Sleepless in the Suburbs

The thing about being a mid-life mom is that your body throws way more curves your way than your kids ever do. Just when you’ve got the parenting thing down pat, you begin to lose control of your bodily functions. Okay, I’m not using Depends yet. But when my hormones started going haywire a couple of years ago, my internal thermostat began to reset - I used to perspire; now I sweat. My moods went from even keel to completely off kilter. And I have turned into a nocturnal creature, an exhausted shell of a woman who craves sleep more than sex, food or oxygen.

If you read any books on perimenopause, you’ll see insomnia listed as one of the most common symptoms. Before you experience it for yourself, however, you may think it is easily remedied. A glass of wine. Soft music. A warm bath. How hard can it be to fall asleep? As a two year veteran of the sleepless sisterhood, I can say with some assurance that it is virtually impossible.

Let me pause here to say that it’s not that I haven’t slept at all in 24 months. Most of the time I’m so tired I fall right to sleep once I hit the pillow. I just don’t stay asleep long enough for it to matter. As if wired to some invisible, sadistic alarm, my body jolts awake without fail between 2:00 and 3:00 a.m. most every night. I don’t look at the clock anymore, but I can tell from the pitch darkness of my bedroom that it is still hours until daybreak. And then I do what millions of other hormonally challenged women do to pass the time.

I wonder if I should have bought those black pumps instead of the brown ones. I have imaginary do over conversations with people I’m still angry with. I stress about bills I haven’t paid and feel guilty about all of my parenting mistakes. I think about men I didn’t marry, vacations I never took, and as I roll over for the umpteenth time, check to see if I can pinch an inch around my mid section while making a mental note to get to the gym this week.

When I can’t sleep, I become curious about who else is up. I never actually get out of bed; it would be like admitting defeat; but if I did, I would log onto FB or head over to the open-all-night Walmart, just to reassure myself that I am not alone.

Are you in the sleepless suburban sisterhood? If you are, you will recognize others of your species by their markings. We are the women wearing layers of concealer atop our permanent undereye circles. We keep Viseen and Nodoze in our purses. We smile and nod a lot when people talk to us in an attempt to hide the fact that we have mastered the art of napping mid conversation. When we are with one another, we cluster and cluck about our mutual exhaustion, marveling at the effortless energy displayed by women half our age. When we were young, with so much yet to accomplish, we wished for more hours in a day.

Be careful what you wish for.

Watching the Second Hand

I read an article on time management recently and the author described one of the women profiled as a “full time student and full time mom.” I come from a generation of women weaned on the Helens: Reddy and Gurley Brown, which means I wholeheartedly believe a woman can do it all. But as I’ve gotten older I’ve had to concede you really can’t do or have it all at the same time. Especially not when you have kids. So while I think you can be a full time student OR a full time mom, you can't be both in a 24-hour day. In the past six weeks, I’ve learned this lesson first hand.

Since I’ve gone back to working a 40 hour week, my time and my heart are divided. I spend my days with virtual strangers with a scant three hours left over each evening to connect with my children. I can’t surprise them and swing by Baskin Robbins on the way home from school – it’s well past dinner time when we drag in each night. I can’t chauffer them to tennis or dance – my sitter does that now. I’m not even there to help with homework – they do it with teacher’s aide in the after-school homework club. I’m a full time writer. And a part time mom. And it hurts to put the words on paper.

I write because I love the written word. But I work because I prefer to write with a roof over my head. My decision to abandon the freelance life was made amid the pressure of a floundering economy and a need for two steady incomes, and I’m so thankful to be working in a field I enjoy. But at the end of the day (literally) I miss my babies.

When I had the luxury of being a full time parent and part time writer, I would sit at the park with other SAHMs and wonder aloud how working mothers did it. We, feeling stressed and harried with our carbon copy to do lists, thought we knew what it meant to be busy. Playdate. Costco. Post office. Bible study. Drive through Mickey D’s. Teacher conference. Dentist appointment. Sooooo busy. But we had our children with us, which often slowed us down, but brought with it a comfort we would not recognize until it was gone.

My son is in 5th grade and basically gets it when it comes to the economy and the reason mommy went back to work. He was doing pretty well with it too, until he realized I don't get off work in summer just because school is out. His dreams of lying around the house for three months are being replaced with long days at summer camp. My first grader remains somewhat clueless, but will surely ask why mommy isn’t driving on the next field trip. My response to these disappointments is tempered; I don’t want them to see how much more it disappoints me.

There are parenting theories about time, quality versus quantity. Having been on both sides of the debate, I’ve concluded that when it comes to being a mom, there is no quality or quantity; there is simply time. 24 hours in a day of your son or daughter’s childhood that slips by in a blink. For the working mother, that time becomes achingly precious. As I drop them off each morning, their small silhouettes diminishing too quickly in my rear view mirror, I tell myself I am doing the right thing. And then I will myself to keep driving, counting the hours until I see them again.

