Ravin's Ramblings

Thirty, huh? I contemplate my impending decrepit state fast approaching in the next few minutes. I think back on other milestone birthdays. 10, I had an ice cream cake with a little mint green clad clown on the top. I can remember being little and making the 20 mile drive with my mother to the bakery in Maquoketa where I would stare at a wall of delightful confections and pick out one that wasn’t too expensive or too plain. I loved birthday cakes that came from the bakery. Those were extra special because not every birthday cake did. Not when money needed to be spent on more important things.

13, I had fallen asleep on the floor of my sister’s pink bedroom and sometime in the night had been relocated to my own bed. I was so sure when I woke in the morning I would look like a teenager. My thin, stringy, fly away hair would have turned into a beautiful mane of silken tresses. My scrawny, colt-like limbs would be transformed overnight into the beginnings of womanly curves. When I awoke the next morning I sprang from bed and dashed to the mirror to take my first excited glance. To my disappointment nothing much had changed about my appearance except for a few pillow wrinkles and some bed head.

By the time I turned 16, I knew not to expect dramatic changes overnight. But still, I held on to the hope that age 16 would turn my unremarkable face into that of a great beauty. This had been a magic number as long as I could remember. At 16 I was allowed to have a boyfriend, I was allowed to date and not just go out in gaggles of awkward teenage peers. I was allowed to drive. I was allowed to experience freedoms I had not previously known. Much to my chagrin; that same unremarkable face I’d had at 14 remained until I was about 18 years of age. And that exciting love life I’d been promised…well, I quickly learned that there wasn’t much difference between being alone with an awkward teenage boy or being out in a gaggle of awkward teenage girls and boys. That in fact, sometimes the gaggle was much preferred.

Then there was 18. Jaded by non-instantaneous arrival of breasts for my 13^th birthday, and the stunningly average face that still stared back from my reflection I didn’t really have high hopes for 18. I do remember awaking with a quiet sense of satisfaction. I was an adult. My best friend and I celebrated by getting tattoos. I don’t remember if we’d spent long hours planning it or if it had been a whim. But I do remember her shaking and holding my hand, knuckles white, as the needle skidded over her hip bone and at that moment deciding I was not nearly as brave as she. I got mine on my ankle instead.

21? I don’t remember much about my 21^st birthday. I have a few fuzzy memories of outlandish dancing, groping my best friend on a dare, and my sister, the supposed DD, driving down the wrong side of the street and having to jump the median. I don’t remember particularly looking forward to 21 though. Perhaps I did when I was 19, but by the time I turned 21, I didn’t really find going out drinking all that fun anymore.

25 was hard. That was half way to 50. I remember telling my sister (and believing it) that there was nothing to look forward to after 25 until you turned 60. My insurance rates went down at 25. And I remember looking at pictures of me when I was 21 and thinking (and believing) that youth was wasted on the young. I’d never approved of my body, or thought of myself as particularly attractive. I was a fool. I only lacked self confidence.

Now, in just a few minutes I will be 30. One foot in the grave, really. Oh, I don’t mind much. I don’t honestly think my breasts will shrivel up and fall off at the stroke of midnight or that my face will crack into a million wrinkles (even though my younger friends assure me of this certainty). My best friend from back home asked me if I thought I would cry. I don’t think I will. It would be different if I weren’t so happy with where I am right now. Luckily, I am blessed. I have a wonderful husband, an amazing son, and more family than I know what to do with. I have accomplished a lot in terms of career, family, and religion. I’m quite satisfied with my life. So tomorrow, when I wake up…I don’t think I’ll look for signs of decrepitude. Instead, I think I’ll be productive, and take my son for a walk to the park, and go visit my family, and thank God for thirty years of blessings.

“Congrats Mom!” I chimed into the phone, “How long have you been married? Thirty-four years? Thirty-five?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I haven’t had my coffee yet.” She tells me in annoyance, “Wayne, how long have we been married?”

“How old is Melissa?” I hear him yell in the background.

“What?!?” My mother yells back, “It’s our anniversary, not her birthday!”

“How old is she?” He hollers again; this time he sounds annoyed. From the sounds creaking I can tell he's sitting in his chair in the parlor.

