Knock knock

It is not often in life that we are given the gift of a second chance in life. 

I get that sounds dramatic. I like a little drama. Not too much, but a little bit. 

For the last seven months I have been considering that statement. Some of those days it was overwhelming. Paralyzing, even. And I shut it down, refusing to hear it, look at it, think about it. 

But as time goes on, and I heal from my old life - a terrible work life that bled into all other life forms - my choices - good or bad, good and bad, I feel less afraid of the second chance. Less. 

I am tentatively curious. What could this mean? What could it mean to everything? Too much...what could it mean to today? Tomorrow?

My husband waits and watches to see what I do. 

I wait to see when I will shrug off the remaining guilt, the paralysis of the last five years. 

He says it's time to let it go. Stop being so introspective already and let it go. 

Let go of shitty and stuck. Because you're not. 

Let go of things that bound you to a life that is no longer yours. 

Ghosts of fear, anger, resentment, hate, yes, hate. In the last year I spent a lot of time with that word - a terrible tasting word, on my tongue. It infected my other words, and settled in my mouth like a toothache, but one unable be brushed or flossed or hell, drilled out of your mouth. I know, I tried. 

Time is the only salve, and God knows, it takes its time. 

More than losing - losing? my business. Lose. Walk away. Give away. Trade away. Escape. 

Which is it? 

Depends on the day. Or hour. Minute. Moment. I have needed time to heal from that too, and I've been taking it. I've been given it. Give and take give and take. 

When I used to sit in Wendy's office, (my beloved therapist of my early twenties) perched in some tall office building on 57th St, I had this concept of myself as being special. I felt it. It was magical, hard to explain but very real. 

As my situation worsened, that idea went away. But the memory of it did not. 

And lately I think - is it coming back? Or what is that - some twinge of something good and hopeful. Words and ideas knock knock knocking to be let out out of my introspective brain, out of my on-the-mend broken heart. Could I/it be coming back? I hope but I can't dwell on what it could mean. 

Not yet. 

For now I blow on the embers and pray for fire. 

Tiempo y espacio. My go to reflection from my recent trip to Spain. 

Also it sounds better in Spanish - more dramatic. 

Time and space. Luxuries not afforded to many. I get that. 

I also know that without them I wouldn't be healing. 

And I am. 

-----------

I am who I am.

I write that reality. 

And when I fail, I fail spectacularly. 

Catch and Release

Navigating girls as they go through the rough waters of adolescence may be the toughest job we have as moms. 

It is for me. 

I am reminded of this daily as I struggle to keep my darling daughter on course. She is my biggest challenge, a true dichotomy - girl and woman at once. It is as if she has only just been born, just emerged from her shell, glowing and glorious like Botticelli's Venus, and then in a moment, I must carry her, for her weak and untested legs reduce her a baby again. 

It is this that makes mothering a tween so so hard. Independence. Need. No. Yes. Mom. Alone. It is a dicey game of catch and release. Stay. Go. Show me the way. Go away. Know. 

Eleven has proven to be our most trying age. For a mom and daughter who locked eyes only moments after she entered this world - and have been steeped in love ever since, eleven threatens to make us strangers. Minute to minute, that is how I track our progress these days. Minute one she is doey eyed and emanating love. Mom, I love you! And two, her sharp edged tongue wounds and forces her retreat inside a mind that moves so fast I must watch from the sidelines. 

She is two sides of a coin. I see her growing - and measuring her space, flexing, reaching. She cringes as she responds to this world of women judged so often by exteriors. She recoils when I try to reason why and judges me harshly for allowing that absurd reality into our safe and virginal eleven-ness. All while the hallmarks of puberty have their way with her. She begs for a phone - and I fiercely protect her from one. Her analytical mind questions the antics of her pubescent peers while her tender heart longs to be included. 

As her body grows she has become all angles. Affectionate touch from a tween is at your own risk. There is no telling where her next awkward limb launch will land. Knees. Elbows. Headbutts. Ouch. And then she sulks. 

