Confessions from the Rockin’ Chair

So I don’t usually write on Saturday mornings, or Fridays or Sundays for that matter, either. My hubby is off work those days and makes the quiet pre-dawn writing sessions a little more difficult. But this morning he is still in bed! As I got up and awkwardly tried to put both feet into one pajama leg, he stirred a little, Aaarp!’d, croaked out the word, “coffee”, then turned over and went back to sleep. Little does he know I have the coffee already made and it’s just sitting down here waiting for him.

My coffee maker is behaving nicely, not dribbling coffee out onto the counter whenever I try to pour into a cup. I think it is trying to make up for so many months of bad behavior ’cause it felt neglected for a month. At the moment, I’ve given up Mt. Dew for nearly 3 weeks and all forms of pop for 6 days. Coffee is the last stronghold. For Now.

And what about these human eggs, you say? Well, the other night when my DH was on the phone talking to his BIL about work stuff, I was upstairs tucking the kids into bed. Usually DH reads J a few pages of his dinosaur book at night, so I picked up the book where they’d left off the night before and started reading. There was this picture of a mean dinosaur eating the eggs of a nice dinosaur. J didn’t like that at all and wanted to know why that mean dinosaur was doing that.

“Well, that’s just what they like to eat.”

J looked horrified.

“We eat chicken eggs, you know!”, I said, not realizing the myriad of questions THAT was going to raise.

His horrified look turned to disgust.

“Why do we eat the chickens’ babies?”, he wanted to know.

“Well, honey, those eggs that we eat or not actually baby chickens, because those eggs were not fertilized by the daddy rooster.”

Wait. Stop right there. Don’t let panic overtake you!!!! You know where this conversation is now going to go (thanks a lot for bringing up chicken eggs, ya mush brain) so calm down and just go with it.

And so the conversation progressed from chicken eggs to human eggs and how all animals have boys and girls in their species and that’s how all of their eggs get fertilized. He wanted to see a human egg, and the explanation that it’s too tiny to see didn’t deter him, so I got out the book, A Child Is Born.  Published in the 60’s, it’s discreet and the only detail of the actual fertilization it gives is of what happens on the cellular level. It also has a lot of pictures of the development of the embryo, fetus, and baby as it grows and changes and then shows some discreet pictures of the birth.

The umbilical cord thing really creeped him out. He grasped the importance of how it feeds the baby and all, but when it came time to cutting the cord, you could almost visibly see him shudder. lol. Poor kid.

He had more questions about the egg and how the baby gets out of the actual egg, so we went back to the front of the book and I explained that the egg actually turns into the baby. He was so confused by that. I turned the page, and lo and behold, a page I’d missed the first time! It had a lovely picture of thousands of swimmers under a microscope, and a side-view line drawing of the male anatomy. So I stumbled through a quick summary of the “Daddy” half of the equation, pointing to the little swimmers, and then pointed to the line drawing.

“That’s a boy, uh…..(do I say it? do I say it?) uh…. big me. (ugh! Again, HIS term, NOT mine!! I know I should have used the correct terminology; he’s really getting to old to use that phrase in reference to his male parts, but dang it’s a hard habit to break!)

To which my son turns and looks at me with a look that totally says, “DUH, mom, you are SO lame.” and says, “Yeah, I know.”

Okay, then. Moving right along. I closed up the book and tried to then turn the conversation back to dinosaurs, but he wanted to know if babies were fertilized when a Daddy and Momma – Hug! Lol.

“No son, it’s a little more complicated than a hug, and it only happens when a boy and a girl are all grown up and get married, and I’ll explain more about that when you are older.”

Finally, he was satisfied with that, said his prayers, and went back to his dinosaurs. I pulled the door closed behind me and breathed a huge sigh of relief that step one was over and done with and I had somehow managed to keep calm and not dash from the room mumbling something about birds-and-bees-and-your-father’s-job-not-mine.

On a side note, the other day I was talking to my mom and she was telling me about a conversation she had with my Aunt H.  Aunt H. claimed that her son (who is a year younger that Jake) had to inform my oldest brother about the birds and the bees.  She said M didn’t know anything about how things work and why things happen and all that jazz. My mother was SO fuming mad and offended by this that she could hardly speak except to say that was simply and completely NOT true. lol. OH I had to bite my tongue.

PS. Thank you, dear sis, for filling ME in on my measly details whist we were in college!

