Once in a lifetime

When I was a child, I knew there were three things I wanted in my life: to own a home, to be a writer, and to be a mother. As an eight-year old I often sent away for Kohler catalogs; after receipt, I would hole up in my room with the catalogs and some graph paper and layout my ideal spa bathroom and chef's kitchen. I drew many home built around courtyards with large wooden doors as the sole point of entry into my sanctuary - so much is now evident to me as I reflect on that design.

I have no memory of ever considering a life as anything other than a writer; when my great-grandmother gave me a tattered pink cheongsam from one of her world trips, I considered it a valuable addition to my writer's look. I would often don that faded silk and go into my office — my closet, complete with a cardboard box desk and a light clipped to a clothes hanger. An appropriate lair for a nine-year old writer of Erma Bombeck-inspired satire and, ironically, morbid poetry. Throughout the coming years, many people (outside of my immediate family, for whom my writing was and is not a serious pursuit but more of a reason to question my veracity, claiming "writer's embellishment") encouraged my writing. There was Ms. Moore in eighth grade, Mr. Castro in eleventh, and various college professors who attempted to overcome my family's desire that I get a "real job" and leave these musings behind. Thanks to a summer spent trying to live on author's copies of obscure literary magazines, my family got their wish. I sold out to advertising and my turn-of-phrase often includes the words "new", "enhanced" and "for a limited time." But in my soul and in the wee hours of the morning, I am still that child-writer in a stained pink silk dress and white socks, writing from her heart.

And so it goes. In my twenties I could officially call myself a writer who had been paid authors' copies and paltry sums of money for my words. In my mid-thirties, I became a home owner. And then, just months before my 40th birthday, a mother.

So here I sit nearly five years later, with all that I had wished for plus more - a handsome husband who can be persuaded to participate in Spa Night while watching Entourage; friends from various countries and generations and life experiences that inspire me and give me a reason to check in on Facebook or pick up the phone or at least email on a regular basis; a dog who thinks the I am the sun and the moon; a cat who has lived well-beyond her expected lifespan, only to gaze adoringly at my face from only two inches away, replete with fishy cat breath. With so many riches, I must be exceptionally happy and rise to song and technicolor every morning, right?

No. Like everyone else in the world I see the piles of laundry, the unmade bed, the bills waiting to be paid, the child with stick-up hair waiting to be dressed and the husband in an early-morning catatonic state and think "WTF? How did I get here?" It's very hard to focus on the riches in your life when you have a child screaming "Daddy be mad to me" while flinging dirty socks off the balcony, another yelling "I need to go poopoo - out of my way" and find that the only pants you can bear to wear — thanks to their loose-fitting waist-band — are your husband's Quicksilver boxers. So here I sit, just a three short weeks before Thanksgiving, thinking that perhaps I should focus on all that I do have and not all that I lack or have not accomplished: the anti-bucket list...no goals, just an assessment of those things that I should be thankful for.

Personal appearance/health: I still have hair in only appropriate places and will soon lack the clear eyesight to see any outliers who spring up in unwanted places. You can bounce a quarter on my bottom, though you might not get it back since I am often short on change. My weight is still within a healthy BMI range and my presbyopic husband often mistakes me me for a much younger woman.

Work/money: I have a job that I like and believe I will actually keep it through this economic crisis. And now I must rush madly about the house and knock on all wooden objects. Gregg's future is less certain, but for now we can still afford to eat meat on a regular basis though we have eschewed restaurants that have anything more than a single "$" symbol when noting prices.

Family/love: My mother calls less often and with less insanity in her voice than in prior years though the election drove her into name calling for a short period of time. Shawn Joaquin is loving, smart and crazy about me, even if he is unable to tell you what color my shirt is, recognize his own printed name or learn how to apply the brakes on his bike. Madelena is insanely independent and precocious and rarely hits me anymore and still prefers me to all other human beings. Gregg has learned to shrug off his early-morning catatonia much earlier, making him a fully-functioning adult by 8am on most weekdays and 9am on most weekends. He occasionally tells me he loves me and appears to still think there is a good reason to come home at night and that I just might be part of it. And I am often happy to wake up and see that it is his body next to mine rather than someone else or just the lovestruck cat.

Friends: I have spent my lifetime collecting people a few at a time that I love and remain loyal to, even if we don't speak as often as we used to or travel to each other's now distant homes. My friends' ages range from 30-70, and I have learned something from each of them that has helped me through some day, some situation or some fleeting moment when I thought I knew nothing and could not go on. My holiday card list has gotten shorter but more meaningful to me, and thanks to my advancing age I no longer feel compelled to spend time or effort on those people who will not be on my holiday card list 10 years from now.

So as I look to Thanksgiving at the end of this month, I say thank you to all who have given me a reason to be thankful after all...overlooking the laundry, the bills, the occasionally screaming child and daily challenges of being alive: I raise my cup of Peet's to you on this foggy morning and simply say again...thank you.