Ode to 45

Today, I turn 45...years old.

Claire's reaction on the left looks like, "Hells to the yes!  Let's do this!"

Kate's response on the right is more like, "Oh my goodness, that's a big number."

And sandwiched in the middle, I'm feeling like, well, here I am.

Let's begin by saying that I've been pretty angsty about today...and not because it's 2020 and we're in the middle of a global pandemic, but because well, at 45...I think you're supposed to have your shit together.

But for some reason, I feel like I'm just getting started.

Really, I do.

****

In my 20's, I finished graduate school, got married, bought a house, had a baby.  In my 30's, I quit my job, stayed home for a decade, raised my now three babies, ran races, wrote a blog, and wondered if I'd ever see Tuscany and a business suit again.  In my 40's, I found myself teaching at a university, starting my own conflict resolution practice, watching my babies turn into big people-one of them much taller than me-and discovered the real meaning of running my own race.  I also got to go on date nights without paying for a babysitter, and began having genuine adult-like conversations with my children while writing a book.

So much has changed, and yet, so much is just beginning.

****

Recently, my best friend from college indulged my ramblings on a long walk.  It went something like this:

Me:  "Grown up 45-year olds live in fancy houses, travel to Fiji, and have cars that aren't vans."

Her:  "Grown up people are boring."

Me:  "Where did I go wrong?  I think it's too late.  I'll never be an Olympian or a Pulitzer Prize winning anything.  And, well, I think I still own a futon.  Fuck."

Her:  "But are you happy?"

Me:  "That's the thing.  I am."

Her:  "Well, then, I'd say, you're lucky."

****

And, that's why, firmly planted in gratitude, here is my ode to my new year.

Ode to
the wrinkles
the gray
the I don't care if she likes me...because I like me
to vulnerability and hope
and sushi and matcha green tea lattes with coconut milk
and to writing the fucking book already
to knowing that I am enough
and sinking deeply into my skin
making amends
saying I love you, because I may not get tomorrow
sucking it up, and taking the high road
trusting my gut--it always knows
taking risks
doing the next right thing
believing in the impossible
to God and the extraordinary ordinary
the sunrise, and the chance to try again
the gift of another year
another run
another chance to say
thank you for me
all of me
may I greet this year with all it has to offer
perfectly
imperfect.

Happy Birthday to me...

Ode to 44

Today, I turn 44.

Holy buckets or bananas or bazolies or shit...

I'm not sure how to frame this birthday, except to say that all of the things are happening at once, and I'm a crazy ass bag of emotions.

Yesterday, we celebrated our youngest daughter's First Holy Communion--Claire represents the last First Communion for our family.  It was such a sacred, beautiful experience.

In two weeks, our oldest graduates from nine years of school at Saint Margaret Mary's, and celebrates his Confirmation.  And then heads off to DC, sleep away summer camps, detasseling corn, mowing lawns, and high school.  Again, I don't have words.

Meanwhile, our middle one finishes 6th grade in three weeks, is also off to sleep away summer camp, designs her own clothes and has decided that friends, books, and ballet are where it's at.

People told me this would happen--you know that they'd grow up and forge their own paths--but I thought it was so far down the pike that even conceiving of it seemed silly.  Now, I tend to cry at the drop of a hat wondering where the time's gone...and why it's not possible for us to go to the pool, eat a million popsicles, read stories, and play board games.  I seem to vaguely remember the sleepless nights, constant diaper changes, inability to go anywhere without taking half your house, and the incessant, "Mooooommmm." 

When I'm being honest with myself, I recognize that at the age of 44, my children don't need me to mother in the same ways I've grown accustomed to.  They need me in different ways.  Mostly to carpool.  Sometimes, when I'm lucky (especially with my teenager), to listen.  Other times to help study.  But largely, they have their own friends, pass times, desires, and seem to be really good with where they're at. As such, I know that I need to find me differently.

My deepest desire as I embark upon this squarely middle-aged age is to dive unabashedly into all of the parts of me that I've chosen to back-burner while mothering young children.

Last summer, I formally started a private conflict resolution practice--mediating, facilitating, training, and teaching.  It was a big step...but it was just a step.  I'm ready for more...and really, to go all-in.  I'm yearning to see who I would be if ran toward the song in my heart and away from the fear in my head.

