at some of the big stuff– more patient, more honest, more generous, more kind, more empathetic, and more aware of the power of Grace… but better is only that… better. Not perfected. Better is quantified only by the fact that I was worse before.

10. I can’t really remember what my parents were like when I was Jack’s age– so I can’t say if I’m the kind of parent I thought I would be at this stage. I hope so… but I think probably not. They were younger than me– but I still think they had their acts together. My mother was far more creative at 39 than I am now– she could sew circles around me then and now. And my Dad, at least at 39, was walking closer to God than I do. He had the discipline to read a little Bible every day and pray.

It’s not that I’m having a mid-life crisis. I don’t have any desire for a bright red car or a trophey husband. I’m just trying to figure out what it is I should be doing so I can get myself there.

Swarming words

I get emails from some of you that ask, “Why no blogging lately?” 

My hands get tied up. Sometimes there is too much going on to nail down any of the thoughts– and really, the best thoughts are the ones I can’t put in print. It’s frustrating. And it’s what kept me from journalism school. Afraid of hurting this person or that with words. (Particularly when it’s so easy to do.)

I can hear the words buzzing sometimes. If I sit still too long they are there, humming as they gather themselves and hover just out of my reach. If I pick one out then there is a flood of others that follow. I have to shake my head clear of them all and reach for something to distract– Word Challenge on Facebook, a book (The Madonnas of Leningrad), or a silly thing on television (hello new season of Deadliest Catch! Ahoy Cap’ts Sig, Phil, et al.)

I clean out closets, sort the plastic containers in the kitchen, search for new recipes. And all the while the words are still sounding their buzzing in my ears.

Which sounds crazy, I know. Virginia-with-her-pockets-full-of-rocks crazy. Or Sylvia-with-her-head-in-the-oven crazy. (Did Virginia think she could escape the words as though they were bees? Slip under the cold water and be free of them? Did Sylvia try to scorch them? or, like Lorelai said on Gilmore Girls, was she just cold?)

At church I’m partnered with one of the kids in the confirmation class. I lucked out and got a great kid. She and I are supposed to read the Gospel of Luke. Reading it straight through is not exactly a comfort. We’re about a third of the way in and in the middle of all the “leave your stuff/family/life as you know it and follow me…” directives. And Jesus, in Luke, only seems to speak in Parables… which, forgive me for saying, must have been incredibly annoying to the disciples.
“Hey, Jesus– we’re running into town to pick up pita sandwiches– what sounds good to you?”
“My brothers, if a man at a wedding feast is sowing seeds in a field…”
“Uh, yeah. So… did you want turkey or cheese?”

Still. It keeps the buzzing at bay. Makes me a little calmer for an hour or two while I marvel at the ability of my confirmation kid to pull out the meaning dead on nearly every time.

I make pots of good tea– or splurge for large Iced Chai at the little coffee place downtown. I savor the chocolate covered almonds we bought last week. I take great delight in Jack’s silly songs that he makes up on the way to school. Snuggle the small baby of our dear friends. Slip into a good book or imagine myself in London with the latest issue of Hello magazine. Stretch out the last of my Christmas Lush box. Take long walks with my pal around our lovely, finally greening park. Curl up with Robby at the end of the day when the baby monitor is only static and the little black dog is softly snoring on Rob’s outstretched legs.

Eventually I’ll wrangle the words back into sentences. Get them to line up into paragraphs even… for now it’s enough to hope that maybe they’ll make something akin to honey if I leave them alone.

Good Friday Passover

Last night we drove past our town’s only Jewish temple. The parking lot was unusually full with cars and people carrying in casserole dishes. We remembered it was the first night of Passover– so figured there must be a big Seder dinner.

Me: Let’s crash the Seder dinner.
Robby: Sure. Yeah. We’ll fit right in with our United Methodist Camp sweatshirts on.
Me (looking down): Oh.

Last week we went to one of the Catholic fish frys. There are about a dozen different ones within a 10 mile radius to choose from… our pals, Chris and Susan, were headed to the fry at St. Mary’s so we met them there. I’ve been to several of the local frys– hit this parish’s version and that’s… I was excited to see the basement of St. Mary’s. It felt illicite. Sneaky Protestants.

Susan, our only true Catholic, ignored our suggestions for dinner conversation. (Topics included “I think it’s just a representation of the body and blood of Christ” and birth control.) Chris and I were sure if we could just throw in a few references to the Pope we’d fit right in and not be detected for our Protestant stance. Bring on the papists! We were speaking their language.

Me: I really admire your framed 11 by 14 inch photograph of the Pope in your dining room. It’s really nice.
Chris: Thank you. We love the Pope.

The fry was a good one– we took over a big, round table with our four adult selves and the littler bodies of our Jack and their baby. The boys were a little disappointed that the beverage selection did not include beer while Susan and I were delighted at the big pieces of three layered cake (pink frosting flowers!). The servers put steamed broccoli on Jack’s plate and I figured, well, more vegetables for me– when the little man surprised us all and ate the spears with relish. Wow. Years from now there will be pilgrimages to St. Mary’s basement made by mothers and fathers of toddlers who observe the Miracle of the Broccoli. (He also enjoyed his fried “chicken”… you know the old saying, Trust the Gorton’s Chicken Man…SHHHHHH.)

I would have made a great Catholic. And a pretty good Jew, too. I’m not a great Methodist– but I’ll work on it. In the meantime maybe I can crash a Rammadan midnight feast or a pilgrimage to Mecca.