The One That Got Away

I am officially hooked on FB and have re-connected with various BFFs from my past life. It’s fun and funny, and strangely empowering. You get that “fifteen minutes of fame” rush every time you make a mundane comment and half a dozen people weigh in on it. Suddenly, you’re the EF Hutton of cyberspace. My issue is that unlike many who have connected with old flames via social networking, I have not found a single former squeeze. I recently posted my frustration on my wall – I mean, where are these guys?

Last summer I attended my 30-year high school reunion and had an absolute blast. There’s a certain comfort level that comes with age – you no longer have to prove anything and can just relax and enjoy catching up with people who were largely responsible for the person you’ve become. I laughed and shared family pics with friends who knew me when – but every now and then I found myself looking over my shoulder for a face I’m not sure I’d recognize. In my mind and in my heart, he’s frozen in time, forever 19 and the one that got away.

Almost everyone has someone who haunts the high school hallways of their past. It could be an unrequited love, a first crush, love or heartbreak. Mine was most if not all of those – a boy who stole my innocence and my trust, so much so that over 30 years later I ponder the question “What if?”

Let me pause here to say I love my husband. Really. My online search has nothing to do with wanting to reignite some fantasy old flame; that would truly be a bridge to nowhere. No, it’s more about trying to understand the real nature of love and its ability to linger long after a relationship dies. And it’s a desire to merge fantasy with reality; because this boy in my memory is not 19. He’s nearly 51, his lean teenage body undoubtedly gone soft around the middle, the hair I tangled my fingers through grown thin and frosted with gray. He is married or divorced. He is a father, possibly a grandfather. Like me, he’s celebrated successes and setbacks. And I realize (though I find it hard to believe) he may not even remember me.

The lesson here, if you believe things happen or don’t for a reason, is that some things from your past are better left to memory.

I’ll let you know if I find him.

Cougar Country

Some of you have complained about my lack of entries of late. Truth be told, the freelance writing biz put a squeeze on the budget and I’m back in the working mom world at a 9-to-5. Which leaves precious little time for blogging...but here we go.

I was minding my business at Trader Joe’s when a young male clerk started chatting me up. Since everyone at Traders is clearly delighted to be working there and usually chats everybody up, I thought nothing of it. But as I gathered my bags full of nitrate-free turkey bacon and two buck chuck, the following comment from a fellow TJ’s employee rang loudly in my ears: “Joey sure likes the cougars!”

I paused. I turned. I pretended not to hear the good natured laughter aimed at Joey, and I presumed, me. As I left the store I honestly could not decide whether I was flattered, insulted, or both. For those of you not up to speed on the new definition of another word for a California mountain lion, a cougar is a “Hot, 40-something female on the prowl for younger men.”

Hot? Me?? I clean up pretty good but that particular day I was looking anything but hot or on the prowl. Still, I have to admit as I pondered the incident and relayed it to my amused 50-something husband, I was at least flattered to be noticed. As a mom, I don’t often feel especially sexy, so being singled out by a man half my age gave my ego a much needed boost. But here’s the rub: I’m not sure sexy is the look I’m aiming for at 48 ½.

Let’s consider Cloris Leachman. I don’t watch Dancing With the Stars, but I know millions of people saw her shimmy and shake her bodacious 82-year old ta-ta’s in the faces of a nearly speechless panel of judges for several weeks before she was booted off. And while she garnered a fair amount of praise for her hutszpa, I’m not aspiring to be an octogenarian who looks good enough to dance on reality TV. Is being Botox-ed, artificially bronzed and harnessed into a Miracle Bra what passes for aging gracefully these days?

I started working out with a trainer last week. Spending eight hour days in a cubicle does nothing for a girl’s rear view, and I’m not willing to concede defeat to middle age spread just yet. So I’m on the elliptical machine and upon learning my age, my trainer, this muscle-bound boy of about 22 exclaims “Wow – you look good!” A few minutes later as I was laboring over crunches he pronounced, “Just think, you’re gonna be a smokin’ hot grandma!”

Uh-huh. If you’re like me the terms “smokin hot” and “grandma” used together creep you out. Because where I come from, grandmas wear house dresses and support hose and offer the plush comfort of a soft lap (not rock hard abs) to sink into. So I guess what I need to figure out is what aging gracefully means for me. I’m not planning to let myself go (hey, I am working out with a trainer). But I don’t want to become so obsessed with looking young that I end up being one of those women who makes heads turn for all the wrong reasons – face lift gone bad, boob job gone south.

For now, I’ll content myself with enticing my unsuspecting prey in the organic vegetable isle at Trader Joe’s. After all, I’m not a grandma yet.

Can I have chips with that?

