Sunday, November 05, 2006
My Latest Compulsion, in Draft
I've become a compulsive planner. As neurotic behavior goes, it's pretty harmless. And it has some fringe benefits. But it's still neurotic. Want to know just how compulsive I am? Lee took the kids to the horse pasture this morning for a couple of hours, and after I cleaned up the house, I started working on the kids' carpool schedule. For next year. No, no, not next semester. Next year.
After I'd worked through a couple of permutations, I started writing my Christmas letter. I know, I know. It's not even Thanksgiving. But last week I saw a fully decorated Christmas tree. (Consider the source--it was in a store.) And I know people whose neighbors have already hung their outdoor holiday lights. I started feeling anxious and maybe even a little behind. Then, too, I've written so little this year that I feel stale. Stuck. Struggling. I've missed writing and the reflection that goes along with it. So I began. I don't write a Christmas letter every year, but when I do, I try to avoid a boring, banal recitation of family accolades and ailments. It goes to our friends from college and grad school who are scattered across the country, and most of whom we haven't seen since our wedding. I'm not satisfied yet with the beginning, or with some of the transitions, but I've begun. And at least I'm in the right year. Here's a draft:
Lee and I couldn’t have gotten more dissimilar children if we’d ordered them. Max (age 5) is an explorer, an imp, a rogue, and a negotiator. After returning from a stint in outer space, he plans to live in a tent in Africa, protect animals, and visit us occasionally. Reed (age 3, a.k.a. Boo) looks like the cherub model for a Rubens painting and usually has the disposition to match. Likes to serenade us with “Jesus Loves Me” and “Home on the Range.” Boo aspires to be a farmer. Probably will marry his high school sweetheart, too. (He’s taken a pass on Max’s voyage to outer space. No gravity? No, thank you.)
Gregarious/shy. Distracted/focused. Energetic/calm. Exuberant/cautious. Chaotic/orderly. Chocolate/vanilla. The boys are yin and yang, except for this: They both love all things construction—tools, vehicles, hardware stores, dirt piles and orange cones on the side of the road.
I suspect they contracted construction fever from us, because we’ve been in a building frenzy this year. I’ll spare you the details because you’d be bored and I’ve finally recovered. But for our trouble, we have a lovely garage apartment for Lee’s mom, horse facilities for our herd, and major landscaping projects completed at the ranch—bulkheading, concrete steps for swimming and fishing and launching the kayak, a sandy beach when the lake is low, and a clearing for an organic garden and orchard as soon as we find energy enough to plant.
Lee’s other construction project—his enterprise risk management software—continues, too. I will not say again that the software is nearly complete and that marketing is priority #1 for next year. No. I will not. Lee’s attorney says that he often sees prospective clients, in the throes of a midlife crisis, toying with the idea of starting a company, or leaving their spouse, or getting a sports car. His job, as he sees it, is to talk them into buying the car. Now that’s some good legal advice, I think. Unless you absolutely, positively, will regret your life if you do not start the company. And so Lee did. He’s a million lines of code into this thing, and there’s no turning back now.
Shortly before Max’s fifth birthday, I told him the story of the day he was born. In summation, I said, “Your birthday was one of the best days of my life.” I expected Max to be pleased that his arrival meant so much to me. Instead, with the wisdom of a Tibetan monk, he asked: “But what about all the other days?”
We’re just back from the ranch, where Max and Reed have collected fall leaves, swung on the gates, constructed chain reactions with dominoes, bobbed for apples, caught tadpoles, and made sand angels in the arena. Lee’s living his dream in the start-up world, and I’m living mine raising kids at home and horses at the ranch. No doubt about it—today has been one of the best days of my life.
Because it’s the one I have.
Lee and I think of you often. We miss you. We tell stories about you. We want our kids to meet your kids. Come visit. Bring your children, even if (especially if!) they’re old enough to babysit. Come join us for a weekend at the ranch—it’s like summer camp, with better sheets.
