My mother-in-law brought dinner to us yesterday, along with their old grill on which to cook the steaks. Our grill, may it rest in peace, did not survive many years at Jack’s hands. He threw it off the deck a dozen times, even after we first tied it with rope to the deck, and then chained it. Jack is enterprising as well as persistent. Joyce also brought a made-from-scratch chocolate cake with homemade chocolate frosting to celebrate Jeff’s birthday, which is this week. This felt like a birthday present to me—not making dinner, nor baking an amazing cake, but still getting to enjoy it and watch Jeff and the boys enjoy it.
The old me would have loved doing these things. I adored baking. I loved hosting dinner parties. Both prospects make me feel tired and irritable at this point in my life. The old me didn’t have the compounding responsibilities of a potty-training five-year-old on the autism spectrum, a nine-year-old obsessing and sobbing about various things, and Jack. Now I long for simplicity. It’s all I want.
I do not think this makes me old. I think it makes me pummeled, like sea glass.
Sea glass is pretty.