A SOBERING AGE

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.