There was this one day, when I was out west, that I managed to steal away for a few hours by myself. I didn’t get to take a backpack and a fishing pole, but beggars can’t be choosers and I wasn’t going to complain! I drove through my old hometown, stopped at main st. and ran in. As I sat in my car afterwards, I looked around and saw so many people I went to school with. I don’t think a single one of them recognized me. It was interesting to see how people have changed after more than a decade, and to realize how much I’ve changed and how long it has really been since I lived there and was part of the community. Then a half a dozen trucks on big mud tires drove in and parked all around me. Muddy trucks, with 6 inches of lift and chains rattling around in the beds. I laughed. Ah, so the next generation still does what we did – runs to main street, grabs a burrito and a pepsi, and goes muddin’ on lunch break, hoping to not get stuck, or to get stuck and pulled out before 12:03! They looked like kids. Were we ever that young?! And DRIVING?!

I left there and drove down around past the fairgrounds, over the little old bridge, and peeked down at the playground I spent so many happy hours as a kid. I went up the hill instead of around by the old property, it’s still too painful to drive past there. At the top of the hill I turned right, then on up the hill and left onto the old gravel logging road that follows the creek. I drove slowly. There just is no way to make words encompass all that this road holds in memories for my life.

I looked up the dirt road that goes up to Mickey Thompson. There are, of course, new hill climbs and new mud holes. Things change. On up the road I went, past the place where Mr. First Love rolled his truck that summer before my junior year, past the turnoff logging road where I went when I ran away until the darkness and rain forced my scaredy-cat self back home, past where my parents and brothers and I used to ride our bikes up to a swimming hole, past the turn off to the bridge we all used to jump off into the deep, clear pool below. I drove past the trail to the secret waterfalls, and past where cousin David drove Jake’s truck off the road on a steep curve and nearly killed both of them. I drove through where the big mudslide was and past the steep creek that Dh and I hiked up one time and made love on the mossy bank with the sunlight streaming through the trees and the sound of the water rushing by.

And then I ran into workers clearing branches and trees from the road, so  I had to turn around. Dangit. I thought about parking and hiking up that creek, but decided against it since the workers were so close, and decided to drive back down and hike to the secret waterfalls. So I parked next to the road, grabbed my camera and phone and locked up the car. Took me a few minutes to find the trail, wandered through the ferns and sweet-and-sour grass, vine maples, and of course, the obligatory spider webs (no, I did NOT spontaneously start sprinting through the woods here, I’ve learned my lesson!). Just as I started down the steep part of the trail and I could barely catch a glimps of the creek, I stopped just short of putting my foot down in a pile of bear poop. Oh my! Is that… BEAR poop??? Holy cow, it IS bear poop!!! And it’s STEAMING! Oh good lord. My heart racing, I turned tail and headed quickly back up the hill. The underbrush was dense enough, and the downed trees big enough that I felt certain a bear could be hiding around any one of them, feet away from me, and I was bound to surprise one and it wasn’t going to be good. In my head I could hear my brother warning me of how dumb it is to surprise a bear, that I should make noise and warn the bear of my presence, shake some branches, whistle, ring a bell, I don’t know – something!! And at the same time I’m hearing that voice in my head, my own brain (or was it just the adrenaline?) was telling me to just get out of there as quickly and quietly as possible. Which is exactly what I did. lol.

So I had to find a new plan. Maybe, since I was alone and all, going the route of a more popular hiking trail might be not so bad after all. Sad, isn’t it? Scared out of the woods by a little bear poop? Great. Not only am I now a flatlander who gets car sick going through sweeney’s and feels like we’re going to fall off the road going up dock grade, (never mind the white-knuckling I do when I drive over the green bridge) I’m apparently now more scared of animals than people. Sick and twisted, I know.

I made it back down to main street where I was going to get some fuel in the car before going anywhere, and as I pulled in I saw a familiar profile of a man standing next to a big black truck. Knee-jerk reaction made me steer quite erradically, trying to find a place to turn the darn car around and get the heck out of that too tiny little freaking parking lot before he sees me!!! I had to turn into a parking space and do a 3 point turn, then I had to go wait in line to pull back out on the road. Seriously, 30 feet was way too close to be to him right then and my nerves were already shot by the phantom bear. Give me a break.

