It is mid August. My wife and I are preparing for a long weekend away. We just downloaded the school supply list for our son, the eighth time we’ve done this.
The summer work has slowed, and the list of fall work is growing. The market is troubled and troubling. The first crickets are appearing in the basement. The nights are cooler, and we are making the first plans for Thanksgiving and Christmas gatherings.
I am 43 now. The family rituals are now my rituals. The rhythm of the year has become familiar and comforting. Daily life has become the center of my life.
The children are not small, and their problems can no longer be soothed with a popsicle and a viewing of "The Lion King.”
The challenges are bigger, and the near term less certain. Our parents are older, and may soon require help. My finances are not as robust as I would like. The house is always work and imperfect.
But the daliness of life seems as it should be. Problems or triumphs are as they should be. I was born to fix the printer so Ry could print out his seventh grade school list. I was born to help clean the fridge, and to short S&P index funds into the close. I was born to walk the dogs, and to sit in my office chair watching the rain as the sun went down. I was born to be myself on this one unremarkable August day.
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