peter pandora

seri on chairbest

How is it possible that even now, in November, not metaphorically ( I think? I hope not?) November but actual November,  practically mid November at that, the same question surfaces…

What do I want to be when I grow up?  I am not the only one who asks this.  My son once asked me to ‘write down all of your skills’ in hopes of finding a job better suited for me, or at least one that did not make me, and consequently in the process everyone around me, miserable.  My daughter, when she was very, very wee, although still small for her age, not recently,  stated ‘Dad is an architect, when Mom grows up she is going to be a famous artist.’ She explained to her friends that right now my paintings ‘sometimes hang on the walls, but mostly they hang out in the back room’ As if they were congregating.  Maybe they were, all those creatures and upside down people wondering how they got here and how they could make their escape.  At first I thought this timeline wasn’t so bad.  But that was back when PBS Kids ruled, now Gilmore Girls has taken over.

Accordingly the real panic, or what should be panic if only it was not suffocated by the art of not getting into a vehicular collision with three to four kids and a dog present an average of three hours a day,  approaches. When a moment arises where the hustle of work and life pause : typically after a party (not ideal) or while opening a medical bill (less than ideal as well), it occurs to me that I better figure it out.  RIght about then my puppy starts to whine, or really nearly talk, if only I was intelligent enough to understand. And then I can’t help but tell him how much I love him. Usually this happens in a baby voice I never once employed with my kids. It’s like a cinnabon waft of a voice,  if I walked in on myself I would probably need something to avert the nausea.  If I am lucky one or both of the kids will join in on this cutie pie fest. I relinquish any spidery strand of former punk rock association.  Sometimes Courtney Love singing “I used to be punk, now I’m just stupid.” chimes in at times, but typically my babbling is so intense it drones it out.

Without deciding what to be, I think I already am.