“Thirty!” She shouts.

“Twenty-nine!” I correct indignantly.

“Close enough.” My mother scolds.

“Wheeeell let’s see…” my father drawls out, “That makes it we’ve been married twenty-eight years!”

“Wayne!” I hear my mother’s scandalized tones followed by my father’s mischievous cackle.

Then I hear his voice fading in song, presumably as he fleas my mother's admonishing gaze, “Oh when I was single my pockets would jingle. I’ll never be single again…”

Less than a year ago I was a Project Manager on a multi-million dollar contract. I oversaw the creation, duplication, and distribution of 750 different media and 13.5 million pieces of printed documentation. I would travel 2000 miles in one week, walking into locations I’d never been before and wielding all the confidence and authority that came with my pre-motherhood position.

Now, my job is to make my son smile, and to teach him about the world. And apparently to make jam. I’m still learning how to be this paragon of motherhood. But sixteen cans of homemade strawberry-rhubarb jam and one son sticky with strawberries from head to toe later…I just might be getting the hang of it. I don’t need VP recognition for this job. The enthusiastic clapping of my son’s sticky palms is satisfaction enough.

(toast and jam is the best)

My dearest Zander,

You are one and how much I love you! I love you all the way from the top of your head to the bottom of your toes, which just happens to be from the crook of my arm to my knees. You cannot imagine the fierceness with which I love you. You began as an extension of me and gradually grew apart and seperated into your own little person. Now I look upon your face and my heart warms, swelling with pride.

You are one and you are the very best of your Daddy and I. Your dad wanted so much for you to have my eyes, and you have them along with the dimple on my chin. You have your father’s smile right down to the tiny gap in his front teeth. You have your father’s cheeks and strong jaw line. Already so many family members and total strangers have remarked at what a good looking man you will become, so evident even at a year old.

You are one and you smile and dance throughout the day. Every day, you explore the house and backyard as though you’ve never seen them before and you endlessly jabber to the kitty or the doggie. You squeal with excitement as you watch the world out the window. You love to watch the dogs walk by or the squirrels scamper and play. You love for me to sing to you when we ride in the car and when I stop you ask for more and even sing along with me. Every emotion you feel shows on your face from confusion to concentration or glee to distress.

You are one and when you are upset, you present yourself to me and fling yourself backward upon the carpet in a half suicidal baby meltdown, yet I can easily persuade you that all is fine in the world. A kiss and cuddle do the trick most of the time though some times a song is needed. If it was a particularly enthusiastic display I may have to resort to graham crackers and milk, but you love to smile more than you like to cry. So, it never takes much to make you sing again and dance. And I am breathless with delight watching you transition from baby drama to bubbling over with joy.

You are one and you are so sweet and caring. You share your bottle with your cousin just to comfort him when he cries. If the bottle doesn’t work, you’ll even share your blankie. You wander up to me many times throughout the day to give me a hug and to receive one in return. You cannot let the morning pass without giving a hug and a pat to the doggie or your Teddy or your Blankie. You show us all you love us in a million tiny ways.

You are one and your favorite pastime is to make us laugh and smile. Whether it’s Daddy or Grandma and Grandpa, you delight in our laughter as much as we delight in yours. You’ll babble a funny story or make funny noises to get my reaction and interaction. You’ll dance the way your daddy taught you for your own delight, but when I applaud, you clap too and laugh and dance again with more enthusiasm. Even when you throw your food on the floor just to see if I’ll pick it up for you, you do it to share your curiosity and joy and don’t understand why it doesn’t bring the same reaction from Momma.

It won’t always be this simple between us. I will no doubt embarrass you when you get older and you will eventually grow up and not need me as much (my heart breaks at the thought). But for now, you are one and you stretch from the crook of my arm to my knees. And I will hold on to you. And I will tell you about all the things you could become later because right now you are my little one. So, my future president, rock star, band geek, quarterback, chess club guy, I will hold you and sing to you as we rock. On the outside, I will love you from the crook of my arm all the way to my knees. On the inside, I will love you with all my heart and soul. And I will hang on to this moment forever.

All my love, always!

Love,

Momma