Taking Stock

First, a disclaimer: In an age of irony, I try to be self-aware about things I post on the Internet.  I wish I could say that this were solely out of a desire for a searching humility and godliness, but the truth is that it's also because I'm vain enough not to want to be caught in a pose of smug self-satisfaction, exposed in what my students would call a humblebrag.  Sometimes I get the distinct feeling that expressions of gratitude are kind of show-offy--"I am so grateful to be married to the perfect person and to have these beautiful, gifted children!"  I even think, in my darker moments, that some expressions of gratitude seem to exist so that people can not only boast about their blessings but also boast about their own gratefulness. (If you know the Flannery O'Connor story "Revelation," you know exactly what I'm talking about.  If you don't, you must stop reading this blog and go read that story.)

But I realize that this attitude of suspicion and judgment is no good.  Who am I to judge?  And what does it kill in me to do it?  Besides goodwill toward my fellowman, it also makes me nip or examine to death the expressions of, yes, gratitude that would otherwise flow from me.

And I do long to be truly and deeply grateful.  Raising children who have whole rooms full of toys and closets full of clothes and plates full of food at every meal and snacktime, and seeing them complain about things like the brand of cheese stick they have been served makes me aware of how breathtakingly ungrateful it is in our human nature to be, and it seems to me to be a sin of the first order, perhaps the original sin, not to have been grateful for all the fruit of the Garden but to have pouted and rebelled over the single forbidden one.

So:  I'm in the last few days of my 30s, which is the last decade in which one can be interpreted as young in pretty much any context.  There was a time when I was young to be a professor--no longer.  Now the only thing that could happen to me that would make someone say, "But she is too young for that!" would be to die, and I'm really hoping that I can get another couple of decades under my belt before that happens.

As I kiss my 30s goodbye and welcome my 40s, I have to say, I feel happy and, dare I say it, so, so grateful--enough so that I feel like I need to say so.  When I turned 30, I was racking up years in graduate school, working on a dissertation that made me miserable, emotionally attached to someone bad for me, facing down brutal job prospects.  Not that it was all bad--I had great friends, fun activities (oh, for the days of going to Barnes & Noble for 6 hours with JS or spending an entire weekend in PJs watching movies with Clare!), a comfortable home, the best local church I've ever belonged to.  But I felt unmoored and massively stressed over all kinds of things that were completely out of my control, and I knew that there existed the distinct possibility that the things I wanted in my heart of hearts might never be mine.

And the thing about my thirties is that one after one, God gave them to me:

• Sam--a good man, a real man, a man of unending kindness and fundamental decency and incontrovertible stability.  A partner, a partner in crime, a best friend.
• Allison Clare--the child I didn't know if we would have, given so quickly and miraculously, who arrived with enough personality to teach me how to mother her (and how not to) and who is joyful and affectionate and forgiving and funny and fun and who is tough enough to just yell back at me when I lose my cool.
• Gillian--the daughter I hardly dared hope for; when the ultrasound technician told me that she was a girl, my eyes filled, and I whispered "Really?" because I had so longed for our family to include sisters and was overwhelmed to believe that such a wish could come true, that I could be so blessed not only to have one little girl but to have two.
• Joshua--my triumph, my third child, the one we might not have had, the one who makes our family truly complete and who opened my heart to the joy of a boy, the one with whom my cup runneth over.

And a job that is flexible and challenging and even inspiring, for while there are things about my job that I don't like (I witness insults to the English language daily), I also get to know people younger than I am who are brighter and tougher and more accomplished than I ever was, which both humbles me and fills me with hope.

And I hope it doesn't make me sound materialistic or smug to say that I love our house.  I even like my car.  I would never have bought a new car; it seemed like an indulgence.  (If I had not married, I'm pretty sure I would have become one of those old women who surprises everyone by leaving millions to charity upon her death.  I pared my expenses down extremely low.  How low?  I kept my thermostat at 50 the first winter I lived in Western PA.  It's a longer story than that, and I don't think I was miserly but I pretty much had little regard for my own comfort; it just didn't register as that important.)  Our house and my car are completely the result of my marriage because Sam is someone who believes strongly in investing in his own comforts and mine.  And I like them.  I'm not going to go around claiming that I never knew my worth before or felt that I didn't deserve them, because I didn't feel that way before. I just didn't spend money on those kinds of things, and Sam does, and it has made my life more comfortable and easier, and I'm thankful.

And I think that my 40 years on this planet have taught me that all that we have, we can be assured of for only the present moment.  Tonight I go to bed in a warm house full of people I love; who knows what tomorrow will bring?  All I can know is that I am so thankful to have them all for now, so thankful that whatever lies ahead for me in this life, I will have had all of this.