Old Enough to Know

Fifty-nine for a week, and I keep hearing my father’s voice reminding me that I am old enough to know better.  Here, as we approach the end of the decade, are some of the things I know I am old enough to know.

 I am old enough to know:

That, as my mother used to say, things often do look better in the morning.

That dishes will not wash themselves.

Wet towels, left on bathroom floors, have a tendency to reproduce.

That the end of December can feel melancholy.

That the pleasure of gifts lies more in giving than in receiving.

That Christmas without a small child in the house feels smaller, somehow.

That busy is not the same as purposeful.

That no one can ever really understand another person’s marriage or relationship.

That keeping my mouth shut is often the best choice, especially during large family gatherings.

That the smell of coffee brewing cheers the house.

That my gas fire, even if largely placebo, still pleases me.

That the hour before everyone awakes—even the pets—is my hour for writing and thinking.

That scrolling Facebook can lead to feelings of loneliness, and self-control is required to move onto something more productive. 

That white mint chocolate chip ice cream is not as good as green mint chocolate chip ice cream.

That I do better early in the morning than late at night.

That my birthday might be more fun if it were at another time of year.

That rejections of essays mean that I’m submitting essays.

That I am a cheap date; half a glass of wine and I am sleepy, and New Year’s Eve is a dumb holiday.

That any leftover, kept more than 3 days in the fridge, will lose whatever appeal it once had.

That living in clutter overwhelms me.

That sometimes, though I fear conflict, given time, things work out.

That it is more fun to look forward to a holiday than to recover from it.

That wet shower curtains touching wet skin is unpleasant.

That it is more fun to make a meal than to clean it up.

That the holidays make me miss my parents even though they have both been gone almost a decade.

That odd snippets of memory float up from childhood when we are engaged in our own family celebrations.

That lighting Hanukah candles is one of my favorite rituals.

But the sight of menorahs covered in wax several days later is slightly dispiriting, and the thought of washing them all and putting them away until next year—plus the Christmas ornaments—is daunting.

That it’s not so easy for adult children to come back home and it is not so easy for their mother when they leave. 

That I have more books to read than uninterrupted time to read.

That resolutions enrage me because I feel so angry at myself when I don’t live up to them. So this year, heading into the new decade, I won’t have any and will practice compassion for all I may not accomplish.