Monday, January 04, 2010
Roast Pork and Labor Pains
In 1970, my mother was helping my grandmother prepare the New Year's Day meal. She wasn't feeling well. Turns out it was labor. I was on the way.
My mother is petite, however, and that foiled my New Year's entrance. Instead, she and I battled with pelvic bones and other sundry impediments until I made my belated appearance on January 3rd. I have the forceps scar to prove it.
As we enter a new decade, so I do on an even more personal level. (No more descriptions as a thirty-something writer. Blech.)
My childhood decade was happy and somewhat mindless. Lots of things to enjoy when you're a kid. Wrestling with dad. Arts and crafts with mom. My teenage decade became unsettled and unsatisfied. I couldn't wait to get out, find like-minded people, and make my own mark on the world. My twenties are when I really hit my stride. My eye was on the prize, and I could feel the wind rushing in my hair. Aine and I were rolling.
And how was my thirties? I'll give myself a B-. The pace slows greatly in your thirties, which I found confusing. Children bring momentous pressures. The targets become fuzzy and wandering. I'd like to grade my performance lower, but I can't deny that I achieved some pretty great things too.
I embark on this next decade a bit like you would look at a landscape of forest after you've already got yourself turned around and lost. I'm definitely up for the challenge, that hasn't changed, but I'm a lot more circumspect and far less fresh and eager. Nevertheless...
Onward! I've got work to do.