Straddling youthful innocence and cringee "I am going to nibble at the fruit from the tree of knowledge" is not a comfortable position. Just recently the sixth grade hosted "twin day." Please ask Sarah's mom if we can match tomorrow. Both of us moms thought this a darling idea. Sarah, not so much. She is in a faster lane to grown up-ness. Genuinely troubled by this rejection, my daughter looks at me with a little girl's eyes, and a little girl's question - why mom? Sarah has an older sister and is naturally influenced by her. My girl still loves cats, puppies, bunnies, bugs, you name it. I hear her trumpet: I Love Snails! She has no time for frivolity, be it make up or boys or clothes. Or, now that we've come around to it, clean clothes, brushed hair and teeth - all of these things feel like inefficiencies to her. 

I know that soon her oft repeated statement of "my friends like me for who I am" will start to show wear, and I will have to gather her up in my arms and comfort her and try to help her understand the unfairness of the world she is toeing into. 

The spectrum of child to woman-like is vast - just look at the sixth grade lunch room. Each table it's own microcosm of the journey to adolescence. Each time I deliver lunch I try to peek at the other girls - are we close? Are we very far behind? What is normal? Is awkward our new normal? The first few months of middle school were painful to watch. Painful to participate in - that was very obvious - and felt interminable. Ask any mom. Ask any sixth grader. You'll find your tribe. Don't worry, they are out there.  Assurances from a mom who hoped by saying it with conviction might make it happen sooner. Praying it actually happened. 

Quirky. An odd duck. Nose in a book. Happy to be alone for long periods of time. (They feel long anyway.) Would she remain a spectator at the lunch tables? Would my sixth grade hot mess find a match at the lunch table dating game? Am I the only one worrying about this?! 

That part has taken care of itself - thank God. The new year brought similar friends - surprisingly, even some who also write stories and read books about warring tribes of cats. Who knew. Maybe Grandma did. Maybe it was just time, time and space that these little ones needed to show themselves. 

Daddy's girl, sister, granddaughter, niece, my girl: all relationships are affected by this change and are evolving at a different pace. On the other side of her we walk with tentative steps. We tiptoe actually. Her brother - younger by two very important years (years of play and silliness that she has largely left behind) - lives in a state of villainy with her. Sadly, he may be the only one confident in his position. He mourns the loss of her, and waits for glimpses of the sister she used be. I try to explain. 

In addition to, or, I feel it is important to add, I am a parent to a daughter with high anxiety. She emerged from the womb with this temperament, looking at me and at her father with eyes that searched for meaning. We knew then that she was special. Brilliant. Beautiful. Difficult. Gifted children often battle high anxiety, as told to us by her pediatrician. And preschool teacher. And counselor. And reiki therapist. And grandma. And GI specialist. 

Oh, and each other. My husband and I tell that to each other. 

So, yes, our path into puberty is ensconced in anxiety. But that is a separate story. 

Any journey we take as humans where we transcend our previous reality is fraught with challenge - I can say that and I believe it. I get it. 

Also, it is exhausting. 

And heartbreaking. 

And gratifying - periodically. 

And also beautiful, if only for a minute at a time. 

Ruminations on tweens. Or tweening. AGAIN.

Catch Me Mom!

Tweening: the act of becoming a tween, traversing the space between little girl and teenager. It is a very murky place, rife with the tween fighting to grow up and the parent wishing they wouldn’t. I WISH SHE WOULDN’T. It's being there to understand your little girl when all of a sudden she is speaking a new language, albeit one of pouting, irritability, and annoyance. With me, with dad, with her brother. WITH EVERYTHING. But you still have to be there. You still have to look into her eyes and say: I've got you.

Mom. Mom. Mom!

As a little girl she was so sweet - she is still sweet. Then she hoods her eyes and starts glaring at me. And I hardly recognize her.

Anyway, it’s awful. I don’t know who has it worse, me or her.