Apparently I’m part of what they call the sandwich generation, which Wikipedia defines as a group of people (mostly women) who simultaneously care for their aging parents and young children. Turns out Merriam-Webster officially added the term to its dictionary in July 2006, nearly six months after I learned that my dad had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. At the time, I was juggling the stresses of a full-time job, catering to the needs of a first grader and pre-schooler, and managing an occasional hook-up with my husband who was in grad school. Clearly, I didn’t have the time or energy to expand my parenting responsibilities, but as an only child, the as-yet-to-be-fully-defined duty rested squarely on my already slumping shoulders.

My first task was to relocate my parents closer to me, which required moving them out of the house they’d lived in for 50-plus years, the place I still thought of as “home.” We made the move quickly, intensely conscious of the sand seeping out of the hour glass of my dad’s memory; the sooner he changed environments, the less traumatic things would be. Thankfully, the move went smoothly. Mom and Dad settled nicely into their new community and made fast friends with their 55 and over neighbors. Having them nearby meant my kids were able to spend more time with their grandparents and I was feeling like the whole thing was no big deal after all. That’s when reality set in.

My mother and father cannot drive. Dad lost his license with his diagnoses and mom never learned, having come from a generation of women who derived security from their dependence on a man. Which means that, as is the case with my children, routine trips to doctors, dentists, grocery stores, haircuts, etc. require that someone eek out time from their already jam-packed schedule to accommodate. That someone is me. I learned pretty quickly that seniors need to see their doctors and dentists a lot. Because if a bridge can break once, it can break at least three times. A routine cold can turn quickly into bronchitis. When you are over 80 a prescription refill requires an office visit. And those are the needs. The wants like manicures, salon visits and a simple trip to Tar-Jaay all take time I do not have, pushing back deadlines I will not meet.

I am not whining (although I have on occasion). Mostly I am thankful for the slow progression of a disease that plays by no predictable rules. And I am thankful that I have a loving relationship with my parents that makes caring for them more privilege than obligation. But I would be lying if I didn’t say there are days I feel stretched thinner than the cellophane on the leftovers I will heat again for dinner tonight. There are times when I audibly sign when I see my mother’s caller ID on the phone, wondering what need she has that will once again throw the details of my day planner into a tailspin.

People a lot smarter than me figured out a long time ago that you really can’t do it all. But the truth is, I find myself sandwiched between the important and the urgent on almost a daily basis, unable to address one and leave the other undone. I’m no martyr. Many, even some of you reading this have it tougher than me. I’m just a mother and a daughter parenting from a double-duty position best described as a rock and a hard place. It’s where you can supposedly find out what you’re made of. I’m thinking turkey and Swiss on wheat. Gotta keep my strength up.

Comment on this Blog- do you or someone you know parent your elderly parents? What do you find most challenging? Most rewarding?

The Changeling

The dictionary defines a changeling as a strange child left by fairies in place of your real bundle of joy. This fable confirms what I’ve been suspecting for weeks. The boy in my son’s bed wearing my son’s pajamas is not really my son. Oh he looks just like him. And if I bury my nose in the crown of his head and inhale deeply, there’s that singular smell that is his alone, a scent that can still make my knees buckle with maternal love. But I am not fooled. These fairies are good at what they do.

I found his yearbook on the table and flipped through it. Not much to see or even read; he’s only in fifth grade. Suddenly a page gave me pause. There in the middle of the 4th grade class photo in his still childish scrawl was one word written beneath a picture of an unsuspecting nine-year old girl. “Hottie.”

First I am stunned that he knows this term and how to use it. Next I look closer to see what kind of taste he has (oh come on, so would you). Then I laugh and ponder what to do with this newfound information. Blackmail opportunities abound and he will be mortified if he knows I’ve seen this. I store this information to use at an opportune time.

Then I wonder. Who is this boy with shadows of manhood dusting his upper lip and body? I’m alarmed at his need for deodorant and the way his size S/M boxers have begun “tenting up” unexpectedly when he’s feeling restless, agitated or anxious. But what gives the imposter away is all in the eyes. My son, my first born, even when he didn’t get his way always had a softness in his eyes I could connect with. He hated to think he might have done something to disappoint me. But this child in front of me now manages a steady gaze full of barely concealed defiance. He does not back down or look away when I rebuke him. And dare I say there’s a hint of mockery in his expression too – the realization (so soon!) that mom does not know everything.

I don’t like the word “tween” because I know that it is merely a marketing term invented to help retailers push tons of useless products on a completely fabricated demographic. Eight to twelve-year olds do not need starter phones, laptops with training wheels or anything at all that sports a picture of the Jonas Brothers. If you get sucked into that you will soon be running an eBay store trying to sell all the techie toys your kid just had to have but has now outgrown. Which is why my son (in his assessment) is the lone child in his peer group who does not have his own calling plan, email address or My Space page. Most of my reasoning on this is simple: I will not waste money on things he does not need. The underlying reasons are more complex; I don’t want him to grow up.

