That was the year that my adorable cottage house would be perfect. The beds would be made every morning and dirty dishes never had time to rest in the kitchen sink.
I’d have a fabulous career. Law, international photographer, novelist. Something I would do fabulously well — effortlessly — making me independently wealthy.
Be married to an adorable man and have tons of adorable children who always kept their rooms clean. And though I showered them with everything imaginable, they would not become spoiled, self-centered brats — but turn into loving, altruistic self-actualized beings that floated through life.
I’ll stop now.
My head hurts.
Linking up with Finish the Sentence Friday and “When I was younger, I wanted to…”
When I was younger, I wanted to have my act together by age 37.
Growing up in the 60s, 70s and early 80s, the year 2000 was the mythical beacon.
The year I would turn 37 and surely have my act together.
Well, if you are halfway decent at math, you know by now, I’ve passed my pivotal age.
I’ve come to realize I’ll never have my act together but I’m okay with that.
Or maybe my definition of act together has changed. A lot.
My daughter is right there now. The dreaming stage. The stage when anything is possible.
I’m not cynical. Anything is possible with time, sacrifice, working hard, relationships.
It’s just time. There seemed so much of it 30 years ago.
There have moments — epiphanies — when I think “a ha” I need to do that this lifetime.
* Our family hiking the Grand Canyon together.
* Whale watching in Hawaii.
* The fam riding bikes in the Tuscan hills.
But those goals usually stay up in the heavens and never happen. Ever.
Linking up this week with Mama Kat’s Writing Workshop and the prompt 4.) Create a “May Bucket List”…what will you accomplish this month?
This May I hope to . . .
* Get my creaky triathlon butt moving again after a four year hiatus. Signed up for IronMay and will complete the 140 miles by May 31. Also will find money to sign up for the Tri to beat Cancer in August. That way there will be no turning back.
How I feel setting out on the bike.
* Go to my first blog conference. Bloggy Boot Camp in Charlotte this weekend. I’m looking forward to learning lots, meeting great folks and having a little time away from my dear ones. (There better not be any WSJ reporters lurking….)
* Write every day on my book. I already missed a day but have written 14 days. Let’s see if we can make it 30 days.
* Get some sun on my legs. PLEASE.
* Finish planting my garden. It’s pretty much done but I’m expecting some eggplant transplants I’ve ordered and going to replace some okra that looks pretty puny after this crazy heat we’ve had all of a sudden.
* Contact regional publications. I need to make the leap and have an article in a regional pub even if it means driving and knocking on some doors.
I’ll stop there.
Need to save some time to keep the kids alive and the husband happy. If you know what I mean.
I love chaperoning field trips but one thing never fails to surprise me when I get off the bus at some destination.
Chaperoning means keeping track of children.
As in make sure they don’t wander off. Make sure they behave. Make sure they get back on the bus alive.
A few weeks ago, I traveled with my son’s second grade class to the High Museum in Atlanta for a celebrated exhibition.
Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo were married Mexican artists. Rivera was Kahlo’s senior by many years and an internationally renown artist when they met. He is considered the greatest Mexican painter of the 2oth century. Kahlo was a self taught artist who began painting while recuperating from injuries sustained in a serious bus accident.
Now the High is a cool place. They made us swear blood oaths not to take pictures of the Rivera/Kahlo work. So later when I tried to take pictures else where in the museum, my four charges freaked out.
But I snapped away in spite of their shrieks that an officer of the High would carry me off to the museum pokey.
Now the exhibit itself was fascinating. We donned headsets and stood in front of the painting the voice described. There was an adult track and a child’s track.
I chose the adult track which in hindsight was a rookie-chaperone-of-second-graders-to-the-High mistake.
For they didn’t talk about the same pieces of art. The kids were running to the paintings they were hearing about and I was back trying to follow the adult track.
In the end, I skipped some of mine — because frankly I didn’t want to be the mom who lost a child.
Some of the art was more adult in nature.
I got that the nude figures were sensual — but it took the nice voice over headset person to point out the erotic nature of the splayed-open papaya sitting next to the rather large banana.
Frisky fruit. Who knew?
When we came upon a three-story exposed breast and I heard giggling from my charges, I quickly shuffled them on the the next painting of watermelons. Not sure what the watermelon represented but it was a lot less funny than a naked lady to a nine-year-old boy.
After viewing the exhibit we got to roam the floors of the High for about 20 minutes until lunch.
In case anyone turned up missing, I thought this one was a good shot to verify I had everyone with me at 12:05.
While we were eating our lunch, a youngster who wasn’t in my immediate group sidled up to me.
“Joe’s mom,” J. asked while putting the mouth of a milk carton to his lips.
J. swallowed the milk.
“I don’t think it was appropriate that we saw some of those pictures.”
Dear goodness. I wasn’t even J.’s chaperone. I think all such sensitive questions need be answered by the individual child’s shepherd for the trip.
“Well, J. The human body has always been a subject of artists since people began drawing. It’s a object of beauty.”
J. looked me straight in the eye, took another sip and darted off to throw away his carton.
Okay my answer was pretty lame — the kid threw me a curve — but I said it so matter-of-fact that he must have thought there was nothing to be concerned about.
After all the human body is a work of art.
It’s those darn papayas that you’ve got to watch out for.