Yea, yea, I know it was an unreasonable reaction, given that Mr. First Love and I parted on good terms, remained good friends, and he was at my wedding, hitting on my best friend. But then, who wasn’t? lol. Can you blame them, she’s gorgeous. Someone should tell her you’re not supposed to outshine the bride. But hey, at least my hubby wasn’t even the least bit tempted by her beauty! Ah yes, I’m getting off course here, aren’t I?

The last time I saw Mr. First Love was the day I got married. The height of my beauty, the day I really was beautiful, glowing, radiant, and a SIZE 2.  So yeah, no, I wasn’t thrilled at the idea of running into this guy and chatting about families and jobs, trucks and old times, all while in the back of his mind he’s thinking, “Dang, glad I dodged THAT bullet!”. No thanks. Maybe after I’ve had a tummy tuck and no longer have a ‘shelf’ . I wasn’t even wearing makeup. Finally managed to get out of the driveway, and what do I do? Make a u-turn and drive into the driveway above and park where I can sit and watch! Then I called my best friend and put on some makeup -stat! – just in case.

As far as I could tell, he never saw me or recognized me, and that’s just fine with me. I’d rather like to keep the balance shifted in my favor for now. His last memory of me stays the way it is – as me as a beautiful bride, and I get to be the one perpetually thankful that I dodged THAT bullet!  God knows I have no illusions there. I wouldn’t be happy with him and we’d make a terrible match. But once upon a time I did think I couldn’t live or move on past those dreams I clung to for so long.

He drove away, and I drove away, and I tried to shake the nerves off and figure out what I was going to do next.

I have this picture in my mind of how to keep house and how to be prepared at all times for random company that drops by, how to have the perfect tasting pitcher of iced tea waiting patiently for said random company in the fridge, and the porch swept and the welcome mat by the door. Real life, however, has shown me that I have a long way to go before I’m the perfect hostess.

It’s amazing how different women can have such different ideas of how to be a great hostess. For instance, my SMIL seems to have just about everything done and ready when we arrive for dinner, she’ll even stay home from church or leave early in order to have it done and ready. There is rarely anything to be done to help fix the meal or set the table to help out beforehand. After the meal, though, she’s all for the extra hands to help and clean up and put away.

My MIL prefers to have help all along the way. She loves to work together as a family toward a common goal or objective in many areas of life, so it’s not a surprise she feels this way toward kitchen prep as well. Working together, for her, is quality time. She spends a lot of time doing the initial prep before we get there, I’m sure much more than I realize, but there is always some form of simple prep that can be done together. After a meal, a way to show appreciation and recognition of her work is to help clean up or to take over as much as possible.

As for me, I always have in my head this picture of me being this perfect hostess that has everything planned and prepared long before hand, with every detail thought of and nothing that I’m scrambling to do at the last minute. Someone that can chat with her guests before the meal, during the meal, and after the meal. I am uncomfortable with people helping me with the meal because 1: I am not good at delegating AT ALL, and 2: it makes me feel like I’m not attaining my goal of ‘perfect hostess’. I’d rather have my guests come, relax, and not lift a finger while here. Not that I mind helping out when I go elsewhere! One of my dream jobs would be a party or wedding planner, I love the think of and plan those details to make someone’s day perfect and special.

Real life has taught me some things, though. Like in order to be ready for guests, I have to learn to be a better planner for all those real-life contingencies. Things happen. Babies happen! Kids with muddy boots and caterpillars and soggy britches happen. But I’m trying to be more organized and more ready for things like that. And I’m trying to remember that most people don’t expect perfection in a household when there are three little rug rats keeping me busy!

My other issue with attaining status as a great hostess is that I just really have no social graces. I’m not good at conversation. I’m good at writing. That’s mostly because my brain is slow and it takes time for me to put together thoughts and sentences that make sense. I don’t have a quick tongue, to say the least. And I don’t know how to give compliments or such without sounding completely insincere! It’s not that I’m trying to say something random that I don’t mean, but I always think I’m going to come across wrong so it just ends up coming out hesistant and stunted. I’m trying to learn from others how to be more welcoming and complimentary with grace. It’s not that easy. I need more practice.

