Revisiting That Bucket List

I’m sitting in my bedroom, jealously listening to the conversation going on in the living room. Rev is sitting very close to a PYT (for non-Michael Jackson fans, that means “Pretty Young Thing”), speaking in hushed tones. He’s been looking forward to this date for weeks. He left work early to get here, probably driving a little faster than usual to make it on time.

I’m not jealous because of PYT’s age, or the fact that she’s cute and funny, and did I mention cute? I’m not worried about anything “inappropriate.”

I’m jealous because Rev is learning something new.

PYT is a music teacher, and Rev is learning how to play the guitar. As in, how do you hold this thing and where do I put my fingers? beginner guitar lesson. He joins Scooby and Doodle, who have both been learning to play the piano for about nine months now.

And I’m jealous.

Oh, I already know the basics of guitar, having taken a year or two in grade school. If I picked one up, I could play along to a few songs, so long as you didn’t throw too many sharps or flats or major sevenths at me. I have no desire to become the next (old) Taylor Swift.

I’m just sitting here feeling sorry for myself, asking myself, What is the last new thing you learned how to do?

I was going to learn to speak Spanish. Never did. Ballroom dancing? Nope. I did start yoga, but that’s not really a skill you learn and master (unless you’re planning to make a pilgrimage to Tibet or something). For a hot second, I thought about taking voice lessons, to learn how to sing the right way. That died a quick death when I realized I would then have no excuses for not singing in public, or at least in the church choir.

How can it be that at forty-four, I’ve lost the ability, the inclination, to learn new things? What the heck happened?

Maybe I’ve become too complacent. Two years ago, just after my diagnosis, I went through the usual bucket list exercise: what are the things I wanted to do before I die but haven’t gotten around to? Because death, at that point, seemed real and imminent, no matter what imaginary statistics the oncologists pulled out of their . . . hats.

Now, I sit here, listening to the first, halting chords – and really, what courage it takes to put yourself out there in middle age to learn something completely new – I think about what I can learn to do in my spare time. I can’t think of anything that isn’t too time-consuming (spare time? Hah.), too expensive, too out there. I’m mad at myself for not having any interesting, pro-active hobbies. Even my resume is boring: I enjoy reading, writing, and listening to music. Snore.

Clearly, I have some soul-searching to do. What can I learn – I mean, really throw myself into – that can enrich my life? I don’t want to become one of those sour, provincial people who do the same boring stuff every boring day.

Because, if not now, then when? Tomorrow isn’t promised to any of us, and I don’t want to reach my sunset consumed with coulda-woulda-shouldas.

Everyone needs a mission. That’s mine, and, ask they say, I choose to accept it.

Stay tuned.

Paying Attention To The Voices In My Head

Most people don’t like how they sound in a recording. I read somewhere years ago that the voice you hear when you speak isn’t the voice other people hear, because the sound is somehow not traveling through the air when you hear it, but it is when other people do. Or something. Don’t hold me to that unscientific explanation. (Actually, Popular Science tells me that I’m right, sort of. Go, me.) The point is that when we hear our own voices on tape, it always sounds different – twangier, more nasal, whatever – than we thought it did, because the air acts as a kind of filter. I hate listening to the outgoing message on my voice mail, for instance. I sound like a dork who’s trying too hard not to sound like a dork. I long for the day when I can win a contest on NPR’s Wait, Wait Don’t Tell Me, and have Karl Kassel’s voice on my answering machine.

So, this week, I’ve been calling home more than usual. I’m on trial and working crazy stupid hours. I leave the house with Boy (to get him to the bus, because some things just NEED to get done trial or no trial), and coming home right at or after bedtime. So haven’t seen Doodle or Scooby for more than a hot minute for a couple of days. Yesterday, being the bad mother I am, I stopped off at a fast food joint to pick up dinner because, once again, I hadn’t had time or ingredients to pull anything together before I’d left that morning.

I dialed the house phone and this stranger picked up. The voice wasn’t quite feminine, and I didn’t recognize it. “Helloooo,” it said (which should have tipped me off, but didn’t), “who is this?”

“This is danablue,” I said, “who's this?”

“Doodle. Hi, mom.”

I was speechless. I stopped in my tracks, cell phone pressed to my ear. When did my little Doodle get a grown up voice (and impeccable phone manners)? When did he stop sounding like a baby? When did he stop being a baby? How can it be that he is old enough to answer a phone and have an intelligent conversation without constant prompting to say things? When did that happen?

This evening, I called home to say that I was on my way. Scooby answered, with a gruff, very corner office-ready, “Yes?” Her phone voice is a soft mix of Elmo the muppet and Marilyn Monroe. (Sure, I’ll wait while you put those two together.) I would never have expected my tomboyish, dress-negotiating seven year old to sound so in command of a telephone conversation.

I’m only just getting used to my six foot one teenager and his down-in-the-canyon voice. Seriously, put that kid on stage and girls will be throwing themselves at him. (Um. Okay, excuse me while I go clean my gun.)

So, I was just thinking about voices, and how, in my head, I still hear my kids as they were – those tiny, tinny little sounds that pierced through the hubbub of any crowd. But, in reality, I guess, my seven year old and ten year old aren’t little kids anymore, and they don’t have little kid voices. The other day, I was home for dinner and we had an impromptu joke-telling contest, where we had to actually make up a joke of our own. I learned that Doodle has almost mastered the art of deadpan sarcasm and Scooby is a gifted – and deadly accurate – mimic. I was completely diverted by the full throated guffaw the Boy let loose at one point, in the unguarded moment when he forgot that being silly with his family wasn’t cool.

I wonder how many other things I’ve been perceiving through kid-filters instead of hearing or seeing as they are. Maybe, for example, it’s time to have conversations with them, instead of always being in let me explain the world to you mode. Maybe I should ask their opinions every once in a while. One thing’s for certain: I aim to close my mouth, open my ears, and listen to hear their real voices.