Hitting the Pause Button

I’d like to say I’m shutting her down but that seems so final. Really, though, writing this blog has not been happening lately. It used to just flow out of me. And, now, it’s something just hanging over me. So…in the spirit of trying to live life without putting unnecessary pressure or restrictions on myself…I’m going to hit the pause button on One Normal Woman.

My daughter gave it to me about this last night. She is furious with me that I’ve stopped reaching out to publishers on my book and haven’t been writing lately. She says I have to keep trying, keep going. She’s absolutely right. She gets that from me…her never die, “pick yourself up, dust yourself off and keep moving” spirit. I don’t want to disappoint her. And, honestly, I never say never.

So, this isn’t good-bye forever. It’s just me putting my head down to rest for a bit. I’ll ping you when I’m back. Deal?  In the meantime, enjoy your “normal” lives and when something crazy, funny, difficult, silly, challenging or just plain hum-drum happens, think of me and laugh about it.  Hell…give me a call and tell me about it. It may just wake me up from this slumber!

The Incredible Speeding Time Machine

There’s this amazing phenomenon that begins to happen as you move beyond young adulthood and into middle age. Time speeds up. Sometimes it’s in a “time flies when you’re having fun way,” but most of the time, it’s just time barreling forward. Take this summer for instance…a great summer, full of fantastic outings, outdoor activities and even a few lazy days, but it’s all happened in a blur.

Living in the South, my kids get out of school just before Memorial Day, so late May.  It’s been 2 1/2 months since then…about 10 weeks. That’s 70 days; it’s 1,680 hours.  That’s a decent amount of time.  And, during that time, we’ve spent a week at the beach, a long weekend in the mountains, and spent countless evenings or afternoons at the pool.  The kids did swim team for 5 weeks; my daughter, mother and I had the trip of a lifetime in London; and my kids even fit in several camps — my son focusing on science, cooking and drama and my daughter doing a high-adventure ropes sleep-away camp. Meanwhile, I’ve worked…taken numerous business trips, launched new programs and big, huge meaty events, communicated news to thousands of employees and worked some more.  When you pack all that in, 70 days or 1, 680 hours doesn’t seem enough. No wonder it seems to have flown by!

This is where it gets serious though.  Because in addition to all of that, we also learned this summer that my stepfather — my Mom’s husband…my kid’s grandfather –  who has been fighting cancer, doesn’t have anymore treatment options. And, amid all the summer “stuff,” I’ve been watching my family suffer as they take in this news.  All of sudden, it isn’t just an interesting phenomenon…this time passing too quickly thing.  All of a sudden there truly isn’t enough time…at all…for anyone.

You see, this is the summer I officially became the sandwich generation…not because my parents need caretaking. They are strong, able, sharp people. But, because I’m in the middle of caring for my children and giving them what I hope is a wealth of experiences AND helping my mother face into a life-changing transition in her life. She’s caring for her husband. She’s scared and not wanting this to happen. She’s dealing with the unknown, and I want to help. My Mom and I have always relied on each other to a fault. And, in this case, I want to be able to ease the fear, make it all better, help her have the answers. Yet, I can’t.  This is one of those things you have to live to find out what will come next.  You can’t really shape it.  And, that’s hard.

It’s hard enough that you just want to say, “Stop. Hold on. Let’s all take a break here; slow things up and figure this out.” But, time doesn’t allow for that.  Life doesn’t allow for that.  My kids still have needs. My job still has demands.  And, time…it just keeps moving, in a blur.  I tend to be a person who likes to be in control of things. So, why can’t I slow it down a bit? It’s because…and here’s a really profound thought, I know… time is fixed. Setting aside the dripping sarcasm of that last thought, the fact is every minute is still 60 seconds. It can be mind-boggling when you realize these minutes are the exact same as those I experienced when I was young, single, being cared for by my parents and was often bored watching the clock tick slowly by. The time going by now is ostensibly the same as when everyone was healthy and able and happy.

Time is relentless.  So, it just keeps marching on. All the emails have started back up again…the “don’t forget the 8th grade band trip and all the paperwork you need to complete to ready our child for it” and the “sign up for drama classes or you’ll miss out” and the “be at student orientation by 8 a.m.” and “be sure you have purchased your $300 worth of mandatory school supplies by X date” emails.  There are those and more pouring into my inbox.  Work continues to demand my attention.  Yet, all that really matters is that we ensure my stepfather and my mother are enjoying every minute of this precious time…the time when he’s still strong. We don’t know how long that will last.  We hope it will be a very, very long time. In the meantime, life continues, for all of us, and we have to make the most of it.  Actually, out of all of us, he seems to get this more than anyone. And, just like him, we have to embrace it. We have to embrace the time we have.

Sandwiched or not, that’s what I intend to do…continue living life even as it speeds up and goes by lightning fast. Blink and it could be gone. Or, watch and enjoy the light show.  That, my friends, is the current dilemma of this one normal woman.

Harried, Hormonal, Heaven

You know what I hate about being a woman?  The hormones.  Honestly.  We can all act like they don’t change us, and we can even argue that male hormones cause issues for them.  I mean who hasn’t considered the stereotypical idea of a man making decisions with something other than the head on his shoulders. So, maybe I shouldn’t hate being a woman because of hormones. Maybe I should just hate hormones. Either way, it’s a nuisance.