Maybe all of this difficulty is simply because I am a country bumpkin at heart. Once upon a time there was this girl who felt and believed that I could put on some make up, fix my hair, put on the clothes and fit into any city in this country. Not so much these days. Now I’d feel like an imposter, like they’d all know the truth, that beneath the clothes and makeup was a girl who’d rather be in jeans and a sweatshirt, with no makeup and a ponytail, going for a walk in the woods with her kids. Truthfully, that’s probably where I SHOULD stay, seeing as how I have stories like this to tell:

A couple of months ago we wanted to get together with our friends, B&R, so we called them up to find out what they were doing that evening. They were planning to go to their church’s kids’ carnival fundraiser for the church school, and were leaving in less than an hour. After a little discussion, we decided to go with them. I ran in and took a shower and then helped the kids find shoes, washed their faces, and gathered all the things we needed to have while DH switched car seats over to the truck. I made sure to put on a skirt, just in case the church we were going to was as conservative as R is – I’ve only seen her in culottes once, all the rest of the time she is wearing a dress or skirt. I’m glad I did, there wasn’t a single woman in there with pants on. I ran out the door and jumped in the truck with my brush in hand, I hadn’t even had enough time to do that before we left! I brushed my hair on the drive up, and it wasn’t until I arrived that I realized I had run out to the truck without any shoes! What the heck?! How did I manage to miss that detail? Wow. Here I was at a strange church, in a skirt, wet hair, no make up, and barefoot. Felt like I was in college again. So, there was nothing else to do but try not to feel like a dork and go on in. I survived, none the worse for the wear. It wasn’t until we were home that night, that as I was undressing I noticed the shirt that I’d thrown on in my hurry had some lovely, quite obvious marks on both shoulders from where I’d hung it up to dry with clothes pins. Yep, that’s when I knew I was a country bumpkin and really have no business in a city anywhere! I’m just glad I didn’t see the whole picture as everyone else saw it. That would have definitely driven me across town to the Meijers to buy some shoes and a new shirt! Ah, vanity. lol.

Before this fades, before the weights and worries return, I want to write this down.

sunset over the bay from our balcony

I got up Thursday morning and after breakfast and dressing the kids, managed to wrangle enough time to take my own shower, pluck my unruly eyebrows (they really needed it), do my hair and makeup, and head up to the SOS to renew my driver’s license and get tags for my car. The last time I renewed my license I was pregnant with #2, and I’ve been wanting to get a new license picture since the day I got that one. So I did a bit better getting ready this time, and hopefully the results will be good. There was no line there, which was really really helpful since I had all 3 kids with me!

I spent the rest of the day cleaning the house and getting it ready for D&B who were supposed to be coming out to stay with the kids while we “escaped” for the night. By the time DH was heading home from work to pick me up, I was a sweaty, limp-haired, groady clothed girl who had almost forgotten what the whole point of the getaway was! Dad came too and just picked up the kids from here, to go back to their house for dinner, but decided they might want to keep the kids over there instead, so we sent clothes and blankies along. Hmm. Okay, well, so much for all that work, but hey, at least my house is already clean for Sabbath, right?! So we changed and I brushed my hair and off we went.

I knew DH had planned for us to stay overnight somewhere, but he hadn’t told me where. He just told me to pack a bag and be ready. And so I did. On the way over to TC, both of our phones rang, and while we didn’t answer them, I did check my messages to see that Dh’s grandpa was having a problem with some plumbing and needed to talk it over with DH before things got messy, so he called him back and I stared out the window of the car and daydreamed. As we passed by all of the hotels and motels along the waterfront I became more and more excited! I didn’t care WHERE we were going, it could be that little run-down shack for all I cared! I was going to be sleeping in and I was going away with my hubby when there was nothing going on, no decisions to be made, no discussions needing to happen, just simply a time for celebration. I blinked my way passed the Cherry Tree. It never crossed my mind to stay there. That’s HER place, her moment of peace and happiness, her memories.

We ate at a great little restaurant where we’ve been before for DH’s birthday. The onion rings were great, the food was okay, and the birthday cake was enormous! The best part, though? The conversation. We talked. And we talked. And we talked some more.  You know how sometimes there is this hesitation in the talking when you go out, like there is this conversation that needs to be had, but this is not the time for it, so you avoid bringing it up, but then you can’t think of ANYTHING else to say? Yeah, there was none of that.

Since I’ve been home from WA there has been so much of an effort on his part to re-find me, to meet me halfway, and to be connected to me in a way I haven’t seen *honestly* since we were dating. It’s scary and exciting.

