Anxiety on the 9

I hate birthdays with a '9' in them. That last number in the string marks the end of one decade of life. Maybe more significant, we end our membership in a group with whom we've identified for years, and find ourselves thrust into the next-older class.

Turning 19, I knew I would soon lose my identity as a "teenager." I didn't mind, though, because entering my 20s was exciting and full of promise.

Turning 29, on the other hand, was painful. I had loved being 20-something. I was single, working hard, feeling smart, expanding my horizons. I'd enjoyed living in Milwaukee, my college town, and I'd made friends and work contacts there. After taking a few months to travel in Europe I moved to St. Paul where I'd be three hours from my family instead of 10. St. Paul people were more reserved than those in Milwaukee; networks were harder to tap into, friendships slower to develop. As I turned 29 I found myself in a town full of great things to do, but I had few friends to enjoy them with. I was stuck in a job I hated, disappointed in a recent romance, and just not quite living up to the image I'd imagined for myself. Ready or not, time for youth and hipness was winding to a close. Looming ahead was time to grow up and be mature.

By the time I turned 30, I had a much better job and a very satisfying volunteer role in an organization of women in my field, which in turn brought many new friendships. I took myself a little more seriously, and I suppose I became more mature. At any rate I got used to the new reality of being in my 30s.

Sometime during that era, I watched a male colleague turn 39. He used his office blackboard to make lists of goals unfulfilled and talked nonstop about his dread of this birthday (something I had kept to myself, by the way). I expected even more drama when he turned 40, but there was almost none. That's when I realized that the 9s really are the ones to watch out for.

My birthdays have pretty much followed that pattern ever since. Anxiety on the 9, acceptance on the 0--with the possible exception of 60. I wasn't ready to be 60, so I was very quiet about my birthday that year. Now here I am at another 9, thinking I should have appreciated being only 60. It's not that I haven't fulfilled my goals. It's not even that 70 is impossibly old. It's just that I'm not used to the idea of me being 70. That's what the coming year is about...getting used to my new age-identity.

I was born at 2:10 a.m. on March 11. Ironically, this year March 11 is the day we go back on Daylight Savings Time. Theoretically at 2 a.m. everyone changes their clocks to 3 a.m., thus eliminating the hour I was born. I'm not worried, though.

I am entering the last year of being "in my 60s" and, in fact, I'm beginning my 70th year. As hard as that is to comprehend, I'm celebrating. For a week. Bring it on. 

On becoming five

I first met him five years ago, on February 26. He looked at me as if I were the only person in the room. In fact, he did that to everyone, and it made me love him even more.

Birthday Boy and Lego fire truck

His name is Augie, and he was my first grandchild, the one who taught me how to live in the moment, immersed in love. He's been coming to our house for daycare since he was three months old, and the desire to join him and "Pa" started my transition to part-time work, and finally to retirement.

As Augie turns five, he is smart, funny, loving, curious, imaginative, and passionate about wild animals, words, drumming, and Legos. He reads signs, books, newspaper headlines, ads, and birthday cards. Sometimes at preschool a parent comes in to read a birthday child's favorite story. Last Monday Augie's daddy was there, but it was Augie who read the story. Wednesday when his class made lemonade, Augie recited the lemons-and-sugar poem he'd created a couple of weeks ago. Having once made it up, he's got it in his memory, probably forever, along with song lyrics and facts about birds of Minnesota, dinosaurs of the Jurassic Age, and animals of the African savanna. 

Not surprisingly, when a child is so curious, self-starting, and focused, he can also be strong-willed. His fifth birthday has been used as a teachable moment to work on "listening" when parents, grandparents, or teachers tell him to do something, and being more responsible (come when called, be more careful not to spill orange juice and cereal, use words instead of force to resolve conflicts with little sister). Each of the past few weeks, he's a little more mature than the week before, and a little more repentant when the temptation to, say, unroll all the toilet paper is too strong to resist.

