Forty

Well, this is it.

I guess.

I'm forty. 40.

Barbie Mom.

Turns out, not a big deal. Just a number. I am not, in fact, over any hill.

I'm a bicentennial baby. Born in Spokane. Not a big illustrious start.

I imagine that my birth was a bit of a shit show... Starting with just the car ride. Two hours from our house to the hospital. Our house on the Snake River, in the middle of an alfalfa farm. JPC Farms. The trip on gravel roads to the highway. My dad rushing; I'd like to hope.

My mom wasn't actually in labor that day. But, it was so far back home, they induced her. And, out I came. A big ol' Taurus of a baby. A girl. The third. Boy, girl, girl.

Third kids are different. Especially when born after all the characters are collected. My parents weren't trying to have a boy or a girl. Not trying "one more time" for a particular sex. They already had them. Blonde, blue eyed ones.

Why add to the collection?

Well, I'm not sure. But, at the same time I'm thankful that they did.

Ken Doll Dad.

Or else, I'd be someone else. And, not nearly as adorable. My parents literally looked like Barbie and Ken. I'm adorable but yet somehow the least attractive. That's how attractive my family is. I'm the ugly one.

Over the years, I've done some living. Honestly, probably saw more by age twelve than most people see their whole lives. Barbie Mom and Ken Doll Dad divorced, the moves, the crazy, the lessons learned. The never agains.

Barbie + Ken > Skipper

But, here I am. On the other side of all of that. With a family of my own. I'm married with children. I'm not in jail. I haven't even been arrested. Which, is shocking to a lot of people.

Some of it, in addition to my family, is due to my friends. My pals. My people. My appreciation grows as I try to hurdle through the challenges of being a grown up. Especially in years like this when there is much joy mixed with much sadness.

Friends who have been there to mend the heart that was broken, encourage me to take on something new, like tap dancing on Friday nights or sweet potatoes. Friends to cheer me on, sit with me for inking, make me laugh until I cry, finish my sentences - and make those sentences funnier - teach me how to install a car seat. And, most importantly, make sure I wake up in the right place.

I'm so fortunate. So lucky. So everything.

In good news, I plan on living another 100 years. So, plan on attending more parties. Because, we're friends. We're pals.

We're in this show together until the end.

And, so, here's my birthday candle wish. I'm going to tell - I don't think that will affect the outcome - I wish for you to all have what I have. Laughing, silliness, friends and love. Because, I have a feeling that this next 100 years is going to go by really, really fast.

Frank!

I bought Frank for 1.97 at the Walmart in Moscow, ID in 1994.

I wouldn't say the years have been kind. When my mom is in town, she trims him and tries to make him look a little better. Better is relative. 

Frank has grown substantially in 20 years from the little sprig he started. I think I've gotten my two bucks worth.

When our first house was for sale, Frank had to go into 'foster care' and live with friends as he could have been a distraction to buyers.

Seriously.

The amazing house could have been brought down from the ugly Walmart plant from 1994.

Now, house sold, Frank lives happily on a table in the master bed room. He likes the windows. He's gotten bigger and somehow less attractive. If that is possible.

When I painted the table he sits on, the husband said, "You know, the table is a little too nice now for Frank. I think you should move him."

"Um, I've had Frank longer than I've had you. Why should Frank leave?"

He gave me a look. But, honestly I get it so often I don't even really notice anymore.

But, he does sort of have a point. Frank has seen better days and maybe the master bed room isn't the place for him now. But, it's Frank. I'm sort of attached.

I've been working on the third floor of the house, mostly guest space. Here's the thing, there is a perfect place for Frank. On the third floor. In the perfect light. Displayed 'just so'.

But, in true 'me' style, I don't want the husband thinking this is because of him. I am moving Frank upstairs. Me. Because that place is perfect for him. NOT because HE wanted Frank out of the bedroom. Just because I wanted a perfectly styled third floor landing.

So, I moved Frank. I am now sleeping without Frank. For the first time in years.