It’s a nuisance that my husband, after nearly 23 years of knowing me, will ever-so-casually warn me that I’ll be getting my period shortly.  How does he know this?  Well…one would think he wouldn’t make a rookie mistake by explaining that he knows this because I’ve been acting a little “differently, a little off” and that usually means about 10 days til my period. One would think that but he’d be incorrect.  Yet, that person would be wrong…because my dear husband decides to share his insights with me every, single month. And, dammit all, he is right….always And, even worse, I have no idea.  At all.

There is something wrong with that, right? Something not right about me having no clear idea of my cycle, which, in my defense, has been erratic at best my whole life, and him having it timed to what seems like almost the minute. It annoys me yet captivates me all at once.  How does he do that? Am I that obvious? And, that’s when I realize…yes, apparently, yes I am. And, then I’m annoyed all over again.

Day-to-day, I am a capable, in-command woman who handles a full-time job, motherhood and a host of other important roles in life (wife, volunteer, daughter, friend, bill payer, grocery shopper, calendar commandant, and more) without issue. Yet, I seem unable to understand the nuances of my own body and personality.  And, then, I head to the bathroom unknowingly one afternoon on any given month and…surprise…it all makes perfect sense. Because, he’s right. I haven’t felt like myself. And, now, I know the reason.

I think it’s the smugness that does me in.  He’s so “in the know,” and I’m…well…just so clueless. There was a time, when we were young and trying to have children, that I would have paid money for this type of intel.  That I would have killed to know exactly 10 days before my period…the fertile time.  For some reason, he didn’t share his information then.  Yet, like clockwork, he does it now. Always somewhat too little, too late.

And, then, I wonder why? Why am I so clueless about this? It’s important to be in tune with yourself. And, I’m just not. Or, maybe I just don’t want to know. I’m betting I’m not the only one.  I know it’s taboo to admit this, and many readers will disagree with me, or say PMS is not real or hormonal ups and downs are a lame excuse for not behaving well. But, for those who recognize themselves in this…even in the slightest…what power could we harness if we had this knowledge about ourselves? Would we always be even keel? Would we always know how to buffer our ups and downs? And, as I write this, I wonder how many women have harnessed this power? How many men for that matter? How many of them are out there controlling their testosterone driven impulses and channeling them into productive activities?

Yet, as I think that through, it all sounds too neat…too together. Hormones are known to drive people together in a positive way, and push others to say things in the moment they might not say otherwise. They are the reason for procreation — new life. They do have their merits…some pretty, big meaty merits.

If you haven’t noticed, I am someone who likes a bit of control over my world. Hormonal impulses create a bit of the unexpected in my controlled life.  So, I guess I won’t hate. I’ll embrace…at least for this moment. As for my husband, maybe he’ll read this and correct his rookie behavior…because, let’s be honest, he really is taking his life in his hands each and every time he suggests I’m a little off.  I’m just saying!

 

Objects in Motion

Inertia. I learned about it in 7^th grade science, I believe.  It made perfect sense. Objects in motion stay in motion. And, for years and years, I’ve referred to it on a superficial level when I see it play out in front of me. It’s an intriguing theory and all.  But, lately, I’ve begun to understand it beyond that simple explanation.  It’s more than a ball that keeps rolling and keeps rolling until stopped.  It turns out it is a theory that can play out physically and mentally.

My first wake-up call was while running a 10K a few months ago.  It was the longest distance I’d ever run but I found myself doing it. Once I got going, I just kept going.  I had trained. I was ready and my body did the rest….that and inertia.  It became abundantly clear when at about mile 5, I slowed up for water.  The volunteers handing out the water didn’t quite have a rhythm down and I had to stop to get a cup.  I walked and drank and then, feeling pretty good, started to run…or not. I was moving and clearly thinking, “Ok…time to run that last mile,” but my legs didn’t do it. I had stopped the motion and my body decided it didn’t need to stay in motion at the speed I was willing it to go.  It took several tries. Seriously, I looked like some washed up telekinetic freak scrunching up my face, walking along and thinking “move legs, run.”  Until, slowly, very slowly they began responding and I dragged them along until I was at a jog again.  That last mile, though, was not like the first 5.  It felt terrible.  I pushed through and made it happen, but the laws of physics stood true. I should have never stopped.

You might have noticed that I haven’t posted in awhile. Same theory.  Life got crazy. I have been moving along at a clip. Doing everything that needs to be done. I swear…the last month of school for the kids is busier than even the holidays. It should be fun…end of season parties and school plays and class parties and teachers gifts and celebrations, but it’s all piled into three weeks that tend to also be busy weeks at work.  Add to that the trials of life in general…hormonal sass from my daughter, helping my son achieve nearly unachievable goals as he struggles to overcome dyslexia, and the horror and sadness of my stepfather facing into cancer yet again while my Mom tries desperately to help him overcome it…it’s not a surprise that I was moving so fast that I slowed up on the writing. I slowed up enough that the particular activity didn’t stay in motion enough to propel it forward. And, I thought, I’ll just lay my head down here and rest a bit.  Before I knew it, two months had passed.

Don’t get me wrong…it hasn’t been too much…this life of mine.  As I strongly believe and have based this entire blog on…it’s normal.  These are the things everyone faces in one way or another, and sometimes you have to slow up on one thing to manage another.  So, I slowed up on writing. For just a bit. Until today.  Today…as I sit here with a physical reminder of why it’s important to stay in motion.  That particular reminder would be a searing pain in my back…my old lady back that managed to rear its ugly head….or, in this case, its ugly herniated disc…just because I stopped.

