Surely the calendar’s wrong

This essay was first published on The Daily BS on July 18, 2025.

It’s the upcoming birthday that’s got me thinking. Actually, it’s not so much the fact that I’m having one as it is the number that’s attached.

Some folks would say it’s no coincidence that this nut was shaken from the family tree the same month that we celebrate our nation’s independence. With (you know this) boomers and sparklers and razzmatazz. According to Mr. Schrock, I “throw sparks, just sitting.” Whether that’s thanks to the red in my hair or the wild curls, I can’t say, but I’m afraid he isn’t wrong.

What may be wrong, actually, is the calendar. There’s no way that’s the right number because I sure don’t feel that old. In fact, after a recent foot race through the house, the teenager said, “Mom, I’m glad you’re still so active. It seems like a lot of older folks aren’t anymore.”

If there were awards for left-handed compliments, I’d nominate him. I knew, though, what he was saying, and so I loved it. We sure hadn’t planned to have a caboose when we were flirtin’ with forty, but as my Aunt Esther used to say, “That’s how the ball bounces,” and here we are.

Anyway, with all this rolling around in my fertile brain, I realize there’s a lot I know now that I didn’t know when I was young. Back when I was a girl in braids playing Kick the Can with cousins, I thought kids had it tough. Teachers and parents lived on Easy Street. That’s what I thought.

With one parental edict, they could make you scrub the toilets. Make your bed. Clean your room. Shoot, your mother could even send you down into the dungeon i.e., the basement, and make you iron shirts. That’s what one mom I know did to her kid, ahem.

Those teachers? They could make your life a living—pit of misery. With a couple of scribbles on the chalkboard, they could introduce a new level of torture. Ergo, they could assign you extra math.

As a kid, I hated math. When the third-grade teacher said, “Get out your math books,” I felt my red-tinged hair flame. If I had thought about it, I would have turned to prayer in my extremity. A lightning bolt. An earthquake or two. A real selective team of burglars, all targeting the district’s math books. Alas, it didn’t occur to me until decades later, leaving me to struggle through the complexities of algebra in high school.

What did I care what time two trains would meet if one left Cleveland heading west, going sixty, and the other one left Denver headed east, going forty? What in the world did it matter, and how did it improve my life? It was incomprehensible to me. Yes, for all I could see, parents and teachers had all the power, and they weren’t afraid to use it.

Funny, how life turns out. You grow up, and you’re a teacher. For one year, you teach two grades, third and fourth, with a preponderance of boys. Little do you know that one day, you’ll be teaching your own preponderance of boys, only it’s for much longer than nine months, and there are no summer breaks.

It’s a pair of blue eyes that does you in, and you marry a fellow who goes to school for accounting. That’s math. And cue the boys.

Little do you know, too, when you start the parenting gig, that you could’ve opted for puppies. About two kids in, this dawns on you. By then, you’ve burned your bridges, and there’s no turning back. You’ve been suckered again by the blue, blue eyes.

Yes, it sure is funny how life turns out. By the time you’re the one behind the desk, assigning the chores, you realize it’s nothing like you thought. As you clean your floors, cook the dinner, and iron shirts for all of those not-puppies, you know two things—it’s much harder than it looks, and you lived to tell about it.

That’s what you try to teach the young, local “Israelites” who murmur against the cruelty of their desert existence. “This is much harder than it looks,” you chirp, handing them their work list, “and you’ll live to tell about it.”

To my great surprise, one of the most vociferous protesters uttered these shocking words when he left home. “Mom, thank you for teaching me how to work.”

I’m so glad we didn’t choose to raise puppies instead of boys. They have taught me more about life, God, faith, and courage than nearly anyone or anything else in life. Seeing the stellar men they’ve become is my reward for not having gone all animal kingdom; i.e., eating them when they were young. They are my great investment and legacy, and the returns are already rolling in.

I’m grateful for the wisdom I’ve gained in my fifty-eight trips around the sun, though it came through fiery trials and hard times. These have made me the person that I am. The difficult people in my life have done the same good work, for they caused me to seek God with my whole heart. The one who pursues God can never lose, but shall only gain.

Though outwardly my age may show, inwardly I am being strengthened day by day, experiencing peace and joy. Every day I live takes me one day closer to heaven, the gift beyond all compare.

Rhonda Schrock is glad for all the “cruel work” she was made to do. She is grateful, even though she still doesn’t know what time those two trains will pass in the night. She says she still doesn’t care.