Coming to Terms with 50

When I was a child, there was a television commercial where two women held out their hands and another person had to guess which one was the mother and which was the daughter by looking at their hands. I don’t even remember what the product was – moisturizer cream? Dish soap? Who cares.

In the smugness of my youth, I always thought this was dumb. Hands? HANDS? I mean, come on. The signs of aging were grey hair and wrinkles on your face. Hands all looked the same.

Right?

Much later in my adulthood, I decided I was going to grow old gracefully. I mean, Retinol is still in scope and Spanks are required, but I wouldn’t use Botox or have plastic surgery on my face to hold onto my youth.  Perhaps this is just the smugness-du-jour.  Perhaps in a few years, I’ll blog about my procedure and why I changed my mind.

Besides, if I got Botox injected into my brow, how would my children know when to run and hide in fear?

For today, I stand firm.  I didn’t think it would be difficult.  I had never struggled with aging. Many of my friends turning 40 had issues. Heck, even some turning 30 did. I turned 40 with aplomb. Even 45.

Somewhere around 47, it hit me like a ton of bricks and 49 has been brutal.  Like Sarah Palin could see Russia from her porch, I can see 50 clearly from right here at 49.

50.

~~~~~~~~~~~

In the past few years, both of my oldest daughters have gotten married. One with a big, traditional wedding and one with a more quaint and non-traditional approach.  That first wedding is well-documented on my blog. I think I referred to it as my ‘prom’. It was lovely and I got to buy so many matching dresses, I was in heaven.

I shared many photos of the event here on my blog and elsewhere, but I didn’t share one. In fact, I didn’t share this one with anybody. When I was looking through the photographer’s photos and I saw it, I went “Awwwww…”  It was so sweet – my mother putting a bracelet on the wrist of my youngest daughter.  Cute, right?

Until I realized my mother wasn’t there when we were all getting ready and the one who managed that bracelet’s clasp was me.  Me. Just to be sure, I checked the wedding ring in the picture.  Mine.  Those were my hands. I’d never be on that dish soap commercial now, and aging does, in fact, show in our hands.

old hands

I am turning 50 this year. I have a 30 year old daughter and a 10 year old daughter and 3 more in between those two.

My hands are old and my hips sometimes ache and I’m either losing some of my hearing or getting better at tuning people out.  There are a lot of things going on here – things happening that didn’t used to happen, things that used to happen that have stopped (thank the lord for small favors!) and things that annoy and, occasionally, disgust me. But that’s not the whole story.

I’m working on it, this turning 50 thing. By the time the day arrives, I want to be at peace with this struggle and ready to celebrate the joy of it.

Because, baby, I am still a force to be reckoned with. I’m on top my game at work, I continue to hone my writing skills, I’m funny and smart, I’ve mastered the art of eye-liner and I still wear cute bras.

Come at me, 50.  I can take you on. These old hands know a thing or two about managing life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

PS: This post is reflective of how I feel today. Next week I may well be sobbing about how my nipples now point south. Well, one of them anyway.

By |May 21st, 2014|Indiscriminate Drivel|Comments Off on Coming to Terms with 50
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Don’t Freak Out

Dex Easter for The HubShe wasn’t expected; she just arrived at my front door and said “Hey!” as she walked in like she always does.

She may be 30 but she’s my child and this was her house at one time and there is no need to knock. I’m glad we have a ‘just walk in’ house. I like that.

She was toting the car-seat carrier with the heavy sleeping baby as she breezed into the family room.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“I have to tell you something and I didn’t want to do it over the phone.” she said. She was casual, setting the baby seat down and keeping busy with putting the diaper bag and her purse on the breakfast bar. She walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator looking for something to eat. I’m glad we have the kind of house where they just head to the refrigerator and look for something to eat. I like that.

She came out with some cheese and was busy breaking it into pieces and popping them into her mouth as she picked up the story.

“Don’t freak out.” she said. “Dex’s pediatrician referred us to a specialist and we just came from the appointment. They did some tests and we don’t have the results yet, but they think he may have some neurological disorder, a degenerative one.”

She was minimizing it. Her every action said “This is no big deal. We will not over-react.” but I’m a mother too and I know this child of mine and I know how strong the gene is to minimize something on the outside while you’re falling to pieces on the inside. That’s my gene. I gave her that gene.

While her actions belied the situation, her eyes gave her away and the quiver in her voice was, well, degenerative. She continued “If he has this, over time he will lose muscle control on half his body. His mouth will droop, he will list to one side, he will shuffle when he walks. He will drool a lot.”

She was barely holding it together now.

I didn’t hesitate. I used the only comfort that I am comfortable in giving, my words.