Right now it feels like me. Uh oh, nope, it’s her, poor thing. (because in the last few minutes acne has made another appearance)

It’s knees and elbows, literally, like they said it was. Ow, that hurt!

It is: brush your hair please, oh, um, when did you last brush your teeth...that shirt is dirty you need to change.

It is brushed! It looks AMAZING!

She turns around and I am certain I see a bird fly out of it. Brushed them last night.

Hmmm, really?

This shirt is fine. Emphatically: My friends won’t care, THEY LIKE ME FOR WHO I AM.

Oh brother. The hair - well peer opinion/pressure should eventually take care of that, right? The teeth? This has always been a battle. And the clothes? Changed.

Sound familiar? Well if it is, it is because we are ON LOOP. Same conversation repeated regularly. Ad nauseam.

Time for someone to modify their behavior, and fast. Turns out it’s me. UGH.

I have identified these as my top need to work on issues.

ISSUE: LOUD VERY LOUD CHEWING

Maybe it is just me but my daughter, this sweet little thing is the loudest grossest consumer of food and drink that I have ever met. I don’t get it. See my previous blog where I wonder if she is just playing me, that is how bad this is.

SOLUTION: DON’T SAY A THING. JUST WALK AWAY.

ISSUE: WILL NOT REMEMBER TO TAKE DAILY MEDICINE. TWICE.

Can’t remember. Won’t remember. Whichever.

SOLUTION: ALWAYS REMIND HER. FIND A WAY TO ALWAYS REMIND HER BEFORE ALL SYSTEMS COME TO A HALT. DOESN’T MATTER THAT YOU CAN’T REMEMBER YOUR OWN ALLERGY MEDICINE. REMEMBER HERS!

ISSUE: BEDROOM MAY BE CONDEMNED BY THE HEALTH DEPARTMENT

I would not be surprised to see the producers of A&E’s show Hoarders filming an episode inside of her room. Thankfully the hoarding is limited mostly to her drawings of cats, miniaturized examples of well, everything, Warrior Cat books & manga, and multiple cat posters. Note: we do NOT own a cat, as we are all mostly allergic. We do have a dog. I am not sure she notices, though.  

SOLUTION: YOU CLEAN HER ROOM TO AVOID POSSIBLE CROSS CONTAMINATION WITH THE REST OF THE HOUSE.

ISSUE: HAIR

Actual text: “Mom, I’m getting older, and I was thinking about changing my appearance a little bit. So I was wondering if maybe this weekend or around that time you could take me to the hair salon and I could get some blonde highlights in my hair?

I know that it seems like a crazy request, but I’m starting to care about my appearance more, so I was thinking I needed a little change.”

Hahahahah. What?! Face palm.

SOLUTION: ASK SOMEONE FOR HELP. YOU ARE NOW VERY CONFUSED AND THIS IS ABOVE YOUR PAY GRADE

ISSUE: THE THREAT OF MENSTRUATION

Paraphrase: Mom, the book you got me about periods, remember? Yes, yes I do. Well, it suggests that I honor getting my first period with a period party. A what? A period party. I invite my friends and we have a sleepover to celebrate this important event in my young life.
She really said that!

SOLUTION: FETAL POSITION, MAYBE SOME HYSTERICAL LAUGHING.

I am certain sometimes that I must be ruining this kid, with my expectations, my imploring looks, and how sometimes when she asks me something that is so utterly basic I just stop what I am doing and stare in another direction, allowing her to realize I am really really close to losing my mind. Or like the time when I told her if she didn't practice her violin I will put her up for adoption. (Looking back, although slightly funny, was probably NOT the best thing to say and really just my frustration talking. Don't worry - we went over this in counseling.) I know I forgot to say how awesome she is - but if you have read any of my other blogs you will already know - she is the bomb.  

This face. I mean come on. 

And then this happens:

Mom, I love you soooooo much!

I love you too babe.

You are the best mom in the world.

Um, unlikely. But I try my best.

I know.

