55

The tenth Fibonacci number. A master number. In Thailand it is the text abbreviation for haha! My Dad calls it the speed limit. Teresa calls it the double nickel club.

I have fifteen good years left. Mom had her stroke at 70 and everything changed. My kids roll their eyes and say, “Mo-om!” I’ve always been pragmatic. I won’t live forever.

I bought the Fourth Quarter of Your Life book, but it says I won’t be in my fourth quarter for five more years. I’m reading it anyway, just so I’m ready.

I feel my age. In a good way. As a kid I was called an old soul and told to run along and play with the other kids. My son-in-law says adults use “old soul” as a kind term for weird kid. It is easier to be peculiar as an adult than it was as a kid, especially in middle school. Now I feel like it is okay to prefer books, writing and solitude. As a kid everyone just thought I was strange. Even my own family. My mother would knock on my bedroom and say, “Come watch tv. You’ve studied enough.” When I tell this story, my kids want to know why I never did that to them. Because I understand the power of solitude.

Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

I had five kids and four miscarriages in twelve years. I was anchored to the schedules of toddler naps and school day drop offs. The utter dismay of waking a sleeping little to pick up the bigs from school. Someone was usually in my lap or arms no matter what I was doing. Joe is seventeen and drives. I haven’t been tied to those schedules for a long time, but I feel them in my bones.

The bones of this aging body. The aches and pain. For years I’ve been complaining to doctors. I don’t sleep. I hurt everywhere. I don’t feel like myself. They all said, “Everything is normal. Lose some weight. Here’s a referral to PT.” Thank goodness for the physical therapist who referred me to a doctor who heard my angst. She is helping me balance my hormones and sleep and pain. She gave me my life back.

My baby had his senior pictures taken. Our empty nest is imminent.

I’m a helium balloon flying free of a child’s sticky fist. I can do anything. Go anywhere. It’s my turn. It’s my time.

Photo by Sagar Patil on Unsplash

I’m creating a new career. No money, but lots of work. When have I been paid for my work? Not often. Not the mothering: childcare, driver, laundress, cook, tutor, secretary…Not the daughtering: navigating old people paperwork which no one really understands and is unnecessarily complicated. The emotional pain it carves on my heart because these aren’t just any old people, they’re my parents.

I am a writer.

There. I said it. It is scary to say and usually followed by questions I cannot answer.

When Joe was little he told us he was going to grow up to be a hermit. I thought he was onto something. I like being home. I like quiet. I need the time and space to ponder.

My extraordinary husband is an extrovert. He gives me time and space, but also nudges me out the door to do, see and be in the world. I am mostly thankful for those nudges. I am always thankful for him.

While everyone else commemorates the anniversary of the lunar landing, I’m commemorating my 1971 arrival here. Speed limit. Double nickels. 11 x 5. I embrace it all. And someday there will be a book.