You see, after the crazy month of May and all its school-year-ending activities, we took a family vacation to the beach. I managed a business trip the week before as the kids finished school, my husband packed us and I had less than 24 hours to get the rest of the plans together before hitting the car to drive to visit my Mom and her ailing husband and then, two days later, unload on the beach. We got there and I looked out on the ocean and thought, “I’m not moving from this spot for 6 days.”  Ironically, I really didn’t.  The first day was normal…active, but normal.  I went for a run and then walked the beach with my kids, boogie boarded in the waves with my daughter, swam with my son, built a boat out of cardboard, duct tape and Saran wrap with my family as part of a poolside activity at the resort and walked back to our condo to crash for the night.  Sounds like a lot, but this is my week to let loose and play with my kids. This is what we do at the beach each year, and I love it.  So, the next morning, as my husband and daughter set off for a bike ride, my son and I walked on the beach and then played Bocce.  Next, he wanted to build a sand castle.  That’s when it happened.  I stopped the motion.  I sat down on the sand while he brought me buckets of wet sand and water and I just leaned over and molded his creation.  He did all the work.  I just enjoyed the sun and sat mostly still.  And, when we were done, I went to get up and I was stuck.  Literally stuck.  Like an old lady in a medical alert commercial, I could not get up.  My body wouldn’t move and when it swayed even a centimeter, the pain was overwhelming. The sun was beating down, my son had no idea why I wasn’t moving on to the next thing and my husband and daughter were off on a two-hour biking trek, leaving me to figure this out on my own.

I’ll be honest, I’m not sure how I actually got up. I know it hurt…I remember the wave of nausea that accompanied the pain once I was on my feet, but I don’t remember actually standing. And, my sweet son just put his tiny arm around me as we made our way up to our chairs.  We rested there and then we made it to the pool where I could get some shade and let him play while I caught my breath and figured out how to get a call into my doctor to get pain killers sent directly to me at that pool.  Ok…it took a bit more work than that, but we found our way.   Funny thing…it didn’t ruin our vacation. I mean…if you have to be laid up, a beautiful place with an ocean view is the place to do it.  Yet, one friend said it all when, upon hearing the story, she said to me, “Only you could injure yourself while relaxing.”

I disagree…it wasn’t me. It was inertia. I stopped.  I don’t think I should have.  Or maybe the lesson is maybe I should stop more often so my mind and body know how to react to it.  Honestly, I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll take another Percoset and ponder it.  I do know this though…don’t mess with the laws of science.  I don’t care who you think you are…they win…every…last…time.  So, I sit here just waiting…waiting until I can get into motion again. And, then, who knows…I may never stop again….because…if you haven’t noticed, the juices are flowing and my normal life continues to march on which means there’s always a story to tell, my friends, always!

A Powerful Lesson – The Art of Cursing Taught by Kevin Smith

I love me a good curse word. I really do. Dropping an f-bomb or a good “GD” sometimes feels like the only way to really make your point. It’s not very ladylike, and, I know all too well the lesson I often impart to my kids…using words like that takes away your power. It makes people focus on the jarring moment that you do it instead of the point you are trying to make. Yet, it’s still one of my dirty little secrets.

The people closest to me know this. They’ve heard me just be me and use the words I love so much to make a point probably one too many times. The people at work only know because I shared my love of cursing in a team-building session one day when we had to tell the group something they didn’t know about us. “I curse like a sailor,” I said proudly. They were shocked. My boss kept remarking, “You have a really good governor on that.” Yes…yes I do…back to the life lesson I give my kids…I know it takes away any power in what I’m saying if used at the wrong moment, so I don’t use it often at work.

I guess that’s why I was taken aback at a recent event I went to. The speaker stood in front of a nearly full auditorium dropping the f-bomb and words used for the female anatomy that are typically off limits for even the most vile cursers like me. He did it so naturally that I realized it’s just worked into his daily speech like any other word, as often as “the,” “and” or “very” might be. There was rarely a sentence without one or two f-bombs used in interesting new ways as adjectives or just because. It caught me by surprise and I’m not sure why. It was within character and completely fit the audience so it wasn’t crazy or out of place, but it made me laugh. That’s not the only reason I was laughing though. The group of about 1,000 people or more around me were also pretty entertaining.

You see, my husband is a huge Kevin Smith fan. You know Kevin Smith? The director who produced Clerks, Mallrats, Chasing Amy, Dogma etc. He’s been known for 20 years as being cutting edge, irreverent and intelligent in his humor and his art. He’s the big guy also recently known for getting asked to leave a Southwest flight because he wouldn’t buy two seats, and they thought he was too large for just one. They clearly didn’t know who they were dealing with because Smith is very active in the podcast world and blogosphere right now. He launched a social media rant right there in the gate area and all got resolved pretty quickly. I’m sure that rant was laced with some great profanity…I should go back and read that!

So, anyway, Kevin Smith has made his latest movie, Red State. It’s not his normal fare. It’s a dark look at the extreme right religious evangelism out there as well as politics and shortcomings in our government. It’s gory and gross and intense. And, it doesn’t have a distributor. So, Smith himself is screening it around the country. He opens the screening with a personal introduction and closes it with a one-hour plus rambling Q&A that was interesting, thought-provoking and funny in a very relatable, non-Hollywood manner. It helped that the theatre was full of “his” people.

