Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 9 Comments

While I’m Living…

There are “bucket lists,” which as lists, begin to already feel like  ‘to dos’ that are long and, potentially, over-reaching. I’ve got plenty to check off on my everyday necessities, let alone set the bar to bungee jump, deep-sea dive, and ride shotgun on a motorcycle cross-country, all the while, the pressure of my life clock a-ticking.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a list lover. But a bucket list feels like way too much pressure for the overachiever in me.

So, the concept of the Before I Die wall is appealing. A project I’m still learning about. But I can’t deny the immediate emotion felt when I saw the one-line dreams of hundreds of people, etched out in colored chalk.

photo by Trevor Coe
photo by Trevor Coe

The premise is simple, just fill in the blank: “Before I die I want to…”

Now, you. One line. Before you die, what?

Distilled down to only a few fundamental words, this exercise seems to wipe away the superfluous, keeping it real and potent. According to the project website, there are 425 of these walls in the world, where human beings can take a pause, grab chalk like a child, and spell out a simple dream. (More about the Before I Die project here.)

Always wanting to turn a phrase toward the positive, I ponder shifting the prompt to “While I’m living…”

In the bustle of our days, thoughts running amok, and those never-ending lists being checked, it’s nice to stop for a minute to ask ourselves a little something about why we’re breathing here.

This heart beat of ours that pumps, right now, buh-bump, buh-bump. What do we want to do with it?

I’d love to hear what comes to you.

While I’m living...

Posted on by Jessica Dofflemyer · 6 Comments

The Last Year

“This is your last year.”

He’s saying it with a smile as he lets himself surrender, folding more deeply into my arms.

I’m with Jeb at the bus stop in early morning with only one other carload of drop-offs behind us.

“Last year?”

I act as though I don’t understand but I have a good sense of where he’s heading.

“Yep, when I’m 11, no more of this.”

He nestles in for a final soak-in of mother love, then pulls away like a mischievous elf. “This is your last year…”

“Oh, really?!” I grab him back and pull him towards me as he giggles and squirms. “Last year, hah! We’re going to be hugging for the rest of our lives!”

“Na-uh! Last year, mom.” He moves away and opens the car door, putting one foot outside but remaining in his seat, smirking.

“Jeb, when all of your friends think they’re too cool to hug their moms, you’re going to be the coolest one because you’ll still be doing it and not caring what anyone else thinks.” (Might as well plant the seed).

“Ehhh…I’ll start hugging you again in my twenties.”

Where is he getting this?

The kids in the car behind us have unloaded and one of the boys is anxiously watching for Jeb’s exit from our vehicle. This time I get a rapid, cursory movement somewhat resembling an affectionate gesture, followed with an upbeat “Bye!”

And then he’s gone and I’m driving away.

Last year. Pfft.

Well, this may be the last year for some things. At day’s end, just before dinner, Jeb comes into the house spitting blood into the bathroom sink like a triumphant boxer.

“I was watching the sunset and just decided, now I’m going to do it. And I pulled as hard as I could and it came out.”

Jeb’s tooth rolls clean and white in his open palm as he spits again like a tough guy into the sink. “It hurt a little bit but not too much.”

At bedtime he shows me exactly where he’s stashed the envelope housing his tooth. “It’s just right here under this pillow, mom.”

“Ok, well, I’ll be sure to tell the tooth fairy,” and we give each other the secret smile that is so old now, we both know it is outgrown.

I think this may be the last year of losing teeth. It is also probably the last year that Jeb and I will wear the same size shoe.

But the last year of hugs?

No way…

the first lost tooth
the first lost tooth