Thoughts of Ages and Education

I remember wanting to be 8 years old. Then I was desperate to hit the double digits. Then 16 was the age of choice. 16 meant makeup (which I wore for maybe a month before I decided it wasn't worth the time), driving (which terrifies me, and I only do when compelled to), and dating (fun in theory, except that the dates didn't really happen). 18 was important because it meant I could act on my engagement and marry my sweetheart.

When I was younger, I pictured 24 to be the perfect age. At 24, I would be active, healthy, skinny, beautiful, free for travel and adventure. 24 was a very disillusioning birthday--as my frumpy mom-of-three self barely went outside to check the mail. Not that I would change it, because I love my girlies, and to all appearances, those early years were the only chance I had for having children. It just wasn't what I had pictured for myself. Looking back, 24 wasn't all that bad, because back then I still had hope for my other plan of a house full of children. I always thought 6 to 8 sounded like a good number. But that's just not going to happen.

I'd never thought past 24--anything older than that was just ancient and not worth considering. :o) For the past several years, I've joked that I'm only amazed that I haven't actually hit my 30s yet. I feel far too old to still be in my twenties. But now that there's only a month and a half until my 30th birthday, I find I'm seriously thinking about what I've done with my life and where I want to go from here. I know I would never have guessed that, at 30 years old, my family would be, not only complete, but half raised. In another 10 years, Marty will be grown, Chrissy finishing highschool, and Linda nearly there. When Chrissy was born, I was offended at comments that I was smart to finish early. I was not remotely done with my family. But little did I know, they were actually right.

So now I'm thinking about a 5-10 year plan for my future. The one thing I really feel badly about was college. I finished--got the paper. But it meant nothing. I started school with 45 credits from AP tests. I took a few classes my first semester for fun, and because I thought it would be neat to graduate with honors. I loved learning Greek, and was pretty good at rough translations, but couldn't wrap my head around the conjugations and declensions, so I didn't continue with the language because I couldn't risk my GPA dropping and losing the scholarship. I loved art, but was too afraid to apply for the art program in my senior year in highschool. I applied the next year as an art minor and was accepted, but was pregnant by the time I could take a class and didn't want to risk anything from chemicals and paints. So I never took a single art class. Pregnancy also made me drop the social dance class I'd signed up for with Terry. I left my job at the library that I loved because I was afraid of carrying large stacks of books while pregnant (though I miscarried just a week after I quit).

I chose my major because it had the least number of credit hours to complete. The summer term I took the classes I was most excited about (including my senior course on Arthurian legends), I miscarried, and took off the entire month of July and missed out on sooo much. I passed the classes, and my professors were very understanding of the situation, but I wanted to learn that stuff. I wanted to be there for the lectures and discussions. I'm ashamed that I let fear and money dictate the paths I took. I was glad to be finished, though, when Marty was born just months after I graduated.

At any rate, school is where I want a redo. I want to look at my diploma and actually feel that I earned it--by doing my best work, not just the minimum that would get me through. But first I need to come up with an answer to the eternal question--"What do I want to be when I grow up?" I never really answered that question. I had several conflicting images of what my life would be like. I've actually lived out most of my dreams, and discarded several that became less important to me. I need to come up with new dreams now.

I am a person, too!

I'm getting really tired of being treated as a nonperson. Utility companies (among others, but I'm mad at the electric company today) that insist that everything has to be in Terry's name because he's the one with an income. And then if anything goes wrong, I can't talk to them about it because it's not in my name, so I have to interrupt Terry at work to make phone calls about things he knows absolutely nothing about because I'm the one that manages the house and pays all the bills. Grumble, grumble, grumble.

I am a person! I have a name! I have responsibilities and I honor them. Anything that Terry has done on paper in the past 12 years (other than, of course, his schoolwork and the actual engineering) was done by me. I was the one that signed him up for all his classes. I filled out student loan forms. I set up and pay for all his bills. I keep his resume updated, and find him jobs when a change is needed (thankfully not for a while). I fill out all the benefits forms. I file the taxes every year. I do all of this, even though even the thought of paperwork sends me into a panic attack. But despite all this, on paper, I barely exist. I still could not get a credit card in my name alone (well, maybe I could, but not one I'd want), because everything has been done in Terry's name. Apparently having my name on all the accounts doesn't really make a difference, because I personally have no income.

I'm sick of it. I'm a smart person, darn it. I was 3rd in my class in high school, went through college on a National Merit Scholarship and graduated with my Bachelors in just 2 years. I wrote and published a book with three children under four years old. It was a short book, and short-lived, but it was a good one. I hate when people, companies, and "official policies" make me feel like a nobody just because I choose to stay home with my children. I also hate feeling guilty for not keeping up with housecleaning (which I really, really don't like to do) because it's really my only responsibility.

I want more. I want to be more. I want to remember how it felt to be sure of myself--like back when my whole life was academics, and I was darn good at it. I knew it and everyone around me knew it, too. I want recognition from more than just my family. Not a lot, just a little. But I want it. I want something concrete at the end of the day that I can point to and say "I did this. And it's good."

Growing Up

My little girls are growing up, while I remain largely oblivious. This is never more evident than when I finally give in and go to buy new shoes. In my defence, we spend the summer in bare feet or sandals. So I have some small excuse for not realizing the change. But it was still a shock to find out that Chrissy has gone from wearing size 3 children's to a 7 in women's shoe sizes. I'm totally jealous of Chrissy's cute shoes. Black tennis shoes with fuchsia trim. And I got her some cute gray boots, because I want some for me, but can't find anything cute my size. :o(

Marty also has crossed the line into adult sizes of shoes, but unfortunately has inherited my awful feet (short, but super wide), which are practically impossible to fit. So Terry fit her with boys' size 5-1/2. She was a bit upset about wearing boy shoes, but was consoled by the fact that I, too, wear men's shoes in the futile attempt to find shoes wide enough for my monster feet. However, they are relatively cute tennis shoes for boy shoes--dark brown with orange trim. I guess this explains the girls' recent frustration at trying to squeeze into little girl socks. Sigh.

Linda is not immune to this growing up thing, either. Though she remains relatively petite (for my kids, at least). She jumped from 11's to 13-1/2, and is just about ready to start over with the numbers. Who ever said this sort of thing was allowed, anyway?