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When did we pass that milestone?
Once again, I missed it.
The "it" this time is the point at which you switch from dreaming in awe of our future to remembering in awe about your past. I was never one to carefully plot out my future. The basics were covered -- attend college, get married, have kids, retire, go to Disney World, skydive.
Three of the six have been met, so I've got a pretty good record going and I haven't used a parachute yet. While I still wonder what lies ahead, it is now limited to no more than a week into the future. Will I ever get the laundry put away before it's time to start all over? Will I find two tennis shoes that match for every kid or will we have to resort to sandals in the snow again? More and more time is now spent reminiscing about what I have learned, realizing what has become common knowledge to me without even knowing it, observing how my life has turned out and it doesn't involve parachutes.
With four small, accident-prone, never-still children, I've become fairly adept at first-aid, especially stitches. I never imagined myself having knowing when my child should have stitches, much less having a preference on the type of stitches my child should have. I know that "available for your stitching pleasure" are the regular thread stitches, glue and staples. Since my two-year-old has had the privilege of experiencing all three types, I can say staples are the easiest to install and the easiest to remove. I have a child who actually sits still as a staple-gun nears his head. A life in carpentry is likely. I also have learned that falling back onto the point of one's head where stitches have recently been installed will pop those stitches out of place.
While there is little debate about a trip to the hospital for stitches on the initial injury, discussion is involved when the same site is injured again. It's not a laughing matter, but my husband and I play rocks-paper-scissors to see who will take the child to the hospital "this time" when he needs stitches, to see who will have to deal with the looks of child-abuse, to deal with the glances of "you're here again." Growing up, I figured I would have car payments, house payments and pilot license payments, not regular, on-going, just-send-a-check-each-month-to-the-doctor payments.
Doctor bills have become a regular part of the monthly budget, just like utilities bills and house payments. As anyone with a child who was once small (my fourth child came out close to full-size) knows, a parent becomes adept at doing things with one hand. I can whip out a full-course lunch, complete with peanut butter and banana sandwiches and sliced apples while toting around a 13-month-old in one arm.
I can sweep dirt into a dustpan with only one available arm. I can carry two gallons of milk, a bag full of eggs and cheese and a 10-pound bag of flour, plus a sleeping two-year-old into the house on one trip. Some days, there is no need for a trip to the gym to lift weights. Removing the children and the groceries from the mini-van is an everyday experience. Put them in my car from college and start going down memory lane. Purchasing the little sports car in college, I never envisioned myself driving down the highway, the sunroof open, the music blaring -- loud enough to cover up the screaming from small children in the backseat. My memory of a carload of people screaming to get to a party clashes with the image of three small children screaming to get to McDonalds. I dread the day I have to explain to them the stains on the back of the driver's side seat or why the rearview mirror won't stay in place.
Other things I've learned that I never knew I didn't know: The best way to mix juice from frozen concentrate: Use a potato masher because it gets all those little bits and pieces and a five-year-old won't be whipping the spoon and therefore the juice onto the cupboards and counter. The most efficient way to clean the floor: Pray that the cats like everything you had for dinner last night and have stomachs big enough to clean up everything the one-year-old dropped from his highchair. The easiest way to remove a hard-to-remove sliver: Have three adults on hand, a complete set of needles and alcohol, a new supply of suckers for bribery and keep saying to yourself, "I'm bigger than him. Remember, I'm bigger than him."
I'm trying not to look to the past so much and I have developed aspirations for myself and for my family. I want to take violin lessons again; those second grade music lessons seem to have slipped from my memory, along with everything from my Latin and Spanish classes, my ballet lessons and baton routines. I want to learn to appreciate those drawings on the lower half of all my walls, made not by Renoir or Rembrandt, but courtesy of Crayola. And I'm going to jump out of a plane someday -- when I retire and over Disney Land.