“Do parents have fun?” Evelyn asked during our five-minute bedtime check-in. Her rapid-fire questions ranged from wondering whether I thought she’d ever have kids (I don’t know), to the three things she wants most in life: to do all the things there are to do, to stay a kid “so I don’t have to pay money,” and to live forever.
“Parent” is her blanket term for all adults, so I mentally translated and answered, “Sure, don’t you think Dad and I have fun?” I reminded her of the charade game we’d played earlier.
But the question lingered in my mind.
I thought of the “fun” administrative spreadsheet I updated today—business expenses sorted, money moved into tax accounts for the feds and state. I brought my new, oversized shop vac into the house to suck up the bugger of hairs lodged under the entry threshold. Fun? Sure. Of course I have fun.
…Or maybe not as much as I thought. Maybe she’s right.
I keep thinking about my book. That I want to write. That I should write. But somehow, I fill the days with mowing the grass, practicing Spanish for an hour, cooking. Tonight, we had homemade Philly cheesesteaks and fries. I don’t know why I’m telling you that—except maybe to ask: where would I even find the time?
I think I was in Fargo last time I worked on the book. Following the bartender’s advice to check out the downtown night scene.
Ugh. I hated that night. All of it. Nestling my car on a side street near a bridge. Watching a couple under the streetlight. Waiting for my brain to finally tire enough to sleep. And when it did—BLAST! A horn. I jolted awake, heart pounding. I’d unknowingly parked next to a train.
It wasn’t the only time. That happened at least twice, maybe more. Once for sure in Indiana.
Sleeping in my car worked—until it didn’t. I’d be so beyond tired. Startled. Scared. Wired. Like a hungry child in the night, I’d do my best to self-soothe. Sometimes it worked. Other times I’d give up and drive, searching for a rest area that felt safe.
Funny how safety feels different to different people. I actually liked rest areas. I’d try to park near the building, close to the foot traffic, hoping it’d deter any prospective breaker-inners. (Technical term.)
My favorite thing? Popping open the trunk during the day. I’d organize my sleeping bag and clothes, refill my water jug, then lay on my folded-back seat with a book or journal. That $20 sleeping pad I bought at Big 5 before the trip? Total game changer.
There was one night in Virginia when a group of college kids I’d spent the day with offered me a couch to sleep on. But knowing the cocoon of my car awaited me, I politely declined.
And to think—at the start of this I didn’t believe I had anything to say.
That’s cool.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 