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If My Life Had a Sitcom Title it Would Be “Pushing Fifty and a Stroller”

The other day while we waited to be called for brunch, the overly cheerful hostess said, “I have a granddaughter that age, too!” There’s only one problem. My baby isn’t my granddaughter. She’s my daughter.

I’m old. And I have a baby. I’m an old new mom. But this isn’t my first rodeo. I had my first son at 33, and my second son at 39. I thought I was an old new mom then, but the universe said, “Ha! You think you’re tired now?” I was 47 when I had my daughter. Tired doesn’t even begin to describe what those first few months were like. There was a brief window of time when I was post-natal, perimenopausal, lactating and menstruating all at once.

That deserves repeating. Post-natal (hormone frenzy), perimenopausal (hormone frenzy), lactating (hormobaby-facene frenzy) and menstruating (hormone frenzy) all at the same time. People think I deserve some kind of medal for living through this without killing my husband, and maybe I do. But let’s consider my husband for a minute. He was living with a woman who was post-natal, perimenopausal, lactating and menstruating all at the same time. I’m pretty sure he deserves the medal.

I’m a much different mom now than when I became one at 33. I’m much more laissez-faire about the whole thing. Chicken nuggets for breakfast? Sure, why not. No bath tonight? Fine, more time to catch up on This is Us. Fell asleep in your clothes again? Great, that will save us time in the morning. At this point I’ve learned what the important things are and what’s not worth sweating. That, and I’m inherently lazy.

Back when I was a first-time mom I needed to be a good mom, whatever that meant. (I let go of that now.) With my oldest son, I was always present. I never checked out mentally when he talked or pretended to be working while actually playing Bubble Mania on my phone. I looked at every ingredient on everything I bought at the grocery store. I read to him. We co-slept. I took him to the park, museums, story time, art time, library time, mommy-and-me, Gymboree, My Gym, bouncy castles, carnivals, play lands, etc. I read parenting books. When he was diagnosed on the spectrum I advocated at his IEPs for the maximum amount of intervention.

He flourished and I thought it was because I did everything right. Then just before he turned ten he was diagnosed with an incurable brain tumor and only had a few months to live. I bring this up not for sympathy or shock value, but to show that nothing sculpts motherhood into something unrecognizable like losing the baby that made you a mommy. I changed drastically after losing my oldest son, and not for the better. I no longer care if I do everything right. These days I feel accomplished if I can do anything right.dragonfly-friends

My middle son describes me as badass, mysterious and loving. But if I’m so mysterious then how come he can figure me out so easily? I used to think I was relaxed and sincere. An old friend once described me as down-to-earth, which I immediately confused with back-to-nature and argued that I did in fact wear deodorant.

This blog will be a lot of things because, well, I’m a lot of things. We all are. We are normal and boring and unusual and interesting all at once. I’ve experienced great heartbreak and tremendous joy. I can see the forest and the trees and both have their own beauty.

So join me — or not. It’s up to you. My blog may have a cute sit-commy title but life isn’t all set up and punch line. Whose life comes with a laughtrack anyway? Nobody I know.

 

Growing Pains

Yesterday you held my hand, now you hold your phone.

You drew me pictures, now you send emojis. You never left my side, now you rarely leave your room. You wore clothes with characters, now you wear labels. You played make-believe, now you play Fortnite. You checked for loose teeth, now you check Snapchat. You hid from thunder, now you barely shudder.

Yesterday I was your world, now the world is yours.

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Places Where I’m Unreasonably Optimistic

  1. The travel-size section at Walgreens (I’m taking all the cute minis on my trip)
  2. The exercise aisle at Five Below (I’d exercise if I had a new yoga mat…and block…and pedometer…and)
  3. The produce section at Costco (I’m only eating salad from now on)
  4. The Container Store (Gonna organize everything)
  5. Barnes & Noble (I’ll make time to read a whole book)
  6. REI (Sleeping outside looks fun)
  7. Any hotel gym (I’m totally gonna treadmill on vaycay)
  8. The Great Escape (We need a pool, right?)
  9. Any craft store (I’ll make this…and this…and)
  10. Home Depot (Let’s play in all the fake kitchens)
  11. The boat show (I could get used to this)
  12. An open house (Ooh, nice trafalet)
  13. A buffet (I can try whatever I want)
  14. The Kwik-Mart (My Powerball ticket is the winner)
  15. Parking garages (I always get a good spot)

Why Does Mommy Swear?

boy-scared-faceYou can hear it in the air. You can hear it everywhere. Does she even care? Why does Mommy swear?

She swears at other drivers. She swears at rude connivers. She swears at messy spills. Is this how she gets her thrills?

She swears when she is late and she cannot find her keys. She swears when she is busy and must stop to take a pee.

She does it when she cooks. She does it when she cleans. She doesn’t try to hide it and she isn’t being mean. She sometimes swears a little, but usually swears more. She even says words that I never heard before.

Is it because she’s tired and always feels a bit perturbed? Or maybe that her hands are too full to flip the bird?

Why Mommy swears a lot is a mystery, you see. She seems to swear at everything, but she never swears at me.

To The Nice Lady on Michigan Avenue Who Told Me I Was A Good Mom

I’m tired. It’s a tiredness born from from stress.

A week ago I had reconstruction surgery on my breasts after having a mastectomy last March to rid me of breast cancer. Everything went well, there were no surprises, and I consider myself lucky. I had my follow up appointment with the plastic surgeon, who seemed pleased with his work. I’m still sore, swollen and bruised, so it’s hard for me to agree at this point, but we’ll see.

I brought my little girl along for the two hour trek into the city. She was perfect at the plastic surgeon’s office, wonderful at The Museum of Contemporary Art, adorable at the playground. But…The Disney Store was one outing too much and her meltdown ensued right there on Michigan Avenue. I pleaded, “I can’t carry you because of my boo – boo.”

And that’s when you appeared.

You were older, maybe 70, and very nicely dressed. You told my daughter you loved her sparkly Hello Kitty boots and pink baret. You said they were nicer than any shoes you had. My daughter hid behind me and didn’t talk. You smiled at us. Then your expression turned serious and you said. “You’re doing a good job.”

And then you were gone.

You have no idea what that meant to me at that moment. Your affirmation made my day, and this was no normal day — It was a day I cleared a major medical hurdle. But at that moment you spoke directly to the heart of who I am. You somehow knew what I needed to hear.

And I thank you.