I have reached a sobering age.
When the kids have been put to bed after baths, stories, prayers, kisses, and conversation; and my body finally hits the chair; and the sweet silence is broken by a child screaming, “There’s a bug in my room!” I don’t reason with the child about size ratios, the bug’s disinterest in him, or a bug’s right to live. I get up and squash the bug.
When an elderly parent can’t make it to the bathroom on his own, shower himself, shave himself, feed himself, or dress himself; I get up and do what is required to preserve his health, comfort, and dignity.
When a child crawls into bed with me at 3am and throws up in my bed, all over himself and me; I don’t roll over and go back to sleep. There is nothing else to do but get up, clean it up, and care for the child.
I have begun to read obituaries.
I have been to the Emergency Room. Often.
I have made some sacrifices.
I have handled vomit, urine, feces, lice, blood, puss, drool, snot, rotting things, and dead things.
I have buried parents and watched my friends do the same.
I have reached a sobering age. An age in which my theories about life are tested daily against the reality of life. I have learned that reality always wins. And while that might seem depressing, unimaginative, hopeless, or just old and grumpy, I find it comforting to know that no matter what the latest theory or ideal, I can always count on bodily fluids, and matters of life and death, to point me in the direction of truth.
