Last week, my youngest child turned 20. Based on that opening statement, this column could be about a broad variety of topics: Where the time has gone, the joys and difficulties of raising teenagers, young adulthood, nostalgia.
But instead, this is about how the night before, after two-plus decades of experience at this parenting gig, I once again found myself at the store the night before his birthday, buying his birthday presents, birthday candles, and all the necessities needed. He is the youngest of five. I have had ample time to figure this out.
Since his birthday falls around Thanksgiving weekend, I have often used the excuse that his birthday snuck up on me. We were just so busy. Holiday plans. Extra grocery shopping and food planning. Excuses we all know, love, and use without thought. Valid excuses. Unfortunately, I follow the same night-before routine with the other four kids, even though their birthdays land at a quieter time of year. This year I made myself feel a little better about my last-minute shopping trip by holding off my regular grocery shopping trip to coincide with the birthday shopping, so that I could limit my trips to the store. A rare feeling of justification for putting off a task.
When my kids were younger I’d beat myself up about my last-minute tendencies. I’d chide myself for not enjoying the experience more, or wonder how great the party/cake/present could have been, had I only given myself more time to prepare. Parenthood is rife with opportunities for us to remind ourselves that we can do better, if only we’d put in more effort.
But here’s the thing: I always pulled it together in the end. It’s my only super-power, my ability to calmly make things happen at a moment’s notice. I did it when my oldest child was a baby. I’m doing it still when my youngest enters young adulthood. I suspect it will be with me always.
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Some people call it procrastination. It’s an accurate term, of course, but I’d like to put forth another viewpoint: I am a marinator.
Take my youngest child’s 20th birthday, for example. I obviously knew his birthday was coming up. He and I held several conversations about it. I asked him what he would like for dinner (take-out from India Palace), and if there were anything special he wanted as a present (nothing came to mind; he left that up to me). We even held a lengthy debate about whether or not the cheesecake sampler platter he asked for in lieu of cake should still have birthday candles (he said no; I bought extra candles). All these conversations took place sporadically throughout the month before his birthday.
But nothing was done until the evening before. Some of the items, an hour before. Did I procrastinate? Yes. Undoubtedly. But I spent time marinating the ideas in my head, thinking through what I needed, where I needed to go, how long it would all take. I’m more of an organizer than a doer. I take great comfort from knowing my world is orderly, so I spend a lot of time making sure I understand what will need to happen — I marinate in the planning.
So when I can no longer ignore the fact that I have to actually do something about it, I am prepared. I pull it together. My tendency to marinate, in fact, is upstaged by only one trait: a good ole’, deep-seeded Minnesota horror at the thought of inconveniencing or disappointing others. Which produces a nice balance, I suppose.
I no longer beat myself up for waiting until the last minute to get things done. I’ve learned to accept that I need that marinating time, for whatever reason, before leaping into action. Forcing myself to do things without first thinking it through leads me to poor choices and regrets. It’s one of the benefits of middle age, I’ve found, to understand my limitations and work with them.
Now if you’ll excuse me, Christmas is less than three weeks away, and I’ve had to adjust my internal “today’s the day you have to pull it together” date to accommodate the pandemic. All which leaves me precious little time to get in a proper marination. I have to get on it.
Kathleen Murphy is a freelance writer who lives and works in Duluth. Write to her at kmurphywrites@gmail.com.