Being a mom to a tween challenges me to be a better person. Or, wait, what?

Tween. noun.  A youngster between 10 and 12 years of age, considered too old to be a child and too young to be a teenager.

Tell me about it. 

The dichotomy of a tween is the height of unfairness for parents. Managing the expectations, YOUR expectations of what you think your tween should do or how they should act or look or talk or smell or anything - well it is a tremendous challenge. Let's face it, the tween stage is something akin to aliens replacing your child with a freshly cloned facsimile who is trying to learn what it is like to be a human being with zero experience and ultimately, limited success. Emotional, highly sensitive, easily irritated, full of attitude and prone to tear-filled outbursts... sounds eerily similar to my previous posts about toddlers. I mean you got through that phase only to be lulled into a false sense of NORMALCY, and now it is clear that Pixar's Inside Out movie is really your life. Your daughter is growing up and has all of these emotions and she is not a little girl anymore and seriously, wtf is happening? And now she is crying. Why is she crying?!

I have a tween.

She is sitting next to me at the table right now, chewing VERY LOUDLY with her mouth open. Despite my many protestations asking her, guiding her, willing her to close her mouth while she chews. Sigh. She is clueless to the fact that she is doing it.

At least I think she is.
Maybe she is just messing with me. I mean that bodes some investigation. If you have
a. been told
b. been shown - I mean I demo this
c. been instructed
I don’t know, umpteen times...and you still are not doing it...then...do you not care? Do you not think about it? Or, help?

Sometimes I look back at the blogs about her when she was five. She is so much the same. So challenging. But harder now. Because now she is challenge laced with sass, and with a little bit of I know better - but only a little bit.

I wonder if other moms are going through what I am. I mean I am sure that they are faced with the mood swings, the cheek, the normal-ness of having a tween. I wonder if they feel it as sorely as I seem to. This bundle of raw emotions that I am regularly faced with - that the whole family is faced with - does it take up so much space for them, too?

My daughter has many special gifts, she is very silly - a wonderful quality in my eyes, and she is brilliant, she is kind - especially to animals, not so much to younger brothers, and she is a talented violinist. She is also hard.

K thanks.
She just texted me that. We text now. I mean why wouldn't we, she is just UPSTAIRS.

She is suspended between child and teenager. One minute I can see the young woman she is becoming...the next minute a little girl. Whip smart, sassy and starting to get boobs. Yet prefers shirts with cats on them and books about cats. Weeeee, loves cats! Even meows to me on occasion instead of using words. Can’t be bothered to brush her hair - or even to make sure that her socks are not sitting on top of her leggings. Or that only one is. Please brush your teeth. JUST PLEASE BRUSH YOUR HAIR. And yet, has shown an interest in boys.

Actual conversation:
When did you take your last shower?
Just did.
Well your hair doesn't smell like you did.
Oh, I didn't wash it.
Why not?
The potential for water getting in my eyes is too great.
So you last actually washed your hair WHEN?
Let me think...

Cut to me:

But of course I can't say that. BUT I WAS REALLY THINKING IT. Do other moms think that, too? They must. Someone please tell me they do, because one minute everything is great and the next minute I don't know what happened and she is in a fury-flare. And I should do what? 

I find myself sighing A LOT. Oh, and wishing I had the unlimited patience of my mother to see us through this madness. 

Meow?

Please stop talking crazy massage lady. Or, is this really happening?

I prefer to be compared to Dr. Jean Grey, thank you very much. 

"You're in Wonderwoman Mode."

I open one eye. Is this lady for real? She says this with a laugh in her voice.

“You are racing around. You are chasing your kids, chasing your husband, watching your weight, you are in the keeping up with the Joneses stage.”

Maybe I should back up.

This is coming from the woman giving me my thirty minute shoulder massage at the chiropractor that I visited this morning.

Maybe I should back up even more.