We've come a long way, Frank and I.

From that crappy dorm room in The Tower to our own grown up mortgage.

I can't wait to see where we go next.

Frank. On display.

Youngest

Went home again. For a funeral.

Again.

Although the house isn’t where I grew up, the small town is. Purchased when I was 18; I was mostly on my own and out of the house at that point. But, it’s where my people are and importantly where my stuff is. Thus, home.

Home.

Slept one night in ‘my room’. My room as in I picked the paint color, sleep there when I’m in town and where my stuff is.

Woke up in the middle of the big squishy bed with my one eared dog (His other ear is in the dresser; it’s been there and on the to do list at least 20 years. I’m fairly confident, it won’t get done.) and my Amy doll. Strawberry Shortcake looking on.

Something comforting in that. Going home. Waking up to the sounds of people in the kitchen, smell of coffee and bacon.

The house was full of people and energy. Very loud, so much laughing. Because, even when we’re sad, when we’re together, we’re laughing. And loud. It’s kind of our thing.

But, in true youngest kid style, the second night I spent on the couch. The house was at max capacity. Been awhile since I’ve slept on the couch in the TV room. Tucked in with a quilt and a pillow, just like it was when I was seven.

Because, even at nearly 40, when you’re the youngest, and home, it doesn’t matter.

You’re seven.

Marathon!

Holy shit! I did it.

So fresh - at the start!

That's pretty much all I can think right now.

That and, control freaks probably shouldn't run marathons... or at least, control freaks like me...

I had been thinking of running one, I've written about it before. It's part of a long list of things to do the year I turn 40. I sort of buckled to peer pressure though and signed up for one earlier than I originally planned. Originally planned June, after I actually turned 40. Ended up doing one in April, more than a month before I turn 40. No matter. I signed up, paid my money and set up a training plan. A very long and somewhat tortuous training plan. Which I didn't follow exactly. Some days, no matter what, you just don't feel like following the plan. Even a control freak like me will shirk the plan on occasion. Then feel guilty. And maybe a little dirty.

Finally, like all things, it actually came to the day. As I considered it a bucket list item, a one and done, I wasn't very nervous. I just had to not die. Literally.

And, it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. Mostly because I really had no expectation. The first 13 miles were a breeze. Yes, I said that. But then, oh but then, my left knee lost its mind and stopped bending. STOPPED BENDING. Because it's an asshole. I staggered along... an old woman on a bike asked me if I was okay. When a 70+ year old woman on a bike is concerned about your condition you know things are bad... or at least possibly bad.

I had to keep going though. I had trained for six months. There was no way I was leaving that course unless it was on a stretcher. In an ambulance. Worst case, hearse.

The poor husband was trying so hard at the check ins to be helpful - offering snacks and protein and energy things. But, honestly, I was so not in the mood. I was in the mood to stab someone. For sure. In that mood. Stabby. STABBY.

Around mile 16 that knee finally loosened up and and started behaving. I had a solid five or six miles after that.

Eventually it lost it's mind again and pulled my right foot into the insanity. I very slowly made my way to mile 26. The last .2 were brutal. Even with my friends cheering me on, I barely finished. But, I did.

More time than I wanted. But, it's a one and done thing. So who cares?

Right?

Oh, but the and then...

After I was showered and fed and napped.

I'm doing it again. But, better. Because now I have a baseline. I have what all control freaks need.

Metrics.

Done. With medal.

Paco's Whispers

It’s pretty well known that I love dogs. I must, or I wouldn’t have four. Which was a happy accident. Not intentional. And, sometimes overwhelming. But they’re ours now.

New puppy.

Last Memorial Day weekend I brought home a border collie puppy. Shelby. A new running partner. The old retriever just couldn’t keep up and I was missing my super smart, departed border collie, Paco. Also known as the World’s Greatest Dog.

There was something about this little puppy - how she jumped off the deck and ran right for me, a stranger, that reminded me of meeting him in the driveway of the farm where he came from.