Merry Christmas. Happy Hannukah. A safe and prosperous New Year. And God bless us all.
After I'd worked through a couple of permutations, I started writing my Christmas letter. I know, I know. It's not even Thanksgiving. But last week I saw a fully decorated Christmas tree. (Consider the source--it was in a store.) And I know people whose neighbors have already hung their outdoor holiday lights. I started feeling anxious and maybe even a little behind. Then, too, I've written so little this year that I feel stale. Stuck. Struggling. I've missed writing and the reflection that goes along with it. So I began. I don't write a Christmas letter every year, but when I do, I try to avoid a boring, banal recitation of family accolades and ailments. It goes to our friends from college and grad school who are scattered across the country, and most of whom we haven't seen since our wedding. I'm not satisfied yet with the beginning, or with some of the transitions, but I've begun. And at least I'm in the right year. Here's a draft:
Lee and I couldn’t have gotten more dissimilar children if we’d ordered them. Max (age 5) is an explorer, an imp, a rogue, and a negotiator. After returning from a stint in outer space, he plans to live in a tent in Africa, protect animals, and visit us occasionally. Reed (age 3, a.k.a. Boo) looks like the cherub model for a Rubens painting and usually has the disposition to match. Likes to serenade us with “Jesus Loves Me” and “Home on the Range.” Boo aspires to be a farmer. Probably will marry his high school sweetheart, too. (He’s taken a pass on Max’s voyage to outer space. No gravity? No, thank you.)
Gregarious/shy. Distracted/focused. Energetic/calm. Exuberant/cautious. Chaotic/orderly. Chocolate/vanilla. The boys are yin and yang, except for this: They both love all things construction—tools, vehicles, hardware stores, dirt piles and orange cones on the side of the road.
I suspect they contracted construction fever from us, because we’ve been in a building frenzy this year. I’ll spare you the details because you’d be bored and I’ve finally recovered. But for our trouble, we have a lovely garage apartment for Lee’s mom, horse facilities for our herd, and major landscaping projects completed at the ranch—bulkheading, concrete steps for swimming and fishing and launching the kayak, a sandy beach when the lake is low, and a clearing for an organic garden and orchard as soon as we find energy enough to plant.
Lee’s other construction project—his enterprise risk management software—continues, too. I will not say again that the software is nearly complete and that marketing is priority #1 for next year. No. I will not. Lee’s attorney says that he often sees prospective clients, in the throes of a midlife crisis, toying with the idea of starting a company, or leaving their spouse, or getting a sports car. His job, as he sees it, is to talk them into buying the car. Now that’s some good legal advice, I think. Unless you absolutely, positively, will regret your life if you do not start the company. And so Lee did. He’s a million lines of code into this thing, and there’s no turning back now.
Shortly before Max’s fifth birthday, I told him the story of the day he was born. In summation, I said, “Your birthday was one of the best days of my life.” I expected Max to be pleased that his arrival meant so much to me. Instead, with the wisdom of a Tibetan monk, he asked: “But what about all the other days?”
We’re just back from the ranch, where Max and Reed have collected fall leaves, swung on the gates, constructed chain reactions with dominoes, bobbed for apples, caught tadpoles, and made sand angels in the arena. Lee’s living his dream in the start-up world, and I’m living mine raising kids at home and horses at the ranch. No doubt about it—today has been one of the best days of my life.
Because it’s the one I have.
Lee and I think of you often. We miss you. We tell stories about you. We want our kids to meet your kids. Come visit. Bring your children, even if (especially if!) they’re old enough to babysit. Come join us for a weekend at the ranch—it’s like summer camp, with better sheets.
Merry Christmas. Happy Hannukah. A safe and prosperous New Year. And God bless us all.
3 Comments:
This is a wonderful draft, Melanie - lovely thoughts, beautifully written.
I miss your writing, too... and mine, for that matter. Can't wait to see all of you at Christmas.
It is, indeed, a wonderful draft! Thanks for returning to the writing mode. I have missed it.
Dad.
Hi
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