What do I mean by that? I mean that I’ve never seen so many heavy, tatted up, pony-tailed men in huge t-shirts and baggy shorts in one place. Not scary tatted up, pony-tailed men, but rather, the kind you used to know in college. The academic stoner type with a good serving of geek thrown in. There were many “we’re not worthy” bows going on in the audience every time Smith said…well…pretty much anything. There were many laughs with associated snorts throughout the audience. There was an abundance of mobile technology. And, of course there was a lot of whooping and hollering every time Smith used one of the more off-limit words. I have always felt comfortable in pretty much any crowd. In high school, I could hang out with the Beta Club as easily as with the Cheerleaders and find myself shooting the breeze with the stoners in the smoking lounge that afternoon without skipping a beat. But here, I felt like there was a spotlight on me pointing to the one middle-aged woman in the room who often gets mistaken for a prude. I wanted to shout, “I love to curse too! So what if I had to walk out of Chasing Amy because the sexual references became too much for me. I’m still cool. I just have my boundaries.”

But, then, among the Smith look-alikes and crowd with more greasy long hair per capita than I can do justice to in a short description, a real “moment” took place. During the Q&A, it was time for the very last question. We happened to be sitting right next to the microphone where people had lined up. And, this young guy walked up and started to ask his question. He stammered, his lisp loud and clear. He tried again and only got out a shallow groan and this: “I’m trying not to pass out here…what was my question again? Hold on…” And, this crowd of rough-looking, cursing people, many of whom literally cheered during violent scenes in the movie just minutes earlier, laughed nervously…but wait…not in an ugly way…there was some support there too. While it all happened, Smith wandered to side stage, jumped down and came directly to the guy trying to ask his question. He held his hand and said, “Don’t be nervous. We’ll do this together. What did you want to ask me?” The guy was flabbergasted but got it together and asked. Smith held his hand through the whole answer…a good 4-5 minutes and hugged him in the end. And, the crowd went wild. They were among “their” people and, like any good group, nobody disrespects one of their own.

This sweet moment was juxtaposed with the fact that as Smith and the unknown question asker held hands and swayed together during their talk, Smith used the f-bomb at least 3 times and peppered the answer with a few other choice words. Yet, there was no power lost in that moment. Just a nice thank you to those who have supported him for the past 20 years from a person who, in his words, “won the lottery and got the dream job of making pretend for his career.”

As for this woman who might wear the costume of a prude, and who attended this and other Smith movies in the past on the fringe just to support her husband’s interests, I enjoyed every minute of it. I especially enjoyed the moment when Smith admitted that he’d been “creeping out women for years” because that’s exactly how I felt until I saw him, heard him and felt a genuine decency from him. So, cursers unite…scream it from the rooftops if you need to…Shit, Damn, whatever your personal word of choice…turns out the real power is in your actions, not your words.

The Big Picture

My daughter and I have been training for a 10K together.  For true runners, that’s probably not a big deal.  But, I’m not a true runner. Up until about a year ago, I only ran if there was danger involved. But, my daughter wanted to do this. And, we had a good cause to support. So, we signed on and began training. It’s been a nice challenge…with challenge being the key word.  And, it got me thinking about all the stories I have in my head…there are a lot of them, and I’m betting I’m not the only one out there carrying stories around.

Just look at what I said earlier…I’m not a true runner.  We’re all actually able to run soon after walking. Some of us just do it more than others.  So, really, we’re all true runners. We just need to put it to use. I was thinking about that the other day as I came up on 2.5 miles of running. I have a herniated disc that has kept me from doing more than light weights, yoga and brisk walking for years. But why? When I pushed myself just a bit…first to step up my fitness program as I get older, then to meet this challenge my daughter set for us, I’ve been able to do it.

Yet, I’m still telling myself I won’t be able to run 6 whole miles in just 2 weeks.  I need to stop that…seriously.  Just one month ago, I didn’t think I could run more than 3 miles, which I did just last week after a little hard work and a little practice. Ok…a lot of practice and a lot of touchy, feel-y “self-talk.”  At least the self-talk has evolved.  A year ago, while running short 3 minute intervals, my self-talk consisted solely of “You’re not going to die. You can do this. You’re not going to die. You can do this,” said over and over in my head to drown out the huffing and puffing of my gasping breaths. Today, as I run, I’m more likely to think about the reasons why I’m running. And, only toward the end do I have to lightly remind myself, “You can do this.”  I haven’t thought of dying during running in months…throwing up, maybe, but not dying!

As I ran yesterday, I kept focusing on the reasons.  Like I said, it started as a move to be more healthy. Then, it became something I could do with my daughter. She’s nearly 13. It’s getting harder and harder to find things we can do together that don’t horrify and embarrass her. This seems to be a safe one. So, I start focusing on that…this is good for us. We’re setting good examples for each other. From there, it grows…I’m so proud of her. She’s such a hard worker and she wanted to do this. She drove the idea. Even better, she insisted we do it to raise funds for the Myotonic Dystrophy association, in honor of our baby cousin born with this terrible illness. That makes my mind wander to Baby Kate and her fight. “That’s really why I’m doing this,” I think. “For her!” I mean she doesn’t get to slow down or stop her fight when things get hard. She, at younger than 2, pushes through. And, even though she wasn’t supposed to ever walk, she pushed through enough to walk with a walker and…this week even…take steps independently. It’s incredible.

Still, my mind doesn’t settle there. I run along and realize it’s the sum of the whole. It’s all those things. It’s the big picture. It’s about pushing yourself, doing more…for many reasons…and living life. I told a friend the other day that I never say never. We were talking about the very important topic of Botox. Well…really, we were talking about getting older…a common theme with me that you may have noticed. (Don’t worry if you are getting annoyed with hearing it from me…you are not alone..I’m getting tired of the topic as well…it’s actually the only thing really getting old around here!)  Anyway, while talking with my friend. I got laughing about sitting across from a woman in a meeting the other day. She clearly Botoxes and had either just recently done it or had a Botox treatment gone bad because she was a living, breathing stereotype of every Botox joke you’ve ever heard. She was sitting there, listening to the speaker kind of drone on…no need for any facial expression, yet her face gave the appearance of someone who was startled, surprised. Her eyebrows were permanently arched up, her eyes wide. It was incredible to look at.

