The I'm-nearly-thirty-years-old insecurity post

So, I'm looming up on thirty.  My son will be ten.  My marriage will be eleven.  And altogether it's jolting.  Why are numbers like that?  Why is the number 9 so insignificant?  What's so boring about 14?  Even to millions of people still senselessly caught in the Imperial system, ten and divisions of ten are almost holy.  It ends in a zero and somehow that's significant.  I've always liked it because it made math really easy and math was the only subject in school which required some of my concentration not already being dispensed on boys (or men, depending on which year of school we're talking about here).

I don't know if 30 on its own would make me nervous because I only know what 30 with four children feels like and I think it's this upcoming parenting transition that's freaking me out the most.  In two years my baby will be in school all day and only Izzy the Dog will be left to distract me from my own self-absorbed inactivity.  I have no solid idea of what I want to do with my life then.  I've no real objective and I'm just not the sort to be satisfied with lots of little goals like, Read a book.  Make pie.  Volunteer for a community project.  Take up yoga.

Blah!!!

I've had a few sparkling ideas but no energy to carry them forth.  So, I'm starting to think that any goal of mine should be one easily accomplished by sitting down.  If it also requires no make-up, mussied-up hair, and drinking Diet Coke Zero first thing in the morning, then watch out, World, because I'm about to rock this joint.

Unfortunately, I can think of few things that can be done from a chair.

When I try to write a book, I don't get very far before telling myself it's horrible writing because I have no patience.  I rush on through to get all my thoughts down, to act as a blueprint I can build upon later with prettier language and more descriptive scenery and more details but I lose all confidence that later that will all come to me.  I feel like it should be in my grasp NOW and if not, I'm a terrible writer.  I have no patience to hold my story in my head while I write out pretty sentences that are good enough as they are.  

It doesn't help to read my son's stories and know that a 9-year-old kid has a way better imagination than I have.  I've never linked to his blog from mine.  Here it is:  Enriched With Vitamins.  (His fake name on his blog is different than the fake name he chose for my blog. ?)  Everything he writes here he does himself.  I never edit it.  I don't help with spelling or punctuation or anything.  He's astounding.  I prefer his earlier posts-- they're very funny.  Lately he's taken to writing out stories on his blog.  My imagination is the salt-less saltine cracker to his... see, I can't even think of anything.  But he would have.  I was trying to think of some really great loaf of bread but nothing seemed fancy enough.

Hmmm.

Daily Gratitudes

1. Leftovers from Thanksgiving supper yesterday. (We had it early.)
2. Cooking with Jude was a peaceful experience.
3. Wooded walking trails for the dog.  Not that I take her lately.  She and Jude saw four deer this morning.
4. My computer.
5. I like me.