Mulling

The last thing I have time for today is writing a blog post. My list of urgent things to be done is a mile long . . . but sometimes, the only way to clear my head enough to focus on my to-do list, is to write . . . so here I am.

I have a lot of things to mull over right now. Life decision kind of stuff. Not huge, but in a way . . . life-altering. There is a potential job that has recently come open that I have had interest in for quite some time. The good part is it would be working with an organization I love and have a vested interest in. It would also be more "regular" hours than I currently work . . . a huge plus since the toll my being gone as much as I am takes on our family is a great one. 

The downside is it is full-time, not something I'm sure I want to commit to . . . it depends on flexibility in the end. Less money, but if there's anyone who knows money doesn't mean happiness, it's me.

This leads to greater questions, about what I want the rest of my life to look like, where and how I want to live, how I want to focus my time and energy. Writing full-time would certainly be my goal. Which, of course, leads to the ultimate question . . . if I devoted all my time to writing, would I accomplish the goals I set for myself more quickly? It is obviously a rhetorical question . . . but certainly in the ponder category.

And what of the rest of life? Frank will graduate from high school in a little over two years. NOT something I'm ready to think about. We talk about what he'd like to do, where he'd like to go to college with some frequency. I believe he should go away to college, as much as it will leave a gaping hole in my life when he does. It isn't about me, however, it's about him going off and leading a successful, independent life . . . whatever that means to him. My job is to raise him to go forth and be that person.

My saving grace is that Beckett is in fifth grade. I have several years before real empty-nesterness kicks in.

And what else? I had a conversation with a friend last week about the stages of development in adult life. The subject was mortality leading to mid-life crisis. Once we cognitively accept our mortality, and that our days are finite . . . not that we don't always know this on a fundamental level, this is about accepting it. Anyway, that is when the so-called mid-life crisis rears its disconcerting head.

I became a mom later in life. I married later in life for that matter. The fact that I have a soon-to-be eleven-year-old, definitely keeps me feeling younger than my numerical age. When I was at Red Rocks this summer I went to the concession stand to get a beer. The woman working behind the counter, about my age, asked for my id. She apologized as I dug it out of my wallet, telling me that she had to card anyone who looked under forty. I thanked her, with an eye-roll and a smirk, and handed over my driver's license. She looked at it, and then looked again. She looked up at me, smiled, and said, "holy crap, well done, damn." I thank genetics. The women in my family have good skin. Even though we abuse it by spending too much time in the sun.

The point is, I don't feel as though I'm middle-aged, although I suppose there is no way around the fact that I am. More genetics . . . unless the evil C ravages our bodies, the women in my family tend to live forever too. My great-grandmother lived to 97. Her mother and grandmother lived as long or longer. My grandmother lived to her mid-seventies before cancer took her away from me. And my mother died at 62, but she had a three-pack-a-day-all-her-life smoking habit that contributed to her leaving us way, way too soon.

There are times I feel Frank's age, particularly when we are at a concert. I was talking about a concert I went to with another friend. "Did you stand off to the side with the rest of the moms?" he asked. Uh . . . what? Have you met me? Of course I didn't. 

So here I am . . . mulling. What do I want the rest of my life to look like? Fun: definitely. Peaceful: that's way up there too. Full of passion for the things I do and the people I spend my time with: could very well be number one. 

Last night Frank was moving furniture downstairs . . . not really, but he was making a lot of noise. Ballou was upstairs guarding me from whatever monsters he conjured attacking me in the night . . . probably giant squirrels. Hearing the noise below us, he started to growl. I told Frank (via text, and yes I do that), that Ballou was growling. He answered, "tell him to fight me." Which I think is a "thing," considering the LTs and cadets say it all the time. "Want me to go fight her?" the LT said to me last night when I said someone was annoying me. Anyway, when Frank wrote that, I laughed. I texted back to tell him he makes me laugh. His response? "I love you mom."

Hand-on-heart happy. I love this kid with everything in me; I love Beckett equal measure. That thing you think when you're pregnant with your second child, about wondering if you have enough love to love the second (or third or fourth) as much as you love the first . . . every mother knows the answer. A mother's heart has an infinite amount of love that only grows stronger with each child she gives birth to, or adopts. 

So I suppose no matter how much I mull, life . . . and fate . . . will lead me where it wants to. I can control some of it, some of the time, and none of it all of the time. Doesn't ever stop me from mulling though.