I sat there, not listening to the speaker drone on, but, instead, coming up with my story about her. She must think she looks great, but can’t she see what happened there? Does she realize that her need for perfection just made her look odd and a little sad? When I was recounting this to my friend on the phone, she said, “I’ve done it. I got so over being old and getting more wrinkles that I did it…Botox.  But, I panicked afterward. My one eyebrow kept rising and I couldn’t stop it. It scared me to death. My husband didn’t even notice, but I did.”  We laughed hysterically. I went on and on about how I’d seen it done well so many times, but maybe that’s what happened to this woman I was with earlier in the week. And I realized that I hadn’t really considered the big picture. I made up my story about how she was so into herself that she went overboard on the Botox. Yet, she, like me, was probably just trying to find a way to make herself feel good. She, like my friend, may have just given it a try for the hell of it and had it go a little wrong. And, most likely, she was sitting there not truly listening to the speaker drone on but wondering if anyone noticed that her eyebrows had gone insanely out of whack.

Let’s face it, that’s why I said “never say never”…because, even after that experience, I may Botox some day. I’d certainly consider non-poisonous wrinkle fillers if I had the disposable income to take it on. And, then, will people have stories about me?  I’m sure they will. And, I’m betting, like me, they wouldn’t consider the big picture…they’d be short-sighted and judgemental…just like I’m prone to be.

So, all that ran through my head as my feet pounded along on yesterday’s run trying not to notice the searing pain of a cramp in my shoulder, the lunch from 3 hours before that felt like a brick in my stomach or the gasping breaths I was taking. And then, of course, in the midst of the pain, my mind jumped to work. What big picture thoughts am I missing there?  It hit me that I like what I do but I often spend time focused on the day-to-day stories, the frustrations of daily work life, the people/personality issues, the challenges. I began wondering what makes some people at work push through more than others on those fronts, and I realized it’s that they focus on the big picture. They don’t let the small challenges or the minutes or hours get them down, they think about the ultimate goal, the real long-term benefits. For me, that’s showing my kids an example of a woman who can hold a big job and still be a caring, loving Mom who participates in their schools, their activities, their lives.  It’s showing them that work is necessary to have the things we need and a little bit extra. And, it gets me thinking about how inspiring they are each and every day as they face into life’s challenges…and they have them at nearly 8 and 13…it’s all relative…our grown up challenges exist in their world as well…just on a different level.

Before I know it, I’m right back to where I started…why I’m running.  To face into a challenge. To help my kids learn to do the same. Because they want me to. Because Baby Kate will get something out of it. And, because all these things put together make it good. The big picture is a pretty one. And, just as I think that, my iPod app calls into my earphones that I’ve reached the end of my run. It’s amazing what will get you through, huh? I’m looking forward to where today’s run takes me!

Facing Midlife

Facing Midlife

Midlife Crisis: “A period of psychological stress occurring in middle age, thought to be triggered by a physical, occupational or domestic event.”

I took a quick quiz in “Health” magazine last week while on a plane. In just 12 short, easy questions, you could determine your estimated life span.  I scored an 87.  That means, the way I’m living right now and with my family history, I’m likely to live to the age of 87.  That also means I’m just shy of hitting middle age. Because I’m neurotic or vain or whatever you’d like to call it, I’ll tell you I’m actually 6 years shy of hitting that particular middle age point.  And, because it’s true, I’ll tell you that it wasn’t a revelation.

You see…I’ve been wondering if I might be showing signs of a mid-life crisis. I mean I haven’t been considering leaving my family behind and trading them in for a hot sports car or an even hotter younger man, like the midlife crises we all think of from those movies in the ‘70’s and ‘80’s.  Ironically, the definition I found of “midlife crisis” says it originated between 1970-75.  Makes sense, huh?  I mean, when thinking about a midlife crisis, I tend to picture a guy with a mustache and thick, feathered hair driving around in a convertible corvette with a young Farrah Fawcett-type on his arm…his wife and kids wondering where he went while sitting in their brick ranch home decorated in orange, yellow and lime-green hues.

Yet, I’m feeling the pull of mid-life.  Me… a woman…living in the new millennium…a working Mom with an active, full family life.  It doesn’t mesh with the picture I have in my head…a cross between Lee Majors gone wrong, all those fathers I knew in my early teens who left their families for their younger secretaries and the guy living nearby who, just in the last 5 years, chucked it all to buy an ice cream franchise that almost immediately went under.

Somehow, that doesn’t fit for me.  What IS in my head is a question.  The question of “what exactly am I doing each day?”  I tell myself I’m making a living. I’m supporting our family and providing what we need plus a little luxury.  I remind myself how lucky I am to have reached a certain level of success in my career. And, I even enjoy that position now and again.  I mean, I have earned it. But, I wonder.  Am I the type that hangs on, stays solid, sees it through ‘til the end?  Or, am I the mid-life crisis type?  The “I’ve had enough and always wanted to be a writer, so I’m going to give it one last shot”- type?

