you can’t call it a mid-life crisis.

I doubt I’m living until I’m 100. (And I’m mostly okay with that.)

So I can’t fairly call All The Current Feelings mid-life related.

In fact, it is possibly precisely because I recognize that I am no longer mid-life that I am feeling whatever it is I am feeling.

Were those sentences helpful?

Doubtful.

Flannery O’Connor said, “I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say.”

Same, Flannery.

Same.

I’ve been waking up in mid-night with these thoughts. I’ve been missing sleep with these thoughts. I’ve been preoccupied with these thoughts.

I have a senior again this year.

Third row straight.

And I’ve been homeschooling for two entire decades.

So feeling all squishy and nostalgic in the winter shouldn’t really be a surprise.

And yet. It feels new again.

This year is the year I turn HALF OF A CENTURY old and if that sounds crazy to you, guess what it sounds to me.

But more than crazy, more than old, more than past mid-life, you know what that number really sounds like to me?

It sounds FAST.

Breathtakingly fast. Six kid childhoods flashing before my eyes fast. Is there any way humanly possible to slow this train ride down fast.

In my teens I was self-centered like only a teen can be. My life was a drama and I was centerstage and the spotlight was home.

In my twenties I was figuring out how to be an adult and a wife and an employee. I was beginning to appreciate my parents and a hard earned dollar and how to budget money.

In my thirties I was collecting babies. Six in that decade. I was structured and I had a daily chart for nap times and snacks that happened on a rotating basis and I was discovering homeschool and developing a passion for education. I was planning hikes and themed birthday parties. I wrote poetry on our kitchen cabinets and I read so many words out loud to listening children.

In my forties I was recovering from the greatest shock of my life. I was picking up pieces and learning that all stories don’t unfold like the novels I read. I was by turns barely moving and by turns making incredible strides. I was becoming. I was raising teens and meeting grandbabies and building businesses.

In my fifties, when it officially arrives, I’m not entirely sure what I’ll be doing. But I know who I am. And I know enough to know that I also haven’t met all the people I will still be. I’m not afraid of the future. I love my work but it’s not my entire life. I know what matters to me and it is never the bottom line, the forward progress or the full retirement fund. It is people. Humans. The faces of the children. My friends and my family.

Sometimes the thoughts are too many. Will my kids make choices that hurt or help? Will they be safe? Will they feel loved? Will I make financial choices that bankrupt us or rescue us? Will I parent in ways that draw my children toward the light or send them in the opposite direction?

These thoughts crash onto me when I am lying in my squeaky IKEA bed and the house has a semblance of quiet. For too many nights lately I haven’t been able to think these thoughts through to their end. I’ve just fallen asleep, restless under their weight. I’ve awakened, heavy with unfinished ideas and lack of clarity.

And so I knew I needed to sit down and type. To see what I thought. And where I was landing.

I think we’re all going to be okay.

I think some chores will get done and some will not. I think we’ll laugh and I think we’ll cry. I think Bergen will graduate and I think I’ll miss him. And I think he and I will both make it through just fine, me a little more teary than him.

That’s what I think, Flannery.

And now, since I took a few minutes to write it all down, I think I’ll sleep much better.