She’s got an exaggerated head tilt, she does random things like drop her food from the bowl to the floor and then eat it, walks past a bowl full of water and checks to see if the lid to the toilet is open instead. Puts her paws up on the water dispenser on the fridge if the bowl is empty and the lid is down. Rolls in clover and freshly cut grass, inhaling like it’s the best experience of her life. All similar things to his behavior. It’s felt for some time that he’s around, whispering in her ear.

Running with her is fun but also challenging as just like him, she has to be the leader. Slightly in front. No matter how fast the pace. He loved to go on a run or a bike ride. He was also a thief. Of a cat burglar caliber. Jog by some kids playing, not notice anything in particular but a few minutes later realize he’s got a ball in his mouth - brazenly stolen in broad daylight.

The weather here has made a turn. We’ve gone from record rain to sunny and mid-seventies. Called for a nice evening run outside. A five miler. Just the right distance for both of us to finish before dinner.

At mile three I realized. She’d stolen a ball from a kid somewhere on the route. On the fifth year anniversary of Paco’s death.

He was there. Whispering in her ear.

Smart dogs go formal.

Crazy 8!

The Divine Miss M,

You're about to turn eight years old. Eight. I don't remember much about eight. Second grade. Mrs. Feeney. She taught me how to tell time. And, that sums up what I remember about being eight.

It's not a milestone, it's not exciting. It's just a solid even number.

I was so excited to meet you eight years ago. You have exceeded my expectations in every way. Other than your straight hair and brown eyes... Because, seriously, how did that happen? I'm sure you can tell me all about genomes and genetic makeup but I don't really have the time tonight.

I love your perspective on life. How you have everything figured out at the ripe old age of eight. How you literally don't care what anyone thinks. I hope you keep that forever. Because, I can tell you that it's a challenge - even at my age to keep that perspective.

Your vocabulary is astounding. To use words like: allegedly, obviously, ridiculous - all in the proper way is pretty impressive. Except when you're using them against me. I don't care for that so much.

I admire your quest for learning. You mentioned in passing that you are reading the encyclopedias - well, why not? I guess? Who doesn't? And, they came with the house so... read away. Have fun. Nerd.

You're an old soul, Madison. You've taught me so much. You're my favorite almost eight year old. You surprise me everyday - with your knowledge, your kindness, your spirituality and your love.

I'm so thankful that you chose me to be your mother. I'm not sure I'm worthy, but you saw something there that was at least interesting! Or a project. Either way, I'm glad to know you.

I would love to freeze time and spend more time with you as a silly little girl but I know that isn't very realistic. Instead, I'm going to focus on enjoying every minute of your growth.

I love you, Madi Big.

Love,

Mom

Scabs

There's a part of being a human that most people don't really like dealing with. It's the part at the end. The part where you cease being a human and become something else. Whatever that may be.

And then, and then, well, there's the part that we as the humans left get to deal with. The absence. The space. The hole. Literally and figuratively.

Call came in the other night. I knew what it was before I answered. Mostly because, who calls any more? Especially later in the evening.

My friend, my person, her voice breaking, telling me her dad had died. Suddenly. Her dad who I had known since 7th grade. Her dad who sent me a card when my dad died. The last time I saw him, he was laughing while drinking Two Buck Chuck over ice. That's the memory I plan on keeping.

With the news, all the memories come crashing in around me. Waves and a riptide, pulled out to sea, struggling to keep my head up. The late night calls. The hurried packing. My dad dying. Feeling it again.

The pain does begin to subside, the waves get easier to navigate although the date still has triggers. The scab has gotten smaller; the scar larger. And even though the scab has shrunk, it still hurts when it's pulled off. It still bleeds. Much less but still there. I vacillate on this. Is it good to feel better or is it terrible to feel better? Are we supposed to be miserable or celebrate the life that we have? I'm sure the ideal is somewhere in the middle.

Reaching the middle is easier on some days than others.