I’m not 100% sure.  The jury is out.  I know the “running away to start a magazine column” image is a bit unseemly to me when I have two children to raise, private school tuition and college looming not far behind.  Yet, I also know that just two weeks ago I was ready to quit my job on the spot. It happened at a point when my boss was acting unruly, and I realized that pulling all-nighters for a project at work when I’m 41 years old and hold a VP title was kind of insane. I pushed through that moment, week…okay…two weeks, but it got me thinking. I felt like running.

I’ve never run before. Have you?  It’s not really me. I’m the dig in, fix it, stick-to-it person.  That’s always worked for me, but, as the definition above goes, “a period of psychological stress” can make you walk away from your normal self. Or, it can just make you re-think things a bit.

While I’ve been pondering, a movie I saw a few years ago came to mind. It was an HBO movie called Dinner with Friends. It looked at two couples who had been best friends since early in marriage and were now in midlife– Dennis Quaid and Andy MacDowell and Greg Kinnear and Toni Collette.  Kinnear’s character has a midlife crisis, and leaves his wife and family for a young secretary who “he gets aroused just looking at” in his scheezy, low-life explanation to Quaid’s character. As Quaid’s solid family man listens to this story and finds disgust in his heart when looking at his oldest/dearest friend, he tries to make him understand why it isn’t worth it. Quaid’s character talks about the life he’s built with his wife.  And, how, yes, it’s hard to raise a family, deal with work and life and stay excited in a marriage, but, when he’s feeling unfulfilled, he isn’t willing to just destroy everything. Instead, he looks for more in what he has. He points out that for an outlet, he’s started taking piano lessons.

Kinnear’s character finds this laughable…piano lessons versus the hot chick and a single life with no kids.  He doesn’t say it. He expertly implies it. I, on the other hand, the one watching that movie found it admirable and, in my gut, the right move. It spoke to me.

I think it’s important to hold on to what you’ve built. It’s important to make things work and not to buckle at the first sign of stress. So, I’m not taking up piano but I have taken up something new.  Running.  I don’t know if I really like it, but it is a challenge. And, my daughter has decided to do it with me. We’ve actually signed up to run a 10K next month and raise funds for our newest family member on our side, Kate.  Kate was born a little under two years ago with Congenital Myotonic Dystrophy, a very rare form of Muscular Dystrophy.   She wasn’t expected to develop normally, walk, talk or crawl.  She is beating the odds.  She is already walking with a walker. So, we’re running in her honor and raising funds for research of this relatively unknown disorder.

Kate may not be able to face her 40s some day and ponder whether or not she’s having a midlife crisis. I hope that’s wrong. I hope, against hope, that she can experience it. But, in the meantime, I’m making the most of mine. No sports cars here…just a huffing and puffing woman in her 40s being schooled daily by her nearly 13 year old daughter as they train for something new together.

http://www.activegiving.com/donate/bridgerunforkate

You’re Dyslexic…Let’s Celebrate!

Did you ever watch The Cosby Show back in the day?  I did…loved it!  For some reason, a couple of the episodes still run through my mind every now and again. Ironically, one of those is the episode where Theo learned he was dyslexic.  He was in college and, after always struggling, always being the cut up in class and the under achiever in the Huxtable family, a professor noticed it in him. He was tested and he came running home to his waiting parents…Claire in her smart, red power suits with beautiful hair and makeup, and Cliff – Bill Cosby – in his crazy, “artistic” (code for terribly ugly) sweaters.   Theo ran in the house, held up the paper and yelled, “I’m dyslexic!”  They cheered and hugged into a 3-person circle and danced around their super classy living room in their New York City brownstone.  It was warm and happy and funny…because even then, I knew…actually anyone watching knew…dyslexia isn’t a good thing. It was a relief just to know…to understand.

I say it’s ironic that the Theo episode is one of those that sticks in my mind because I now know exactly what that episode was dealing with.  Our youngest, my 7-year-old son, was assessed with dyslexia this year.  I picture me taking in that show nearly 25 years ago…a teenager, cozy in my family room …understanding that Theo had a breakthrough but still a little worried about him…well at least about his character.  “So, now what?” I thought to myself.

And, I bet that’s why the episode still runs in my mind.  I think to myself, “What would Theo be now…all these years later?   Would he still be the counselor he was training to be, but instead one who focused on helping people facing dyslexia?”  I could use one of those right now…for sure.

It’s an interesting disorder. My super bright child with a high IQ hid it from us and everyone else for some time. He still, in the second grade, has a reading level that’s off the charts – almost at the 6^th grade level and still counting.  And, his vocabulary is beyond our 7^th grader’s vocabulary (and she recently tested at the 13^th grade level with hers).  I have actually heard him give her definitions of word he uses in everyday speech because they are new to her. Yet, he can’t put his thoughts down on paper…writing and spelling are terribly difficult for him.  And working numbers on paper…forget it…it takes him forever.  It’s really, in the end, a processing disorder.

Fortunately for us, there are proven strategies to help these kids learn at the level of their potential.  And, one would think that those who dedicate themselves to teaching and academics for young children would be chomping at the bit to help.  Sadly, that would be wrong.   Well…not completely wrong…there are some out there who are chomping at the bit…who feel it’s important to get any child who needs extra support at school, that support.  It’s just that very few of them actually work for the public school system.   And, those who do work for that system, often come off as jaded and over-worked and just plain not able to help all those who need help.

