Growth is painful. Growth is change. Growth is…what now?
I’m in my early forties, which means, by modern standards, I’m in my decade of re-invention. Only change is growth. Whether it be ordained from a higher power above (“Thanks, Shiva, I was doing just fine!”) or fellow bloggers/thinkers/therapists (everyone not named Justin Edison) my once-stable image of myself and my tasks (and there are many) are up for review. Just when I thought I’d figured a few things out, too.
Autumn leaves all over the yard and sidewalk
Now, it’s late April, halfway into the season of growth, so I should be including a picture of budding flowers, birds chirping from sun-drenched tree branches, Camellias dropping pink litter. But I picked the above image because it’s a bit how this whole concept–of constant change–makes me feel. Growl. Grown. Enough already! Right?
Apparently not.
To wit, my marriage: Evolving, lately to accommodate the stunning realization that my wife and I have two completely opposite brain types. No wonder we have to schedule things like talking along with when to run the laundry and pick up groceries. That we keep different hours (her night-owl versus my morning person) doesn’t leave a lot of time for two ships to pass in the calm water of “free” time.
My self-image: Too plump, needs adjustment. Low-carb diet good, liberally boosted intake of fat bad (I go bananas with Kind bars and steaks). Too much fuel in the tank, time to own up.
My parenting: Pretty solid, but reviewing assessment of dad-to-son skills. We talk quite a bit. Time to talk more, apparently, so we butt heads less. Our afternoons are spent in the kitchen, with him “doing” homework as I cook, sort bills, wrangle those homework aspirations (with thrice daily explanations of why it’s important) and try to keep my younger, less-tasked daughter occupido.
And I just learned–from whichever sage source I can’t even name at the moment–that allowance for chores is not ideal. Okay. It wasn’t working too well, anyway. So, the kids will get a weekly allowance–not tied to emptying the dishwasher or picking up their laundry. And I, as the resident ogre/bad cop (that’s always been my job) will try to instill a work ethic and cajole them into these tasks without playing ogre/bad cop. Swell.
Career: Constantly in a state of flux. I’m moving toward project-based work, which means I’m technically in-between projects in one regard while I wait for an already-slotted project to begin. Sorta. This is what it means to be under-employed, rather than unemployed. It sucks.
My writing: Going well, learning, adapting, all that jazz. The ideas and material flow like gold-flecked syrup. (Now, if I could simply do something about my time and energy producing a hilariously small amount of revenue, I’d be set.) Oh, and I’m also taking up marketing (I suck at it) and book-cover work (for one small job, which I assume I’ll suck at). All in the name of re-invention.
Mine are all first-world problems, I realize. Still, it would be nice to be able to sit down and believe, for an hour, that all this constant flux/re-branding/re-assessment/re-anything isn’t so crucial to my life.
Yeah, right, pal. Try that when you’re 50.
Sigh.