My firstborn is almost 10...like, days away.
His due date was changed, just once, from early November to late October. I had hoped for the October date, as I favored the Opal to the Citrine birthstone. But the October date came and went and all eyes were on November.
Marmie had come to visit, flying down from Pennsylvania to North Caroline, the birthplace of all three McFive children. Her visit corresponded with the October date, so it was unfortunate but her return fight demanded that she board before baby boy was ready to come out and into the world.
On his due-date (the first of the two given/November date), I awoke around 2 in the morning with contractions so breathtaking that I would close my eyes, concentrate on breathing, and cringe my way through them. They were spaced like they were supposed to be, so I rose from bed and made my way out to the kitchen were I made loaf after loaf of french toast, waiting, as my doctor had told me to do, for the steady contractions, what? six minutes apart? Heaven knows I thought I would never forget. But I have.
A breakfast tradition of Firstborn Birthday French Toast began that day.
Baby Boy arrived a few hours later, healthy, pink, and perfect.
Now Baby Boy is about to be a decade old.
A decade.
On my tenth birthday, Marmie sat me down and told me that I would likely be two digits for the remainder of my life. I thought that was profound and wondered if she was right. Will I make it to three digits? Will Baby Boy?
In some ways, his turning 10 makes perfect sense- he has always been a bit of an old soul. You can see it in his cock-eyed smile and his twinkling eyes, but most predominantly, it is in the way he makes huge gestures when he bows, even if it it just to welcome you into a room. He says things which seem old to me, drops heavy and sophisticated words in sentences which I still assumed he was years away from understanding.
Literally.
Divorce.
Homophone. (It's pronounced hom-O-phone, mom, not Ho-Mo-phone.)
We decided to name him Zeplin, Zep for short, and we chose this so as to have a family name. Some times I think it is a little too common for me, but it suites him, and he loves his name!
On an almost daily basis, Zeplin will ask me to go with him and knock on a neighbor's door. He would like to offer to rake their leaves, walk their dog, shovel the snow from their driveways. He would like to make money.
And he's entrepreneurial, too! One of his favorite past-times is trying to sell his brothers his old toys.
Pokemon Card, 25cents.
Broken Mini Arcade game, $4.
Lego Creation, $1.
Zep, I will remind him after the inevitable cry of a brother awakens me to what is going on in the Bedroom Pawn Shop, you may not sell your brothers your old toys. You can gift them if you no longer want them, but you can not charge them money.
He'll volunteer around the house too, which I know I am supposed to hone-in on and encourage. Sure, you can wash the dishes for $2, or the car for $5. The thing is, I cringe. I like to do the dishes the way I want them done. And it is more work, not less, for me. Watching him eventually leads to helping him and, should he want to give up part way through, it now requires me to cheerlead/hand-hold/threaten for the task to be finished.
And his brothers want in on that quick cash, too. Can they, also, wash the car? Never mind that not one of them is tall enough to reach above the halfway point of the windows, rendering the top 1/4 of the vehicle a dirty, dusty mess.
But, I get it.
When I was about 10, I used to pack a basket with old toys, books, hair bows, whatever, and try to sell them to my sister and my cousin. Shop-O-Shannon!, I would call, walking into a room. You can buy this Blossom book for just $1, or this plastic birthstone ring for .50 cents!
Believe it or not, Shop-O-Shannon actually earned me a few dollars. But I have not allowed the same with my sons. I am totally for entrepreneurial spirits and go-get-em! mentalities, but this demands a foundation of integrity, hard-work and good manners from which to spring, and we are still working on those basics. (No, Zep, we will not knock on a neighbor's door and ask about their leaves when you have a 20 minutes reading assignment due tomorrow and you are standing here giving me attitude over completing it. Do the work required of you before trying to add more to your plate. And be nine. You have your whole life to earn a dollar.)
But it is in him. This spirit. He is always thinking of the Next Big Thing, and, God-bless him, I most often keep him on stand-by.
Yes, a yard sale would be fun...next year.
A lemonade stand is a great idea, but it is 47 degrees outside.
We could ask the other people in mommy's work-out group to buy your drawings of pumpkins for only $1 per page, but I am not going to do that.
So I have asked him, asked Big Strong Man, and am asking you, what is a mom to do?
How can I encourage within realism?
Just as he thinks about the Next Big Thing for his focus, I find that I am heavily leaning towards movement as mine.
It is for my mental, physical, and spiritual health. And the health of my marriage.
I walk so much because I am exploring this town, breathing fresh air, and forcing myself to build up endorphins and burned calories.
I think it is kinda-not really-kinda saving my life right now. (Are you asking me, Jen Hatmaker? Because this is what I would say.)
When McFive moved to the Land of Corn 30 days ago (!) we moved to a location mostly unknown to us. The streets, the sights, there is so much here to explore and experience. Unfortunately for all of us, I spent the first two weeks crying heavy, ugly tears and feeling depressed. (Hint, don't try to go cold turkey off of your SSRI when you move. Stress+Stress=MORE STRESS.) But I am back on my medication and walking most days. Often times I walk for hours.
I get lost, traveling up and down any road with a sidewalk, past the college, neighborhoods, and strip malls. I just walk. This is how I finished The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks in about three days...walking. This is how I listen to the BSF lecture. This is how I catch-up with my grandma. She knew I was crying. I told her because I have little filter over my feelings and expressing them. When she asked how everything was "over there", I burst into tears and told her how difficult everything was.
I don't really like this house. It doesn't feel like our home, and it was dirty...
Marriage is hard, I know, but mine is just so hard and all the time...
I know people get upset and overwhelmed, but why is it all I have the strength to focus on? And why can't I make these tears stop?
It was a million times better to tell her I was, indeed, doing better. She need not worry about me.
And so it is, with November staring us in the face and the Most Wonderful Time of the Year in full swing. (It begins with Halloween in our house, followed by 6 November birthdays before Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving Day, St. Nicholas and four more birthdays all before Christmas, Christmas Day, and the New Year.)
With the onset of gift buying, wrapping, shipping, and all that jazz, as well as shoe boxes for Operation Christmas Child, a birthday for our sponsored Child, Wilbert (who shares Zeplin's birthday!), Advent Calendars, decorating, cooking and baking, I know that this season is stock-full of burnout and inevitable demands.
And still, I have made it my goal to walk/run 100 miles before we ring in the New Year. I have 62 days, including today. Before moving to the Land of Corn, I purchased a smart watch and my goal only includes the intentional walks I go on, not the every day walking from the bed to the laundry room and such.
Much like Zeplin's entrepreneurial spirit with a focus on financial gain, my focus and gain in on health. I realize that when I walk, I am better for it. By proxy, my husband and sons are better for it as well. This continues to flow to others, our house, and our obligations- which we have purposefully limited this season.
A December full of Christmas stories and movies? Yes, Please!
Still, it is October, not December, and so we chose our focus. Today it is pumpkins.