I get it. I truly do.  We don’t pay our teachers enough for even the most basic work that they do.  I can guarantee we don’t pay the Special Ed teachers or County Support Personnel who get students into the system enough either.  And, then, we don’t as a nation, an individual state or a specific county, budget enough to provide all the services necessary to our kids…whether it’s art, music, P.E., science lab or foreign language…or, in this case, special services.  We just don’t.  We talk about it A LOT during elections but we continue to vote in the same people who don’t deliver.  And, I’ve actually fought it. Personally.  I’m not one of those people who don’t vote or don’t inform people around me of the issues. I take it seriously and have always felt that what I was doing could make a difference.  I have always believed in the public school system and volunteered my heart out for that body, knowing that, together, the staff there and I could make it great.  I believed that… until last week.

So far, this school year, my husband and I have spent 5 months which breaks down, over time, to about 60 hours or more of:

• Psychologist visits (I paid for out-of-pocket to get a diagnosis)
• School meetings with teachers, counselors, a rotating table full of County specialists, principals, vice principals, speech therapists
• Doctor’s appointments to address any potential attention issues
• Visits to private schools that focus on dyslexia
• Tours of those schools
• Immeasurable time writing emails asking for promised meetings to actually take place or searching the internet for more information about the disorder or potential schooling locations.

This week, after those 5 months, 60 hours and many, many painful meetings full of legal jargon, fake smiles and painstaking work by everyone there, my son qualified for 20 minutes a day of extra support in math and 20 minutes a day of extra support in writing, along with speech therapy one hour a week and some special modifications in the classroom like preferential seating, more time to complete work, etc.  Interestingly, he will not get those modifications for standardized testing…there, he will be left to fend for himself.  Why?  Because he’s always scored highly on them in the past…so no need…according to the system as it stands today. That, my friends, is the bewilderment of “the system.”

5 months, 60 hours and stress and hope and worry…and it came to that. But, guess what? We’re the lucky ones.  There are so many people out there who can’t make that happen. They don’t have the time or the money to take the steps we did. They don’t have friends “in the know” like we did to guide them. They don’t have the most amazing second grade teacher who ever walked the earth fighting for her student.  I feel for those people.  They won’t know…they’ll continue on, falling through the cracks and getting by…just like Theo did on the ol’ Cosby Show.  They actually may not be too bad off, but I bet they’ll always wonder why they don’t quite get it…why it’s always harder for their child.

Let me be clear. These people in the school system are not boogie-men.  They are doing the best they can with what they’ve got. It’s just dismaying. It’s just hard to watch.  It’s terrifying when you realize it’s almost all our next generation has. And, honestly, it just leaves me tired and questioning all that I’ve always supported these many years in our government and tax-paid public school system.

And, the other night, after it was all said and done and we had actually made it happen…gotten our bright little boy what he needs…I just kept hearing in my head “5 months…60 hours…and lots of work.”  I heard it in my mind, over and over. I knew I should celebrate…jump around like the Huxtables, knowing everything would be all right. But, I couldn’t. For some reason, that’s all I could focus on.

Yet, my brain took over…before I knew it, my little mantra that kept repeating in my mind morphed from my 5 month drama to something I had heard before…a song…Seasons of Love.  It goes “Five hundred twenty-five thousand Six hundred minutes, Five hundred twenty-five thousand  moments so dear.”

Before I knew it, I was singing that in my head and then out loud. Yet, I couldn’t remember where it came from.  I googled it…no luck, asked my husband…no luck.  Then, I posted on Facebook…the results came pouring in, just as our daughter heard me and said, “Mom…it’s Seasons of Love.”  In minutes she had it on You Tube…and you know what, we all, as a family, laughed, listened to it and celebrated.  We were only celebrating finding the answer. And, yes, the song is in remembrance of those lost. But, it’s a positive remembrance. It’s a bittersweet, beautiful song. And, it was perfect for how I felt. It was my Huxtable moment…because the Huxtables and The Cosby Show weren’t reality, but, in one swift moment, I found a way to make my reality feel a little more tolerable, a little more beautiful and a little more hopeful.

Check out the link if you’d like to take a moment yourself:

 

And, know that there will be a day when we all celebrate my son. We’ll be able to because of those 5 months, 60 hours and countless meetings with people who will pass from our memories but whom, this week, made a great choice for his future.

 

Knowing Where You’re Going

I have a friend who grew up in a small, rural town. When she and her friends visited anywhere new…a travelling football game, a restaurant in the nearby city…they would say to each other to “act like you’ve been somewhere.”  When she would tell me the stories, I could picture them, all awkward teen girl nervousness, putting on airs to belie their small town roots. Yet, as I get ready to head home for the holidays,  I find comfort in the exact opposite.  There’s something to be said for being with people who know exactly where you’ve come from.

This week, I’ll get together with family and friends who watched me grow up. While I haven’t lived in that city for the better part of 20 years, I’ve been fortunate to keep in touch with a close group of friends.  I’ve written about them before.  In the 4^th grade, a group of us bonded together…boys and girls…but mostly girls…and though our lives have taken us all in different directions from the time we split up to go to different high schools because of school zoning, private school choices and parents relocating for their jobs…we still have a bond.  Whenever any of us run into each other, plan a visit or attend an event together, it’s as if no time has passed.  We have all grown, married/divorced, lived very, very separate lives but, when we see each other, something kicks in.

It could be chalked up to nostalgia…and for the core group’s outlier friends…that’s much of what it is, but when you get into the 5-10 of us who stuck together all those years, it’s more. It’s an understanding of what shaped us…of what set us on the path where we’ve landed today.    Because, you know, whenever anything major takes place in my life…or even minor, like a business trip to some unexpected place…there’s still a part of me who is that silly, unsure “one normal girl” of my childhood living inside the body of “one normal woman.”

