In Death, I Hope For A Life Less Ordinary

Every now and again, I read an extraordinary obituary that makes me want to write one for myself, but this idea kinda feels like tempting fate. For somebody who doesn’t have all of her wills in place, much less end-of-life notifications for those who will surely need direction once I’m gone (looking at you, Robert, who can’t find any of the things or appointments, even though they’re always in the same place). It’s simply not practical. Maybe even less than wise.

Of course, just seeing an obituary that is less than ordinary has me contemplating my own demise, and I rewind, to that one point. You know, the one when you know you’re actually dying, and in that moment, what you hope people will say about you.

In Death, I Hope For A Life Less Ordinary

When it comes to ordinary, in many ways, I do hope to simply live an ordinary life. A life devoid of the worst type of tragedies, without having to create butterfly magic over you-know-who-that-I-can’t-even-type because no way.

Also? I hope I die without regret. I hope, that long past the year 2059, I’ll know the end is coming, and be at peace with that. 

To that end, there are many days when I don’t do each thing I hope to, so that it’ll stand out. I’m not sure if it’s that since we moved back to Colorado, I have fewer friends in the neighborhood, or if I’m experiencing a depression of sorts.

I’m in therapy to try and find a way to love myself more. I planned this past Tuesday to head over to the Air Force Academy stables to ride for the first time in a long time. Tuesday came, and it was misty and rainy, and it felt like too much, you know? Like too much wet and too much cold, and while I know I would have reveled in it had I actually gone through with it, I didn’t.

But the next time this happens, I want to. 

In Death, And Today, I Hope For A Life Less Ordinary

For whatever reason (I blame the obituary of the dog’s life I recently read on Facebook, but it’s probably deeper and more established than that), I’m thinking a lot about the moments we’re living now.

My son comes home from school, and I ask “What was the best part of today?”

“I dunno,” he says. Except every once in a while, he says “Our teacher told us about *insert whatever it is here*!” 

When it comes to tomorrow, or when it comes to 1,001 tomorrows from now, I hope he’ll answer something other than “I dunno” when it comes to what he remembers about me.

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Tucker has a new expression. It’s simple, but adorable to me. “Mmm hmmm” he says when I ask for confirmation. It’s not a unique expression by any means, nor one to be proud of regarding his speech goals, but the way he says it is precious and adorable. His voice sounds so innocent in saying it, and yet confident somehow. At least, confident in a way he hasn’t previously been.

Hearing him saying it is one of those moments that comes with an alert. One that says “Remember this. Record this if you can, because it’s fleeting” the same way his most recent night-time snuggle session was.

It’s the same way I felt years ago, after getting over the shock of his speech delays and then upon hearing progress, I scrambled to record him saying “ninee,” knowing it’d disappear.

I get my phone out to take a quick video but too often, miss the moment.

I hope that on my death bed, I remember each of these stages of his, and of mine in observing his, and new stages found in myself.

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To live a life less ordinary. 

Does less ordinary mean extraordinary? Also, what a strange word extraordinary is. I mean, it implies that it’s extra ordinary. Like, ordinary in beige. But the definition contains “remarkable.”

Do I want to live a remarkable life? I’m not Michelle Obama, and I’m not sure I’m cut out for that type of role, but I do want to have a mark on the memories of those who love me.

It doesn’t have to be big. It simply has to be unexpected, I think.

Like a surprise during-school-hours early pick-up to see a movie. Pumpkin smashing in the street after dark (your own of course, after they’ve served their purpose – never take somebody else’s pumpkins, even if they seem rotting).

A silly dance for no reason. A walk to the park instead of homework.

These are the things that will linger with me as I pass into the following place. Living a life less ordinary includes rare moments like standing on top of the world, or watching fireworks rightthere at the beach while your little boy says “Happy to you,” when he means happy birthday to himself. It’s the profound sense of honor you feel knowing this may be the last time of being something or witnessing something that’s defined your time as a person for years.

It’s kissing a moment goodbye with sadness and also pride because your baby, who is no longer a baby is becoming who he’s supposed to.

Living a life less ordinary is found in two-minute moments after dinner when you let your 10-year-old write in invisible ink on your forehead and then giggle about it. That’s what we’ll remember.

I think the combination of the two will be enough to live this life less ordinary, although I do hope to be better, and do better in the everyday moments. Like, ones that involve homework, for example. 😉

Here’s to living life in the best way we can, and to accepting that sometimes, the best we can is good enough.

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This has been a Finish the Sentence Friday post, with the prompt of “I want to live a life _____.”