“Well, first of all, let’s wait for the results. But guess what? If he does have this, here’s the deal. That boy is the luckiest boy in the world because he will be surrounded by a huge army made up of the Metzler family and the Murphy family and the Doty family and the Hemenway family. This is where having a huge family of freaks comes in handy. That boy? He will be loved on and laughed with and laughed at and challenged and fought with and the only thing he will be allowed to feel amongst this crazy parade of freaks and weirdos is normal, because he will be.”

And I held her as she let the tears flow and hoped she knew that what I said was both wise and true.

I woke up then, the morning light creeping around the edges of the window shade.  I was shaking and crying myself, this awake me.  In the dream, I didn’t crack. In the dream I was strong and confident and wise but in the hangover of the dream I was shaken.

It was just a dream, I knew. But every aspect of it was so real – the house, the actions of my grown daughter, her mannerisms, the way the scene played out, all fresh and real in my waking mind.

I lay there and reveled in the wonder of my own imparted wisdom. Would I have actually come up with that in a real situation? Could I have?

I realized the mom I was in that dream is the mom I aspired to be, hoped I would be when called upon by a crisis.  It has a tiny element of the “Suck it up, Buttercup.” for which I am known, perhaps, but it had an emotional fortitude that I wasn’t sure I had a right to claim – that hasn’t yet been tried and tested in the real world.

My husband rolled over, feeling the bed shaking from my silent crying. I told him about the dream and said “That’s the mom I should be.”

“That’s the mom you already are.” he said nonchalantly as he wrapped his arms around me. He comforts with his arms and his empathy. I comfort with words of strength.

I hope that if the day comes when both of our methods to comfort are needed to face some crisis, our children feel the fullness of what the two of us bring to the table on our parenting journey.

As parents, we may list to one side and drool occasionally, but we love them and, in the end we all have a little bit of freak in us anyway.

I didn’t freak out. I came downstairs and wrote on my blog.

 

By |May 21st, 2014|Married Life, Not even a little funny, The Parent Hood|Comments Off on Don’t Freak Out
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The Old Mother

momThe youngest in any family is often said to be spoiled.  There are many theories behind why this is.

Some feel the mother has pretty much just given up. She is older, tired. She’s done many years of parenting from the firstborn all the way to this last child and she’s just, well…. be right back. I’m going to take a little nap.  Keep an eye on the kid for me, OK?  I’m sure she’ll be fine – she’s practically raised herself.  I just need to rest my eyes for a minute…

Even if you practically sleep through it, still they grow up.

Another theory is that it’s not giving up as much as it is holding on, as if by holding on to the youth of your offspring, you somehow hold onto your own youth.

I was struggling with my teenager trying to clip the mittens to her winter coat, but kids that age are pretty damn strong and really resent having their mothers use them as a means of groping their ways through a midlife crises.  They’ll fight you on this.  They don’t need nor want to be treated like babies.  In retrospect diapering really was the easiest part of parenting, but remember – we were happy to leave that shit behind. Literally. Don’t linger here – it’s just creepy.

Try as you might to hold onto the days when your cherubic young ones needed you so, still they grow up.

Perhaps most of us old mothers have a little of the giving up and a little of the holding on within us.  There is a third theory, and it’s the one, in my opinion, that dominates why these youngest children seem a little more indulged than their older siblings were.

Perspective. 

The more years that have passed, the more perspective a mother gains along the path.  Not only have the children done their share of growing up, but so has the mother.

Perhaps she realizes how fast it goes and wants to worry less and enjoy more. Perhaps she has concluded it’s pointless to spend even another minute squabbling about how messy a bedroom is.  Perhaps she knows that a report card with a comment saying “She talks too much.” isn’t the end of the world, not even close.  Perhaps she is even amused by such comments these days. Perhaps she just doesn’t give a flying fu…  um, what I mean is perhaps she doesn’t mind much if the child doesn’t eat her broccoli. Let’s face it – broccoli is gross. I’m with the kid on this one.

Regardless of whether we’re holding on or giving up or have simply gained a broader perspective, still they grow up.

Still they grow up.

There we are, us older mothers, left wondering… what now? To whom will we be the answer to everything? Who will revel in our ability to put peanut butter and bananas on Ritz crackers and serve them on fancy hors d’oeuvre trays? Who will laugh at our stupid jokes? Think our stories interesting? Let us read them rhyming books? Who will think we’re amazing?

And just when we think that gap unfillable, they lay a baby in our arms and call us grandmother.

Lin and Dex

 

 

 

By |February 25th, 2014|The Parent Hood|Comments Off on The Old Mother
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