Of an Age

 When I was ten years old I remember thinking about how long it seemed to have taken me to get to that age and that I enjoyed it so much I didn’t want it to end. I thought it would be good to stay ten forever. It was an age at which I was quite capable at many things, was lean and healthy, and had earned sufficient parental trust to be fairly autonomous. The town was small enough that I could walk or bike anywhere without fear for my life, and large enough to support a pool and a theater for entertainment. My $1 per week allowance allowed me to go to the early show on weekends for a quarter, buy Red Hots and Hot Tamales or a candy bar for ten cents, and still have enough money left to put a quarter in Sunday’s offertory basket and save the rest for a rainy day. School wasn’t too terrible and summer, which spelled f-r-e-e-d-o-m, seemed to stretch another nine months instead of merely three.

As we all know, of course, time marched on unbidden and I reluctantly, albeit slowly, left the age of ten behind. At seventeen I graduated from high school with a huge sigh of relief and looked ahead with anticipation to being on my own. That summer I reflected on how much had taken place from birth to seventeen; it seemed, and was so far, a lifetime of changes. I wondered how the next seventeen would feel and promised myself to take more notice of them as they passed.

Time began to speed up and the changes I took stock of at 34 were significant and life-changing: college, jobs, marriage, miscarriage, children, a home. It was alarming how quickly that second set of seventeen years flew by, but I liked the age. It was comfortable; having the energy of the twenties, but with more wisdom. My family nucleus had changed from having parents to being a parent and this altered my perspective of the world. I realized that my parents were fallible, that I could teach them as they had taught me, and that they were wonderful grandparents. Life was busy, but simple and I wanted more than anything to provide the same environment for my kids that I had had so they could experience the carefree childhood that I had treasured at ten. I wished for more room in the house and the budget and a car radio, but we were happy anyway.

My forties revealed my own glaring fallibilities, which allowed a greater understanding and sympathy for my parents. They may not have been right all the time, but I could now see how they got there and admire their tenacity, wisdom, and faith. In effect, they were still teaching me through example and I was finally humble enough to get the message. Sadly, this was also when I realized that they would not be with us forever. During this decade we survived teenagers and they survived us, we negotiated some changes in location, and I reentered the work force in a new field. I began developing a new dream of what I wanted to be when I grew up as our children continued to astound us in reaching for dreams of their own.

So, here I am in the middle of my fifth decade, which seems to be hurtling forward at the speed of light. I’ve moved from taking care of kids to taking care of parents; weathering memory loss, stubbornness, and letting go. It is a reflective age for me that is filled with misgivings, joys, memories, and forgiveness. I’ve travelled physically and mentally where I never thought I would go, and am still looking for new frontiers to conquer just to keep life interesting. Although I am no longer lean and lithe, as I was at ten, and struggle with mistakes and shortcomings, I still dream and wonder what’s next. In fact, I am restless for it and sometimes afraid. Yet, for whatever comes and all that was and might still be, I am thankful. It is my life and I claim it as good.