Remember my husband’s birthday? Remember his cake? Remember his gift?

To recap: I handed him some money attached to a shit-ton of work, and ever since, my husband has been tied up in knots. (Aren’t I sweet?)

This Friday, March 15th, is The Big Day — a friend dubbed it “The Ides of Murch” — so in recent weeks, my husband has been spending his evenings and weekends crawling around on the second floor of the new barn framing up the new second-story walls with the old roof pressing down on top of him, his stress levels at a fever pitch.

I’ve popped my head up there a couple times, and it pretty much looks exactly like his birthday cake.

All this week, my husband is working on the barn. The kids are helping, too: it’s spring break for the college kids, my older daughter already works with my husband, and my older son took off.

When I got back from town early afternoon on Monday, I found them huddled in front of the fire, drinking coffee.

That day, they tore off the roof, never mind the gale-force winds that blew up out of nowhere.

Today, the the framing material for the roof gets delivered. They’ll spend the next few days building walls and cutting rafters, and then Friday, a horde of local carpenters, family, and friends will swarm the property and get. the. job. done. 

And what am I doing, you ask? Feeding people, naturally. Along with all the regular kitchen tasks — i.e. cheesemaking, because my husband is still milking three cows, remember — I’ll be feeding anyone who shows up to work during the week and prepping for the Friday event: lunch, birthday pies, homemade doughnuts, etc. It’s gonna be a party! 

We are watching the weather like hawks. The entire week looks dazzling except for — you guessed it — a chance of rain on Friday. [cue muffled, panicked screams] The big question: is it a passing chance, or a blossoming one?

Either way, it doesn’t much matter. There’s not much we can do about it anymore.

There’s no going back now!

This same time, years previous: cherry bounce, for science, opening, adventuring, the quotidian (3.12.12), for all we know, dunging out.

Quotidian: daily, usual or customary;
everyday; ordinary; commonplace

Leap year.

Birthday Timpano: it may be the best one yet.

Never too much.

Lunch box queue: rosa de jamaica.

Struggling.

Trying out a new snack.

The collection.

So that’s why the floor is still dirty.
^{photo credit: a tattly sister}

Spiced cranberry: dang glitchy siphon.

Midmorning Virgins.

Distraction.

Stretch buddy.
^{photo credit: my younger son}

This same time, years previous: chicken birthday cake, a painful mattress situation, Colby cheese, for the love of pie, roasted sweet potato salad, the quotidian (3.11.19), another adventure!, kitchen concert, homemade pepperoni, family weekending.

^{photo credit: my younger daughter}

I recently came across the phrase midlife “renaissance” — as opposed to midlife crisis — and I was like, Ooo, yes! All the creative energy! The reaching! The dreaming! Taking one step after another without a clear vision, the boldness and uncertainty smashed so tight together they’re indistinguishable. Audacity. Fear. Power. Sometime new is coming. I love it.

***

I’ve never been one for going to the gym. The idea of paying money to drive somewhere to get all hot and sweaty in a stale room with a bunch of strangers for a specified amount of minutes always felt ridiculous. But several years ago I signed up for a few weeks of kickboxing and last summer I signed up for another few weeks, and then I did something entirely un-Jennifer-like:

I bought a membership.

Here’s why: My perimenopausal body is whack — slowing metabolism, stiffening joints, graying hair, wrinkling skin, ricocheting emotions . . . because perimenopause is basically puberty but in reverse — so I decided now was the time to embrace my dying-yet-fully-alive body by smothering it with tough, kickass love. Make it work. Be in it. 

^{photo credit: my younger daughter}

Six months in, my body is stronger than it’s ever been. Kickboxing is a much more comprehensive workout than running or playing Ultimate. Along with all the kicking and squats and jumping, there’s a focus on upper body strength, something that I’ve always been weak in. I’m no Michelle Obama, but after six months of paddles, bag work, weights, and push-ups (I hate push-ups), my arms boast a wee smidge of muscle. As in, I’ll cross my arms and actually get distracted by the hardness of them, like a perimenopausal Uncle Rico (timestamp: 00:26). 

Funnily enough, I like my aging body now, maybe more than I ever have.

Yesterday at kickboxing I mentioned my crisis-turned-renaissance to a friend and, after her knee-jerk reaction of, Nice try; I’m not buying it, she said, “I guess midlife is a sort of rebirth.” 

And I was like, Oh, riiight. Renaissance means rebirth. I’m a baby being reborn so no wonder I’m crying so much! 

OR. Maybe I’m pregnant, giving birth to a new me. Which also makes sense: foggy brain, no period (sometimes), can’t sleep, hormones wack, peeing all the time, crying, a hunkered-down feeling. The mounting tension of an impending, life-altering change. The excitement.

***

There’s grief, too. I’m not the same person I used to be.

I will never be that person again.

***

My brother and sister-in-law released a new song and music video* last week. It came out while I was at work so as soon as I got into my car I pulled it up on my phone. When it ended, my face was wet. I took a few deep breaths, texted my brother my congratulations, and then drove home where I immediately watched it again, this time on a bigger screen and with headphones (the better to hear you with, my dear) and, once again: waterworks.

That evening, I pulled the video up for my husband to watch (with headphones — I was done crying for the day). Afterwards, he just sat there swiping at his eyes and sniffling, looking kinda stunned, like what the heck was that.

It’s breathtaking, this one. 

Evening will come. 

***

*The video was produced/filmed by their friend, the same guy who consulted with me about my YouTube channel. The man is brilliant.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (2.27.23), perfect pita, old-fashioned molasses cream sandwich cookies, homecoming, a radio interview, plus a food fight.