I find it funny when I come across people who pretend they are only from the place they currently live.  New Yorkers are famous for this.  I work with them daily and they harken from all over the place…Florida, Alabama, California, New Mexico, Minnesota…but, if asked, they proudly say they are New Yorkers and openly tell you they’d never claim those other places as their own.  I love that they have found their place, a place that speaks to them, but I want to say…come on, you’re still that Florida girl somewhere in there…don’t hide from that.

My sister is one of those people. She escaped to New York when she graduated high school…full of big dreams of stardom…they didn’t pan out and she didn’t live there all that long, but, even now, living in rural South Carolina, where she’s lived longer than she did in New York, she tells people she’s from the Big Apple.   Maybe it’s because that’s where she found herself….or based on her history with drugs and life crisis…lost herself. Regardless, it’s likely because it’s where she found her “group” – the people she bonded with the most in her life…the people who know what has shaped her.

I, for one, am excited to see a few of those people in my life this week.  We’ll laugh…at ourselves, our past and our current circumstances…and we’ll catch up on where we’ve all landed now, meeting the people who have become the biggest parts of our lives in this stage.  We’ll have some drinks…legally…since most of our time together might just have been spent enjoying some drinks not so legally years ago.  And, we’ll leave, if we’re lucky, feeling better for it.

I know everyone is not like me…they don’t feel a need for these connections to continue forever. They can easily let relationships come and go.  And, that’s their way.  It’s not mine though…I feel like I need to remember where I’ve been so I can know where I’m going.  With that… I’m going home for a bit…and I can’t wait!

Until…

If you saw me living day-to-day life, I’m pretty sure you’d classify me as a no-holds-barred, strong and liberal woman. I mean I grew up with a poster hanging in the laundry room in clear sight of the door I entered and exited every day from my home – it beckoned to me daily, reading: “Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a jail. Yet, until the ERA has won, we’re only out on bail.” I’d say that pretty much shaped me considering the woman who raised me…my beautiful, strong mother…is the one who hung it there.

Despite how most people would read that poster, assuming the woman who hung it was a tough-minded career woman in the 70s, it turns out that same beautiful, strong mother of mine was instead a stay-at-home Mom until I was a teenager. She cooked, kept a wonderful home, volunteered at our schools and carpooled us to tennis, drama, horseback riding, cheerleading, gymnastics and more. She even sewed many of our clothes for God’s sake. That too, shaped me. That’s my picture of a mother…a wife…a woman. And, what seems to be doing me in these days is that it’s not what I am.

When my Mom returned to work when I was a teenager, she took it on with the fervor and passion of a woman moving into the next phase of her life. That, too, shaped me. I was encouraged to be whatever I wanted to be…to reach my full potential. I was the one they expected to bring that poster’s thoughts to life…even if on that sad day in the 70s the ERA was voted down….I could still live it in spirit. I didn’t plan to get married. I didn’t plan to have kids. I was going to take on the world with a hard-core career. In my youth, it’s what I thought I wanted…until…

…Until I met the man who would become my husband…by the age of 23. I was the one who never considered marriage growing up. Yet, I was the first of my friends to get married.

…Until 5 years after our wedding my thoughts about becoming a mother changed and something inside me told me I NEEDED to do it…so at age 29, I became a mother.

…Until I realized that to be the mother I wanted to be, I needed to put my career on the back burner. I needed to read to, do crafts with, cradle and cuddle my baby all day, every day. Soon thereafter, I needed to be the pre-school room Mom and advocate for my child in elementary school and run the PTA and drive the carpool and be the Girl Scout helper and more…and more…and more.

Yet, I also needed to work for financial reasons. So, I found a way to do both. You see, growing up, I was also encouraged to know I could do it all if I wanted. And, over the past 12+ years of motherhood, that’s what I’ve tried to do…I tried to do it all…until…

…Until it didn’t work anymore. I had started a consulting business to be able to set my own work schedule. It grew, it thrived…the 70s ERA baby in me took over and wanted to make it more. And, it was. So much so that it turned into a full-time executive job within a corporation. A job with some flexibility…it allowed me to work from home and still be a part of my kids’ activities.

…Until the day it became more demanding and the day my husband lost his job, my safety net that allowed me to leave whenever I wanted to go back to my “Mom” life. And …until the fear and pressure of being the breadwinner made me question me being able to do it all…made me realize it’s pretty essential that I’m more present at work and less present at home.

So, we’re re-defining roles here. We’re very fortunate to have the choices we have. I’M very fortunate to have a husband willing to re-define his role in this new world, this bad economy and actually run the carpool and volunteer at the school and more. My kids are even more fortunate to have an open-minded, giving father who was shaped by the same type of parents when he grew up. Yet, the re-defining of roles is fighting with my core being. I was recently at a seminar for Women in Leadership, and we discussed just this…how the changing society has women doing more, owning more, yet feeling more anxiety because many of them are just like me…dueling with the traditions with which they were raised. Statistics show that mostly middle management men lost their jobs in the economic crash 2 years ago and many, many have not been able to return to work. It all rang true with me.

So, maybe that no-holds-barred liberal person people see me as isn’t so accurate, because a truly liberal person would let it go…would be open to the change…would be willing to make the full switch. Wouldn’t she?

I think she would…I think I should. I think I will. And, I know it will all be just fine. Because what I know now is I’m not just one type of person. I’m not just a stereotype…none of us are. We’re all just plugging along, finding our way and trying to find joy in all of it. It’s quite a ride though…quite a ride…because really there are no rules to life…there’s just doing the best you can with what you have and being willing to adapt…until…until it changes again.