Year: 2015 (Page 3 of 10)

“I am old, Gandalf. I don’t look it, but I am beginning to feel it in my heart of hearts. Well-preserved indeed! Why, I feel all thin, sort of stretched, if you know what I mean: like butter that has been scraped over too much bread. That can’t be right. I need a change, or something.”  –JRR Tolkien

Some days, I don’t need a mirror to tell me I’m not 32. Or 42. I feel all of 52 and 7 months, at least. Not old exactly, just older.

Some days, I don’t have the energy for all the things I want or need to do; my mind spins down instead of up, losing ideas faster than I can come up with them.

Some days, everything seems like too much.

Those days, I feel achy and saggy and slow. The dog bouncing around the house, so damn excited about everything, annoys me.

It’s hard, on those days, to come up with a happy, perky way to wrap up my tales of life and family with a platitude and a bow. Some days the only lesson my stories tell is that life is messy and hard and the grass isn’t green over the fence either.

Maybe those are the most honest days. Honest is good, but that honest makes me tired and sad. There is an honest that motivates and encourages;  happy bow-tied stories are true sometimes, too. I need the low honest to make the high honest real; one without the other has a hollow sound.

Those low-honest days are the days I think it’s best not to make big decisions, take on large new tasks or get into emotional discussions–the high honest is better for those activities.

What is this low honest good for?

It’s excellent for developing humility and a sense of one’s own mortality. It’s good for dog-walking, just to get him to stop bringing me his ball and barking at squirrels. Staring out the window with a  cup of tea suits this type of honest.

It’s good for making me listen, for quieting the barrage of words and for letting my mind rest. Stillness. Breathing. The turbulence stops and the thoughts settle down, like gust-twirled leaves heaped in a corner when the wind stops.

I started planning it out in the shower this morning. There was a three-hour training to be a writing coach for Berkeley High at noon, and I could imagine the setting.

I got ready. Not too much makeup, check. Birkenstocks, check. Organic apples, PB&J sandwich and a handful of walnuts for lunch, check. Bottle of homemade kombucha, no–doin’ too much; bottle of tap water, check. But those aren’t the things I was really thinking about.

These events usually start with some sort of indroduction, going around the room giving our names and occupations. That’s what was bothering me. What will I tell them I do? Do I say I’m a stay-at-home mom? That opens up the inevitable questions about how many and how old, which leads to the fact that my youngest is 16 and the only one still at home.

I’m a stay-at-home mom. That title has been cause for pride at times, embarrassment, or sometimes judgement–of me or by me.  It’s my career, but it’s not really a job. There are no specific hours, there is no pay.  It’s what I do, but I wouldn’t be considered a professional.

I hadn’t figured out any great new way to make Career Mom sound like a high-powered occupation by the time I arrived at the training–remember the days when people claimed to be “Domestic Engineers?”–so I pushed the nagging sense of unease out of my mind. I was relieved when the facilitator said there were too many people at the training and we didn’t have time to go around and introduce ourselves. Awkward moment averted.

The odd thing is, for the most part, people are supportive when I tell them what I do, or they don’t seem to notice because they’re busy telling me about what they do. The problem is with me. It’s not that I’m unhappy with my choice. This career has been  varied and challenging and rewarding, stretching me to grow and learn all the time; it’s a great job.

I’m content until the spot light shines on me and I feel like I’m being asked to justify myself, to prove that I’m really doing something more than hanging out and eating bon-bons; I feel like I need to prove that I’m more than just a mom.

The training started out slowly, but soon I was completely engaged, excited about the ways I could make a difference in the lives of high school students by listening to their stories and helping them find their voice and express their perspective on the world. I have time to do two shifts, I thought, mentally reviewing my schedule.

It was so engaging because this work is getting to the core what is really important to me.  Too often, I forget that what I do is not the same as who I am, and it is not a good measure of my worth.  I was reminded that I don’t need a title to protect me from others’ opinions of me. If I’m just putting on a mask of a person I think people will be impressed with, there is not real connection. I want to be open and honest, building real relationships.

Not much make-up, birkenstocks, kombucha?  That’s me. High powered career? That’s not me, but I’m starting to find my voice. Finding our voices and telling our stories connects us to each other in an authentic way. I really don’t want any other kind of connection.

Every once in a while, I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror or in a picture and I’m surprised. What happened? How is that me? Those candid shots and side views don’t line up with my mental picture of myself.

I see myself when I’m washing my face or brushing my hair in the bathroom, or when I’m deciding what to wear in my bedroom mirror. When I’m focusing on a specific detail or task, I recognize that part of me, but the whole person that I see in a reflection or photo sometimes isn’t the woman I feel like I am.

My mental image of myself is around the age of 32. Busy with children and school and meals and managing the household, I am young, strong and capable in my very active daily routine of chasing, pushing, lifting and holding my family’s world together.

I recognize the basic features of the woman I see as I pass a mirror in a store, or in the background of a candid photo, but she is softer and grayer and, let’s be honest, older. Lines around my mouth and bags under my eyes, rolls here and there, a touch of boring utility where I Imagined there was style. I’m not being hard on myself; I’m just startled by the change.

My mind hasn’t fully marked the passing of those 20 years between my image of myself and who I am now. It’s not just my looks that surprise me. My running internal clock and to-do list hasn’t quite caught up either.