My daughter, who is six, has a deep conviction that she is the boss of everybody. Actually, as a little African American girl in a sea of white kids at our local private school, she delighted going to school on November 5 and telling anyone who would listen that Obama was now the boss of everybody. But that may be another blog. The point is she’s got the “girl’s rule” thing down pat. And I’m O.K. with that. I figured we’d face the mother/daughter battle of the wills eventually. But my boy, now that’s another story. He’s my baby, my pie, my cub, my man child. And already he is slipping away. A friend whose sons are grown and gone recently said to me “They weigh on your lap for such a short time, but they weigh on your heart forever.”

Tonight my son told me that money makes the world go around. He was feeling flush with cash, having just gotten a ten from his grandma. I chuckled when he said it and replied, “Well I’m glad you’ve got the world figured out. Who told you that anyhow?” “Mr. Koo-rabs” he said with authority. I racked my brain for a moment – PE teacher? Playground Aid? “Who is Mr. Koo-rabs?” I asked as I walked right into it because it dawned on me in the instant he rolled his eyes and said, “You know. Mr. Crabs. On Sponge Bob!” I smiled, relieved, at least for the moment and nodded, “That’s my boy.”

Parenting is not a competitive sport

I have a friend who makes every mom I know, myself included, look like a slacker. She has five children under the age of 12. She’s always dressed to the nines as if she walked right out of Ann Taylor. She got her MBA last year when her youngest was not yet two. This year she successfully ran for City Council. She’s also gorgeous, smart and funny. Oh, and her size two jeans are a little loose right now so she’s been hitting the drive through at In ‘N Out to see if she can pack on a few pounds. Just being around her should make me feel like staying in bed. But strangely, it has the opposite affect. I find myself energized, inspired and motivated in her company. It’s not that I want to be her or even be like her. It’s just that her competence seems catching.

I spent much of young life competing with other women. Competing for boys and later for men. Vying for attention from professors and bosses. Angling for position, especially in those dangerous Bermuda Triangles otherwise known as three-way female friendships. You know the drill: two little girls can be the best of friends but add a third to the mix and somebody’s going to get her feelings hurt. I’m sure that’s why Carrie had Charlotte, Miranda and Samantha in her posse; the odds of the whole group turning on her diminished significantly with a fourth wheel.

Thankfully, sometime in my mid forties I seemed to turn an emotional corner and checked that competitive gene at the door, casting it off like a wardrobe pick from Forever 21 that just didn’t fit who I was any longer. I don’t want to one-up other women. I want to celebrate their accomplishments and delight in their successes. But to be honest, I don’t always feel sincerely excited when they brag on their kids.

I hate those bumper stickers that shout out how your kid is an honor student at yada yada elementary school. It always begs the question, “Who gives a you-know-what?” It’s like those holiday letters that shamelessly boast how little Amanda just won the Pulitzer Prize, and Sammy, who is 11, was just accepted to Harvard. While I take any overt bragging with a grain of salt, there’s still something inside me that knots up when I hear parents gush openly about their children’s accomplishments. There’s an element of throwing down the gauntlet involved; as a mother, you’re chomping at the bit to shout “Oh yeah! Well let me tell you about MY kids.” But honestly, you don’t want to go there. Plus, if your kids are anything like mine, amazing in my adoring eyes but on the whole, pretty average, what are you going to say? “Michael got a B- on his book report – which was great because I only helped him with about 90% of it.” Or “Abby finished her science project at 10:30 the night before it was due. So proud.”

My son was a late talker. Looking back he was perfectly normal. But as a first time mom I remember feeling panicked about his development, especially when we’d go to the park and other mom’s would begin the “So, what is your baby doing now” discussions. Truth is, so much of how your children develop and turn out has little to do with you. But even as I said that I know you don’t believe it. Deep down, you think like me that if you just read to them more, cut off the cable, shop organic, recycle, maybe then you would feel proud – not of them but of yourself.

My close friends and I often swap stories from the frontlines of parenting. It’s that self effacing kind of talk that makes everybody relax and feel better. If my girlfriend’s kid is having trouble in school, it evens the playing field and allows me to share what I’m losing sleep over these days. It also provides a platform of trust so that when we go on to share our children’s successes, there’s a “we’re in this together” camaraderie that makes it easy to be happy for one another.

I’m having lunch with my size-two, city council member, MBA-holding, mother-of-five friend this week. I’ll dress up; partly because I know she will. I’ll also anticipate the easy laughter, the “if she can do it I can do it” feeling that comes from being around someone who is living to make a difference. Then I’ll pick up my kids from school, help my son with his math homework and read Junie B. Jones with my daughter, and remind myself that I am making a difference too.