I'm Getting There
7-25-17 I’m Getting There Marley Cash-Powell
You know, I think we must get some impression of what is normal at a young age. We see someone and we think: I want to be like that person when I grow up, because that person seems like a good, normal person. We see ourselves as not quite [whatever that is], because we are kids, so we’re still learning, and we must grow into who we want to be. Some of us are more successful at this and manage to be normal, I suspect. Or at least some are successful at seeming as such. As for me, I have my moments.
Tonight, I reflected on the dog in the kennel by the dinner table as I looked at my husband, children, and self, huddled around the squat coffee table in our living room—my husband and I, on the sectional, and the girls sprinkled “criss-cross, applesauce” on the carpet at either end, a fork and a bowl of home-made beef pot pie in each hand. Last night, our first night dog-sitting this pup, I got bit kenneling the dog for begging at nearly eye-level as we ate dinner in much this same positioning. Tonight, he graciously went into the kennel of his own fruition, and as I sat down, I took a moment to be grateful for that.
But isn’t it kind of sad that you’re forced to kennel the dog, because your children are accustomed to eating in the floor of the living room? The Critic said to myself, making me feel immediately drawn to the tall, white bookshelf to the left of the TV, looking straight into the disapproving eyes of my brother- and sister-in-law, then, my mother-in-law, and my dear, departed Granny, smiling as she held me as an infant. Looking to my thirty-year-younger-than-now brothers, I recalled our childhood. Was this normal for us then? Focusing on the glass-trapped memories of my years-gone-by children, I wondered. Is it wrong for it to be normal for them now?
Across the room, I looked at the clock. 10:15. I’m a bad Mom.
Duplicitous is my nature in any number of scenarios like this: the Critic’s sharp tongue stinging my psyche and the unapologetic, non-conformist, Confident Creative justifying abnormality as uniqueness.
So, just who says then? Just who says that this routine is detrimental to them? Creative people are notorious night owls, besides, look, we’re playing Wii bowling as a family while we eat dinner! We’ve been having family game nights a lot here lately, which is good for them, and dinner is home-made, too!
Yeah, but did you not just tell the girls last night that they will start going to bed at nine again come August 1st, so they can get back into the routine for school? That’s not going to ever happen if you don’t start getting dinner done before nine.
Is ten o’clock really too late for them to go to sleep during the school year?
Um, yes.
“Way to go, Zoe! You got a turkey!” Bobby cheered as Zoe jumped ecstatically.
“What? You got a turkey, Zoe? Three strikes in a row, way to go!” I said, giving her a high-five.
You see, we’re making great memories. I know I need to do better on timely dinners.
There’s five of us and only four can play the Wii at a time; Bobby and the three girls were playing this round. As I sat out, I listened to the competitive banter between my husband and middle daughter, watched my oldest praise my youngest after good sets, and joined in as everyone sympathetically winced with each other’s misses.
These girls are well-rounded. There’s nothing wrong with being a little abnormal.
The youngest squealed as she won the game, finally taking down a smug, middle sister, with much praise from a step-father, who had unsuccessfully sought to beat the prideful, reigning, middle child all week.
“Finally, somebody did!” He teased.
That’s good for her, too—both of them—one, a confidence boost, and the other, some humility.
“Hair and teeth and bed time, ladies.” I repeated my nightly mantra.
“I’m gonna sleep reallll good tonight!” Zoe sang as she ran off to the bathroom, and I couldn’t help but chuckle.
“What’d she say?” Bobby asked.
“She said she’s ‘gonna sleep reallll good tonight!’” I told him, smiling and shaking my head.
“I would too, Zoe!” He half-heartedly shouted out to her, not nearly loud enough for her to hear.
Once I straightened the living room and the girls finished “hair and teeth and [went to] bed,” I joined Bobby in our room. Sitting on our bed, facing him, we settled into discussions that we had started earlier in the day: how much we had been paid for each type of metal on the trailer-load of scrap I hauled into the scrap yard this morning, how he intended to build a can-crushing station for the girls to start collecting cans, where he planned to put a firewood container near the kiln we just built.
“You could put it up against the fence.” I suggested.
“No, I like to mow that strip along the fence back there.” He said.
I darted him a look.
“What?” He asked.
“Nothing. You’re just cute, that’s all.”
I kissed his knee cap.
“Oh?”
“It’s just funny, regardless of the position’s convenience for loading the kiln, you shoot down the notion because it messes with your mow pattern… You’re a weirdo, but I lurve you!”
“Hey, I’m getting there.” He laughed.
“Where exactly?”
“You know, there.” He said, trailing off a bit. I waited for further explanation as he stared at the ceiling across the room.
“I’m sorry, I was just thinking about bins.”
“I know.” I said, “You always have five things going at once in your head, and like fifteen things in the queue!”
He blew incredulity out between his lips, “Geez, I guess that’s an accurate way to describe me… but, hey, I’m getting there.”
“There, again? Where’s there?”
“You know, there.” He smirked.
“Yeah, I’m starting to think that there is always just out of sight in the queue, like you got the five things going and you see the next three items on your list and there is there, just barely peeking into view, sometimes you can see it flicker into full view, but it never quite sticks, never quite makes it any past just the edge of your queue.”
“Yeah, but still, at least I’m getting there.”
“Sure, you are.” I conceded.
I can’t help admiring him. I could use to learn from my husband’s mentality, his “I’m getting there” mentality. While the Critic throws my deepest insecurities in my face, measuring me against the idea of normal, and the Confident Creative touts my best attributes and intentions, somewhere in middle, maybe there should be just me, saying: “Hey, I’m getting there, Critic. Not to say that my attributes mitigate my nuances, but who’s to say what normal should be? Maybe normal is not something you ever are. Maybe it’s just somewhere you’re ‘getting to,’ even if it is always just out of reach.”
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