Peter and I often talk about the need to help a child function smoothly in the world without breaking that child's spirit. Like their parents, we want to help our grandchildren play within the rules but be able to question assumptions, think creatively, stand up for themselves. Peter helped Augie's mom become a spectacular example of that. It's not an easy process, but it's so worthwhile.

One of the privileges of being five is that Augie's party included not just extended family but also several friends and their parents, and it was held at an indoor playground instead of at home. He was a gracious host, greeting each guest, leading people from the playground to the party room, asking whether people were ready for cake, and thanking each family for his gifts. It was interesting to watch him take charge, deciding to sit front-row-center "so nobody wonders where the Birthday Boy is," and momentarily attempting to assign seating (a challenge for any party-giver!). 

As usual, Peter and I spread our birthday celebration over a week. Peter made Augie's favorite breakfast (scrambled eggs with cheese plus sausage and English muffins) both pre- and post-birthday. We stuck candles in blueberry muffins and sang Happy Birthday--Vi as a cow (moo-moo-moo-moo-moo-moo), Pa as a chickadee (chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee), me as an English-speaking human. Augie and Vi both got new Lego sets, and we've spent many hours playing with them.

It's taken me a long time to finish this post, and not just because I was under the weather. I love this boy, and I cherish each day with him. Being five means that in the fall, he'll be off to full-day kindergarten instead of here. Last week he began talking about helping Grandma in the garden next fall. Pa reminded him that he'll be in school every day. For a moment, Augie lost his smile and reached for both our hands. I quickly promised that we will arrange times for him to come and help me in the garden. I suspect that by September he'll have new things on his mind, but for now, we both need to feel reassured that we'll continue to have golden time together.

I am sick and tired...

...of being sick and tired. I'm in my second week of being at least a little sick, and my second consecutive Saturday of being really miserable. With apologies to my blog friends who have real, serious issues (cancer, head trauma from a fall, debilitating chronic conditions, or illness and loss in their families), I just have to rant a little.

In early February, the grandkids started getting sick. Augie had a sinus infection, Vi an ear infection and a nasty double-action stomach bug, and they took turns having double pink eye. These maladies usually began at night, maximizing loss of sleep for the kids and their parents.

Peter and I had it easier: we monitored symptoms, dispensed meds, dialed down the activities when appropriate, and made sure everyone washed their hands. Repeatedly. Apparently that wasn't enough.

About two weeks ago I got a sore throat, which over time did a great imitation of swollen glands, ear ache, even sinus pain. On Thursday I thought it had finally gone. Friday it was back with a vengeance.

Meanwhile, remember that double-action stomach bug? Yeah, that hit me last weekend in addition to the throat thing. Hooray, it only lasted 24 hours. Boo, it was followed by two days of fatigue. Double boo, it, or a variation, is back again today.

I have three very pleasant, positive stories I want to tell you in this space. I even accidentally posted an incomplete draft of one yesterday. But none of those stories is ready, and I can't manage to make it so. They'll have to wait a bit.

Don't feel sorry for me...I've done enough of that. I just needed to explain my absence, and maybe whine a little. I feel better already.

Poetic wisdom

For Abby's birthday last week, I invited the kids to make cards. They were on it immediately. ViMae drew a picture of Dorothy in the tornado, while Augie decided to compose a poem. It went something like this:

I love my Mom, she's fun and great,
Nobody knows the things we can debate,
But soon I'll teach them,
And then we'll have no trouble on our date.

He sang it for us a couple of times, always pausing a few beats on the short line to keep his poem perfectly rhythmic. He was very proud of it, and for a time he ran around calling himself the world's most famous poet. I know that his mom loved his work.

Yesterday Peter and I took the kids out for lunch. Augie asked for the lemon slice that had come with Peter's fish. When he was younger, he'd eat a whole slice, peel and all. This time he just tasted it carefully and then asked for a sip of lemonade. Whereupon he declared brightly:

Lemons are sour,
Sugar is sweet.
Mix them together,
You've got a tasty treat.

I'm going to encourage him to keep rhyming, as he calls it. If he develops the habit now, it could serve him well as a means of expression, whether it's heartfelt poetry, song-writing, or simple verses just for fun.