I don’t like being chatty during a massage. I don’t know if it is because I never think there is something interesting enough to say, or that I like to let my mind wander, or that I like to even doze a little. I want to enjoy the massage experience. I don’t like to talk about the weather, or really any other small talk. And, I do NOT like to have conversations like THAT. Most massage therapists are great and pick up on that. ACTUALLY EVERYONE I HAVE EVER BEEN TO MINUS THIS ONE.

It gets better.

“I know you are always wondering if Mrs. Jones looks better than you. Well, she doesn’t. “

Oh my God, please shut up.

Wait. Did this lady read my blog about turning forty - is that why she is bringing this up? OR, WORSE. She is looking at me and can tell I am spending way too much time doing EXACTLY WHAT SHE SAID. Is it written all over me? I mean I am tired from a sick Crossfit 1607 (shameless plug) workout yesterday, but I didn’t think it was that obvious! Couldn’t be that, it has to be the dark circles that have taken up permanent residency around my eyes. That must be what set this lady off. No thanks to the shit ton of money I spend on moisturizer and makeup to PREVENT EXACTLY THESE KINDS OF CONVERSATIONS. Did I say something to start this? Unlikely based on my reluctance to say anything during a massage. Does she start all massages this way? And on the off chance that I want to TALK ABOUT THIS, I don't want to talk about it with strangers during a massage.

So she goes on:

“Well, one day you will grow out of it.” She laughs. She thinks this whole thing is really very funny. A very been there done that funny.

“Someday you won’t care.”

Sigh. Should I be laughing with her? Or offer up a sort of half laugh of acknowledgment? Or say, guilty as charged! Or maybe I should just have said:

You know (insert name here) you are SO right. What am I thinking! This conversation, despite being incredibly awkward - as I am getting a massage and under this blanket I am not wearing a shirt, has really opened my eyes to all of this silliness. Thank you, thank you so much. Such a huge help.

But I wouldn’t do that. If I did that, there would be no need for this blog. And, I wouldn’t be me. Instead I just think...oh just be quiet and she will go away. SO it gets quiet for a few minutes, or maybe it isn’t really quiet, she is kind of just talking under her breath a little bit - probably about my poor choices.

Until...

“Well that’s a whole-nother ball of wax right there.”

Wait. Where? What is she talking about? She doesn’t say. Instead she says something I still don’t understand.

“You like to work out buff, huh?”

What? Was that even English? Is she looking for a response? Did I even hear her right? Maybe she was saying I am a workout buff? What do I say now?

Well no need. She finishes the shoulder massage. Tells me to drink water. Assures me that was the quickest half hour of my life and then she is gone. I laugh, collect my things, and pray that this woman is not scheduled to work this coming Tuesday.

Did I mention I turned forty?

My 40th surprise party. :)

Forty. I turned around and there it was. 
I'm not thrilled. 

So what is wrong with forty? Well, besides the obvious? I'll make a Top 5 list. 

1. It's old. It feels old.
Especially compared to younger people. Even saying "younger people" proves my point. (What's next? I start saying things like "when I was young there was no internet!" Or, I bust out a joke about the brick cell phone...and nobody laughs because they are all younger people.) Aah, younger people...they always seem less tired than me. 

2. My own personal trainer/motivator appears to be on a coffee break - an extended one.
You know who I mean, that internal voice that for so long has told you "Go to the gym! Get out of bed and get there! Hey, do two classes! Don't eat that! Five more crunches! Run faster!" Well, somewhere along the way she stopped being so pushy. She doesn't seem to mind when I don't workout. And she really seems to like carbohydrates - not always the complex ones, either. 

3. You're supposed to know better.  
Example: No more drinking your face off because when you do it takes you two days to recover. Okay, more relevant to me: you can't have three drinks in the course of one night because it takes you two days to recover. Alright, alright, maybe it's just one drink. 

4. Other people around you are getting old.
Or older. And some of them are sick. And somehow you are supposed to be old enough now to handle that. 

