I find myself very reflective this afternoon. My son is in second grade, my daughter in high school. The days of being the parent of a young child are behind me. I am at an age where people start seriously thinking about their retirement plans and 401Ks. I have not been able to set aside money for a trip to Green Bay, let alone my kids' college educations. That makes me feel a little bit like a failure.
Of course, I know that I've been successful in a lot of other ways. I'm a published poet. I'm a college professor (part-time, so I guess that means I'm really happy with my work life part-time). I have a great family. I married into a great family. My kids are loved greatly. I have a home with a new roof, two cars, and leftover pizza in the refrigerator. Success, success, success.
Yet, I'm not feeling very successful today. I'm feeling a little disappointed, and I don't know why. I want to feel happier, more content. I think I'm basing my contentment on pretty superficial things. Like, if only I had a full-time teaching job at the university, I'd be perfectly content. Or, if only I could publish that new collection of poems I've finished, I'd be perfectly content. How about, if only I had a ten-thousand dollar nest egg in the bank, I'd be perfectly content.
Contentment is really not a matter of money or professional success. It's a matter of looking around and realizing that you have a pretty good life, just as it is. It's an attitude more than anything else. So, I'm going to try to practice that attitude for the rest of the day. I'm going to be content if it kills me.
Today's episode of Classic Saint Marty first aired a year ago, on my son's sixth birthday.
September 26, 2014: My Son Again, Terry Godbey, "Eight Years Old"
I promise this will be the last post about my son. You're all probably getting tired of my sentimental musings. When birthdays and weddings and anniversaries come around, it gets me all maudlin and reflective. Can't help it.
I'm also pretty darn tired. It's been a very long week. And, when I'm this tired, I'm prone to watching movies like It's a Wonderful Life or Stand By Me and crying like a schoolgirl. I'll snap out of it in a day or so. But, for tonight, I'm going to wallow a little bit.
Terry Godbey knows what I'm talking about. The poems she writes about her son are full of the surprise and ache of parenting. One day, your child is small, weak, and beautiful. Before you know it, your child is tall, independent, and beautiful. It happens so fast.
Saint Marty just wants things to slow down a little.
Eight Years Old
by: Terry Godbey
Even in winter, my son refuses to wear
a pajama top. When he comes near,
I lean close and brush his skin
or stroke it outright
like bolts of wedding satin,
and something catches in my throat
like undissolved chocolate
in a cup of cocoa. He is lush,
toes pink and curled
as the pearly hearts of seashells,
voice lifting and plunging,
a heron diving for fish,
his pogo-stick stride,
arms like clock hands gone wild,
the balloons of his cheeks when he grins,
and on his restless legs, faint hairs
pointing in all directions
as if ruffled by wind,
a great storm on the way.
Confessions of Saint Marty
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