Likewise, in the past six months, I've come to know of three extraordinary people in their 40's who died unexpectedly.  They were healthy people with families and reasons to be here.  Like a punch to the gut, they serve as a profound reminder that tomorrow is guaranteed to no one, and today needs to be lived--not in the way others think best, but attuned to the cry of my own heart.

And to that end, 44 feels exciting.  For the first time, in a long time, I feel space.  Room to breathe.  Opportunities to grow.  Time to be on my yoga mat, and with my running shoes.  Earned knowing that my children are (for the most part) okay, and it's okay to leave them alone, so that I can be nurtured and intentionally attended to.

As I look forward, I'm praying for another 44 years, but if I only get this day, or next year, I say thank you for the gift of rediscovering me--all of me--the woman who loves to write, read, curse, listen to podcasts, mediate conflict, instruct college students, carpool to school, read the New York Times, drink vats of coffee, buy buckets of tulips at Trader Joe's, laugh with my husband, squeeze my children, and give thanks for the infinite chances to construct this one precious life given to me.

Here's to 44...emotions and all.

New Again

It was 4:50am...dark, quiet and cold in my bathroom.

Splashing water on my face, trying to get psyched for an early morning run, I looked up and she was standing in the hallway.

"Mama, do your fingernails get old too?" asked a half asleep, blondie Claire Bear, 6.

"Come here and give me a hug, what are you doing up?" I grab a hold of her while she puts her arms around my belly and looks up at my hair. 

"Well, I just thought that since Miss Beth puts brown back in your hair, to make the old hair not look so old anymore, that maybe that's why you paint your fingernails red or pink or those other colors, to make them look new again?" she quizzically asks.

I tuck her back into bed, tie up my sneakers and ponder all of the things I do to make the worn out, tired me... feel new again.

My husband turns 40 in a few months, a few weeks after I turn 42.  We joke that he's the last of our friends to make his way over the hill, while we both lament what it means to be officially middle aged.

On my run, I consider how good it feels to be able to run and to have meaningful perspective on what matters...which in many respects isn't what I thought did when I was 25 or even 35.

My mother frequently says that she would trade places with me any day.  "Your early 40's...hell, that's a beautiful thing, you're just gettin started--with the benefit of real wisdom and the loss of the cheese dick attitude that never did anyone a bit of good."

I have to agree.

Forever in a day, I used to feel less than about the size of my abode, my street address, my non-membership to the Escalade or Cabo frequenting club.  I wondered whether back burnering my career to stay home and raise children who whined and fought and rarely recognized my efforts was worthwhile.  I questioned whether writing checks for Catholic school tuition and piano lessons and ballet classes was the way to go.  I surrendered to the pain of not knowing my next move and sitting in uncertainty about the fate of my professional dreams or my family's next life stage.

And then, one morning I woke up and started teaching and building curriculum and pivoting in different directions and using my brain and body in different ways that felt clumsy and wonky and free and alive.

And now, as the days are long, and the years pass by in a blink, I know that the process of aging is inevitable.  We're all dying and living in the same breath.  We're all making choices to embrace the change or not.  Our hair is indeed turning gray.  Our finger nails are growing and being clipped off at the pass.  We're getting up and running or we're not.  The sun is setting and rising and the seasons are dying and being reborn.

All the while, no one knows what tomorrow will bring or if there will be a tomorrow.  But what we do know as we're being made new again is that we have a choice to take the things we've learned about ourselves from yesterday and apply it to today and re-apply it again tomorrow.

We are indeed old and new, over and over and over and over again. 

The morning that I ran, I saw an older couple on an overpass bridge.  Holding hands with big coats and hats on, they smiled and said, "Good Morning!" Panting with my music blaring, I screamed, "Good Morning!" while we shared a slice of pleasantry.

I hope that I get at least another 42 years to roll around on this planet.  In that time, I do plan to keep coloring my gray, painting my nails, running around the park, teaching my students and standing in awe trying to figure out where I'm supposed to be engaged.

While I stand in change, I'm not so afraid of the process.  Aging is definitive.  The decision to take the pieces that age and rebirth them is entirely voluntary.  My hope is to keep trying.