5. Finally this.
I do this thing now where when someone is X years old and then I calculate that I have only so many years till I AM THAT OLD. So first, I am doing a lot of excess math during my day. I don't love that. Second, those numbers trouble me...what will I actually be like when I am X years old? I mean besides OLD. But then I usually say to myself, when I am that old, this $hit better not bother me.  

I did ask Ella, who is sitting next to me: What do you think the worst thing about turning 40 is? She says, nothing is. I mean except you are only 60 years from being 100. That is probably the worst thing. And why are you blogging about turning 40? You should have blogged about that a year ago. She makes a good point about that. Forty one is less than a month away.

Soon I can't even use this keychain!

ps. I admit to not always embracing the lighter side of turning forty. I have had a tough time getting my arms around it - just ask my poor husband. What exactly about this milestone bothers me? Well, for one thing, I can't help thinking fifty is like right there. If the next nine years go as fast as the last did, anyway. What will I be like when I am fifty?! And I thought forty was old. 

Wasn't I just an art student in NYC, stomping around Manhattan? Oh right, that was twenty years ago. Maybe it is the way that time goes so fast that it steals memories and moments from you when you are not looking. Or maybe it is feeling like part of me still wants to be young and carefree and wants to take chances. Maybe.

I realize that much of this is just in my head, and I see women around me aging gracefully (ack, I hate that term) and blah blah blah they seem to be handling it quite well - like they don't mind at all. Well, maybe they are, maybe they aren't. I also realize that with age comes certain gifts, new ways of understanding. And I know I am truly fortunate in my life - that hasn't been forgotten despite my ranting. But inside I want to fight getting older. But then I don't. But then I do. This is definitely a battle for me that you, lucky reader are going to be able to witness. Okay that could mean just my mom and Shawn. And Katie. No matter, tuck in guys. :)

Since you've been gone. Or, how do you like me now.

See, long hair.

Or maybe,

The more things change...

I have spent the last half an hour or so brainstorming a title for a blog post that I am not even sure I am going to write. Okay, I am writing it right NOW, but I don't know if I will actually publish this one.

Why not? Well, it has been close to five years since I last wrote a blog for The Viscosity of Me. And a whole HELL OF A LOT has happened. I have been writing blogs for my vacation rental agency, and hold on to your hat, for USA Today's 10Best. (Three 10Best lists, to be exact. Too many to be called a gimmie - not sure why I need to qualify that, except to myself.) But that writing is less personal. Less about me stretching - no, not like yoga - but in stretching as a human being.

After the last few years in particular, do I have it in me to be as honest as I once was?

Looking back at the posts about Ella and Holden I can't help but laugh - at them, at me, at everything. At my bend towards drama, at their wonderful silliness, at my tenuous hold on my sanity.

Well, I held on.

The same players are still in this game.

Shawn, husband extraordinaire. Remains the funniest person I have ever met, yet very serious in pictures.

Ella, now a ten year old. (Ten, as I am learning, is very close to tween. It is like a toe in the world of tween. The world where they say things like: "Really, mom?" And "You are so annoying you have ruined my day.") And, as extraordinary as you would expect her to be - after reading about her at five.

Holden, eight years old and when he is not running, jumping, wrestling, doing pull ups, climbing ropes, doing gymnastics, riding his skateboard, playing mine craft or riding his bike, he is telling me how much he loves me. This kid is all heart. In related news, I still say "Holden, where are your clothes?" about as often as I did when he was three. I am not even kidding.


So what's different?

To start, me.  Okay I am still angsty, still have a flare for drama, but now my hair is really long.

I am five years older, and potentially wiser - at least I hope so. Maybe a bit weathered - more on that to come. Forgetful - or more ditzy than I used to be. I like to attribute it to being so busy...I mean I hope that is the reason, but I secretly fear I am losing my marbles.

And then there is King. He is our large, very lovable, perpetually starving, mutt of a dog. I challenge you to find a nicer dog. You won't. And, that said, he personally makes me crazy and rarely does a day go by that I don't fantasize about dropping him off at his new family's house.

Aaah, there's that girl we used to know.