When I was a kid I spent quite a bit of time thinking about not being a kid anymore. I didn’t like being a kid. I didn’t like that I had no authority. I didn’t like not having my own house and my own car. I didn’t like the sound of my pre-pubescent voice, and I pretty much despised my boyish face.

I couldn’t wait to be an adult. Not an adult in the sense that I’d be old enough to vote. I looked forward to being old enough and accomplished enough not to need to prove myself. And yet not so much an adult that my best years were behind me, and all I had to look forward to was telling people about the glory days.

After what seemed like quite a bit of internal debate, I settled on the age of forty-four. Forty-four, I figured, was old enough to be an established, stable, respected adult. A man. A man whose value was proven, but far from tapped out.

(Plus four was my favorite number, so forty-four simply had to be the optimal age.)

And so, here I am. I turn forty-four today. It was a big deal to me then, and it’s a big deal to me now. Much more so that turning thirty or forty. This is the birthday where my boyhood dreams have either come true, or they haven’t.

And luckily, they have. Or at least I think they have. It’s impossible to know what that boy, so many years ago, would have thought of my life now. But I think he’d be pleased, even if he couldn’t understand all the choices I’ve made. (I didn’t necessarily want to get married at that age, for example, but I think he’d be willing to make an exception on that account. I also remember wanting to have a good, manly beard, but genetics conspired against me on that issue.)

There’s no way to know what that boy would have thought about how things turned out. And of course it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m a happy man. I’m happy with what I’ve accomplished with the time I’ve had, and I look forward to what’s to come.

Most of what’s to come anyway. I mean, forty-four is great, but forty-five sounds old!

I was lucky, for such a long, long time. I had all four of my grandparents until I was almost thirty. It wasn’t until August that my last grandparent passed away.

With all four grandparents, there was nothing sudden or unexpected about their deaths. They each lived long lives, and their deaths were followed by the illnesses and declines that one expects. After all, all four of them made it into their nineties.

But, despite their advanced ages, and despite the illnesses and hospital visits that proceeded their deaths, when each one passed away, it was somehow shocking. Despite the fact you can see it coming for years in advance, nothing prepares you for their actually being gone.

Each time I’ve been left with the feeling that I could have known them better. Each time I’ve felt that there were conversations that we could have had but didn’t. With each loss, I felt that I’ve squandered the time I had with them. Read More →