Reap

Something profound happened on the week-long bike tour I took with my son.

Enough to write a book, actually.

I’ve written hundreds of thousands of words on this blog. And I’ve written hundreds of thousands more in other genres. Rough estimates place me close to a million words written to one genre or another. Many of those million have formed poetry, essays and short stories. They’ve formed complete collections, a novel and a children’s book. I’ve tried to have those volumes published in different ways to no avail. And now, I’m exploring a 12K word chapbook of sorts, chronicling just what was so catalytic about that trip. After all of the trials and errors, I’ll probably just publish that book myself and call it my debut.

I’m willing do things that I wasn’t willing to do before.

The change is real.

Sometimes you feel like there is change happening, but you end up going about your days as usual. I am successfully shedding a lot of the extracurriculars that kept me in constant activity. It’s happening.

And I’ve been reflecting as to why this might be happening.

One reason is obvious: I’m turning 40 at the end of July.

I am not one who cares so much about age. At any point in my 30s, if you asked me how old I was, I would have to do quick calendar math to produce the answer. I have to do similar math to come up with how many years of sobriety I have, too – It will be 16 years this October.

While I lose track of those things, I do recognize the importance of acknowledging milestones. They offer unique opportunities to change course in desirable ways or to be thankful for courses that remain on target.

And this milestone of turning 40 really has me thinking. Something deep within me does not want to start a new decade on earth the way I finished my last decade on earth. One lesson sobriety keeps teaching me is big changes start with little ones. I’ve written about new year’s resolutions on the blog often. Those wasted gym memberships explain addiction perfectly. Our society thinks it can get sober on January 1 by binging on December 31. It simply doesn’t work.

I realized, after coming home from a week of campsite lodging with my 10-year-old, that it is no longer a good time to wait for a good time. I can’t push everything until I turn 40 because once I turn 40, I’ll keep doing everything I was doing in my 30s. Does that make sense?

It made sense to me, enough to take the proverbial ax to a whole sort of commitments I had been keeping.

There are other reasons, too.

My first born came into the world when I was 30. Now he is 10. My youngest is 3 and is on the cusp of becoming a little kid herself. I devoted 10 years of my life to raising one toddler or another. And I’m ready to move on.

I know, I know. Everyone with a grown child will tell me that I’ll regret saying that one day. But I can tell you that I enjoy raising my son much more as a 10-year-old than I enjoyed raising him when he was a toddler. When I think about my son and my older daughter, I do not miss whatsoever those days of cutsie-wootsie jumpers and over-sized puzzles. I grant you that I can easily imagine a time when they are grown and out of the house when I will become wistful. But I think I’ll miss them at this age. Hence the instinct that is overwhelming my conscious: the right time is now.

The reason I chose a profession with summers off is so I can spend summers with them, not write the great American novel. The reason my workday ends when their school day ends is so I can be with them every afternoon, not hustle up different streams of income.  I have put a lot of work into myself as a father, and now I can enjoy the journey a bit.

I feel the need to reap what the last decade has sown.

It’s sown good kids. Kids who can speak with adults about interesting things. Kids who ask good questions. Kids who seek adventure. They are funny and good-natured. I enjoy spending time with them. They teach me how to stay curious and open-minded.

For a blissful week in June, while my wife worked and my youngest was at daycare, it was just me and the two big kids. In similar past situations, I implemented a star system of rewards for actions like reading and cleaning. I did whatever I could to keep them busy while I graded papers or worked on launching my city’s newspaper. My notion of satisfaction was linked to my ability to be productive.

This year, I recognized that the most important thing in my life was this precious time I got to spend with the two of them. Fuck those star charts, let’s get out in the world together. Let’s make some memories. My son and I taught my daughter how to mountain bike. My daughter subjected my son and I to a workday of boardgames. We rode the metro to the zoo. I finished readin the first book of A Tale of Two Cities to them. I chased them on trampolines at sky zone until my hamstring cramped. We sat around the piano and each figured out roles to play Sweet Caroline together. We laughed and encouraged each other. Other times we annoyed and stifled each other. But we were together.

And I know that, for me at least, I was more of myself with them than I could ever be while off launching a paper or teaching a classroom of students or even publishing a book.

We contain multitudes.

That phrase is becoming trite the more people read Zadie Smith or Brene Brown or Anne Lammott or whoever your new millennia humanitarian of choice. Even Ted Lasso cites this sentiment to inspire Richmond in Season 3.

These kids have broken me down over time. Lots of pieces there. Lots.

And, when they were younger, I resented having to pick up the pieces the way I hated having to pick up their toys and place their books back on the shelf.

But our souls don’t break down like car engines. They break down like muscles.

They always come back stronger.