Instead of organizing my day around my own tasks, I find myself thinking of where I need to be and what I need to do for my family. Some sort of alarm goes off in my head at the end of the school day; three-thirty feels like a shift change to me, and I find myself planning my day around it, even though no one needs me to pick them up or greet them at the door with a snack. Another alarm goes off around five-thirty, reminding me to get dinner started, even when I’ve already planned to heat up leftovers for our small household.

It’s not that I don’t want to be me in real time. I love the freedom I have, and the ability to pursue my own interests. I’m happy with the directions my children have taken; I love the people they are becoming. They don’t need a doting caretaker, or an overseeing manager anymore (except for the one at home–yes, I am still doting and tracking on you, my dear).

So how does a career mom adjust to this new life? I’ve had friends sit me down, concerned for my well-being when life as I know it ends, when my long-full nest is empty and lonely. It’s been in the back of my mind for a while–as I sent each one off, I imagined the inevitable, that the last one would leave as surely as the others had.

It’s a cumulative sadness leading up to the great, final heartache of not having any babies at home anymore. I have been anticipating the great grief that will descend on me when my last child leaves home. My husband and I have talked about taking a big trip, perhaps around the entire world, to distract me from my sorrow.

The end is coming, but as it closes in, it looks different than I imagined it would. My mind is a little behind, but my heart seems to know the truth. This change is looking more like a beginning than an end. I see a new aspect of my mothering coming into view, and it’s the older, grayer, rounder me that gets to do it. My children still need me–as an advisor and companion in projects or challenges–and in ways that I have yet to discover. That young woman lingering around the edges of my consciousness wouldn’t be able to handle it.

There is so much that I loved about my active-duty mothering in my children’s growing up years, and I am nostalgic about those sweet days. But the sadness that I feared would grow and threaten to flatten me has a more substantial and bold me to contend with now. I don’t have time to sit and cry, I’ve got new ideas and plans–some that revolve around my grown-up babies and some that don’t–so I’ll have to keep moving, even when the tears come.

My tears do come, but not just from a feeling of desolation and loss; they also come from deep joy and gratitude for the adventure of this life. It keeps surprising me.

(Note to the one at home: I may not be home after school, but get started on your homework and I’ll be there soon. xoxo Mom)

I wasn’t much of a cook when I first set up my own kitchen. I came from a home that valued meal time; we usually ate a home-cooked dinner together. I appreciated our times together around the table, but I never had much to do with the preparation. My mother did all the cooking for us. I was busy with friends and school, so I usually just showed up and sat down to eat when dinner was ready.

When I got married, I only had three or four meals I felt confident making. I needed some inspiration. I started with my box of hand-written recipe cards that I had gathered from my mother, grandmother and friends. Next, I turned to the cookbooks I received as wedding gifts; these became my tutors for learning to cook new meals.

I enjoyed reading cookbooks, trying new things, planning out what we would eat. I started with titles like “Cooking for Two” and “Quick Meals with Fresh Foods” and as our family grew, I gravitated to “More with Less” and “Family Crock Pot Meals.” I liked homey, comfort food recipes; the traditional, wholesome dishes that were filling and economical. I loved having the family together eating.

With each addition to our family, the amount of food I made increased a little, and by the time our sixth baby was born, I was cooking for a crowd. I doubled or tripled every recipe, brought home gallons and dozens of everything, and purchased in bulk. We had a large freezer in the basement, and meat was delivered every four months in mind-boggling quantities. During the summer, I canned fruits and vegetables, pickles, jam and salsa to fill my pantry. Every week, I would make six loaves of whole-wheat bread for lunches, and often bake quadruple batches of cookies.

Planning, shopping, baking, preparing, serving and cleaning up meals–including bag lunches and snacks–was a huge job. My kids liked to help, and most nights someone else took care of the dishes. We had a busy, messy, warm and fun kitchen. We ate at a long table with benches, every space filled at most meals.

It was a tangible, measurable way to love my family. I could fill them up and they were happy and content.

After hitting peak demand sometime between 2006 and 2009, my kitchen began to slow down. Holiday meals brought the big numbers, but everyday meals started to shrink, and the table was not so crowded. I gradually started to cut back. We didn’t need two pounds of pasta or hamburger, one was enough. Recipes didn’t need to be doubled. Bulk shopping became more of a storage problem and less of a convenience.

These days, with just three of us at home, it’s a much quieter kitchen. I’m cooking smaller quantities, simpler fare, and recipes found in last-minute searches on the internet for something quick and easy. As the demand has slowed, I have started to run low on creative culinary energy. A few years ago, I subscribed to a service that sends me a menu for the week, complete with recipes and shopping list. It doesn’t take much time to print it out, pick up the ingredients and throw together good meals on the nights we are home.

Sometimes it’s back to just my husband and I again, when our last nestling has other plans. When it’s just us two, it almost doesn’t seem worth it to make a full meal, set the table and light the candles. Sometimes we even eat in front of the TV when the Warriors or the A’s are winning. I’m trying to remember the days when just the two of us was the norm. Not having to make large, affordable meals may open up new foodie adventures for us.

I’m adjusting again, but I miss being able to literally fill my kids up with love. I treasure the times they are home and my kitchen gets busy again.