He shared the cake with me and he joked with me, and then as we put our leftovers in our little boxes, I asked what we were going to do next, thinking he might be planning to see a movie or something. And then he glanced up at me and quickly went on with his task while quietly and so very sweetly asking me if I’d join him in spending the night at a nice little hotel. I melted. I was dripping down the seat and running into a puddle at his feet. I looked over at him and everything in his eyes told me he was hoping to please ME.

It was starting to rain as we left the restaurant, and as we drove back along the waterfront, I started to wonder if we really were going to drive back to K-town to the Econo Lodge, lol! We almost missed the turn into the CT, and my first question was, does R know?? Hubby looked at me like I was crazy. I was apprehensive at first, not wanting to encroach on the sacred here! He reassured me that yes, she did know and it was all good. I thought about my sacred place, my precious memories of the hotel we stayed at for our wedding night, and I realized I’d think it was great if R&T went and stayed there for a second honeymoon. And then I felt overwhelmed, this feeling of having her blessing came to me. What a sweet and generous sister she has been. A true friend and much more than I deserve. I remember when she first got married, how envious I was that she got to have this wonderful, long honeymoon on a tropical island no one had heard of. How very much I’ve repented for that envy over the past 2 years.

We got up to our room (on the 5th floor!) just before 9. I unlocked the door and went in, and gasped. I ran over to the bed, kicked off my shoes, and just before flopping onto the bed, I noticed there was a balcony!! I ran to the door and rushed out barefoot and gasped again! lol! The view was spectacular. Breathtaking. Beneath the clouds peeked a bright red sun, sending a glaze out over the bay and illuminating the tiny waves lapping the beach below us. My wonderful, loving hubby came and joined me there, he laughing, me crying.

It was gorgeous. The honeymoon suite was so far above anything I could have dreamed of. Nothing in me was prepared for or expecting something like that. I don’t know where this man came from, but I’m going to enjoy him while he’s here and hope that I can inspire him to stay.

The only things that even remotely marred the night was the lack of champaigne and chocolate covered strawberries 😀 he he, and the coughing I couldn’t stop myself from doing in the middle of the night 😛

I woke up in the morning and LOVED the fact that I didn’t have to get up or do anything. I dozed in and out for what seemed like hours, and finally looked at the clock. 6:35. Hmm. I need to work on this sleeping in thing. It was hard to tear ourselves away from that perfect place. I would love to go back sometime and hole up for 3 days and never leave. Hunger eventually won, though! And that REAL cup of coffee I had with breakfast. Mmm!!! The perfect way to start my birthday.We talked some more. Yack, yack, yack, just like we were kids again.

It was all just wonderful. I felt like a queen.

I have been working on having a healthier life lately, and for me that means I need to get control over two of my addictions: caffeine and sugar. They usually go hand in hand, like my morning coffee with the teaspoons of sugar dumped in, or the Mt. Dew with what, 11 tsp. of sugar per 20 oz. bottle? Anyway, I’ve been on this kick for about a week, and I am past the headaches and past the worst of the low-energy drag. I just need a couple more hours of sleep per night, that’s all.

Every time I do this I realize how much better I feel. I am calmer, less anxious, less worried about little things that don’t really matter. I feel more satisfied with my choices and more content in general. My husband is not as annoying, and my kids aren’t quite so loud! Lol!

In other words, my nerves aren’t raw any more!

I know I promised books and books of things written about my trip and my family and all the realizations that hit me while spending two weeks in a fish bowl after not seeing them for the last 12 months, but I have yet to fully readjust my time/sleep schedule. Especially with the no caffeine thing. And all the sleeping that is now necessary to survival. But hopefully I’ll start throwing out tidbits of non-linear thoughts here and there to catch up.

One of the things I realized, though, when I was out there is this: If you don’t take care of yourself, then on some level and at some point, you are expecting someone else to take care of you instead.

Don’t get me wrong, we all have been given the honor and responsibility of meeting each other’s needs. We minister to someone and receive a blessing ourselves by giving that service.  I’m not disputing that or trying to downplay that vital role of caring and ministering between mother/child, husband/wife, sisters, friends, neighbors, strangers.

What I’m talking about is how at times there is a fine line between meeting someone’s needs because it is necessary to do so, and martyring your vital life force in the name of caring concern for someone else. For instance, a mother must necessarily meet her newborn child’s needs. She gets up many times in the night to feed her child, changes their diapers, bathes their tiny little slippery chubs, comforts whenever necessary, rocks to sleep, sings songs, kisses, hugs, clothes, and the list goes on. Usually this also comes with the usual duties of home life, like feeding the rest of the kids, bathing, comforting, guiding, teaching, cleaning, etc. Of course, one can’t forget to add the husband into the mix, his lunch, his clothes, his words that need to be said and heard, his need for companionship and friendship and affection. Plus a whole host of other outside responsibilities and things to take up time and energy. Somewhere in the wee hours of nursing or groggy morning tiredness or nighttime prayers with a 3 year old, a mommy must snatch her time with God. Thankfully God is flexible.

In all of that must-do-because-it-must-be-done list of things it is easy to let the line become blurry between these two categories:

1. Things that really NEED to be done as a caring act of love and a God-given duty as I’ve been given this role in your life.

2. Things that I FEEL must be done by me for you in order to secure your love and respect or to earn points in this relationship. These things are usually wants, rather than needs.

Of course, there are so many, many things that we want to do, and do do,  for those we love as simple loving acts of kindness. But putting those things aside, can you really see the difference between the two categories above? At times, I can’t. And in those times when I can’t see the difference, I feel equally responsible for both the wants and the needs of my family. Because it is impossible for me to fill both with any real fullness, and keep up with other responsibilities, either personal or in my community, the first to get cut off are my own needs. I become the martyr. This isn’t news to me. I think we all do this to some degree in our relationships. If not then we get labeled Selfish.

When I was in WA I saw the other end of this road, though. The Mother Martyr road. After years of martyrdom, years of neglecting her physical, spiritual, and intellectual self, here she is at this point where it starts to become obvious to others that because she has not taken time and energy to take care of herself, the responsibility to do so will go to others. Soon the roles will be switched, and in some ways they already have. We all try to protect her from what she can’t handle. I’m not trying to be down on my mom. I’m just trying to understand the road she took, so I can make better choices.  I don’t want to just blindly follow the same path because doing that would be another way of protecting her from what she can’t handle.

I don’t think I’m really expressing my thoughts here very well today. I want to have a better, clearer picture of my goals, my ideals, and most importantly, what my real, God-given responsibilities to my children are. I want to be able to look at something I’m doing and be able to say to myself, “Am I doing this because this is a true act of love and kindness, or am I doing this for you out of convenience for someone, because someone expects me to, or because it continues you in this role of dependant?

I want my kids to learn how to take care of themselves, to become independent, resourceful, thoughtful, and with their very own connection to God. And yet, those are very scary things to truly help them do and be. It’s a letting go of control that is uncharted territory for me.

I want to continue to grow, to change, to learn new things for myself, to be this person that my kids can look up to for an example of what they want to be, full of new life and new information, with a vital life force that isn’t taken up by worthless tasks, but my meaninful ministrations.

Hope that makes sense.

It hit me last night. The next time I turn around, or blink, I’ll be 30.

I realized that two of the 3 people in this world who know how to make me feel special won’t be here.

Sure, I’ve always said my first choice wouldn’t be to spend the day with my mom, but at least she’d make me a cake, sing me happy birthday, and make lunch for the kids so I didn’t have to that day.

My very best friend won’t be here because her DSD is graduating and home with her family is exactly where she should be. But I’ll miss her greatly.

My DH says he has plans, but that makes me want to laugh and cry all at the same time. I’m trying to have faith that his plans will be great, that there will be enjoyment and laughter for me somewhere in them, but honestly, I’ve lived with the man for over 7 years. He doesn’t have the best track record there.  For my 23rd birthday he got me a shotgun.

So last night I had a pity party.

For about 5 minutes, until I remembered that pity parties have hangovers, too. If you’ve never woke up with a splitting headache because you cried your eyes out the night before, you probably have no idea what I’m talking about. But I’m thinking most women do!

And then, when I’d made myself stop crying for fear of the morning after headache, I realized that I wouldn’t really be that much older on June 10 than I was May 10. The wrinkles weren’t going to magically appear deep as ruts across my forehead, all spark of life wasn’t going to disappear from my eyes, and all hope of making new, wonderful, life-affirming memories wasn’t going to waft away with the smoke from my 30 candles. Teenagers will, however, now believe I am ancient. I am okay with that. And to them I say, You’re just a young’un. What do you know about life anyway? You’re just a kid!