Changing Places - Sort of...

I have heard that this day would come. The role-reversal. The day when we, as adult children, would care for our aging parents. But I could not imagine my parents ever needing help from me. Not my strong, funny, surgeon father, unwavering in his convictions, his intelligence, his “dad-ness.” And certainly not my beautiful, smart, energetic mother who ran a family of nine with a firm and loving hand, who had all the answers and who invented the phrase, “my way or the highway.”  My parents would just keep going until they dropped.  If they dropped.  It seemed to me that they could live forever. I hoped so.

But here I am, on a plane, on my way to DC.  My father is housebound with Parkinson’s syndrome and dementia. He needs to be fed, dressed, and much to his horror if he were fully conscious of it, occasionally changed and cleaned. 

My mother, recovering from leg surgery, cannot be on her feet for long periods of time. She can’t cook or clean or care for Dad as she has, amazingly, done for years. So my sisters and I are rotating in to help out for a week at a time, along with aids (who have become like family members) who come in to do the moving and lifting and the really hard stuff. 

My job will be to shop, cook, clean, feed Dad, help my mother bathe and take her to doctor appointments and church. When was the last time I helped someone bathe? Fed someone? Did laundry for anyone other than myself? Drove anyone to a doctor appointment?  That’s right – when my children were…children. So, yes, the time has come. I just didn’t know it would feel like this.

An Addiction That Needs No Cure

What’s more fun than a barrel full of monkeys?  A hot tub full of your best friends! 

Last weekend, my daughters surprised me with an early birthday celebration.  They whisked me away to breakfast at a Capitol Hill creperie and then to a nearby women’s spa where, unbeknownst to me, they had sneakily assembled six of my closest women friends.   The manager of the spa took me a “tour” of the facility.  Entering the tub room I had a split second to notice a number of women already in the water before they jumped up, their unison shout of “SURPRISE!” echoing off the tiled walls. After my heart returned to its normal rate, I spent two dreamy hours luxuriating in the warmth of the tub, sauna and steam room and in the sweet, loving company of my beautiful friends.

I love my husband (who was part of the planning and scheming of this surprise).  He is my best friend and has stood by me when even I couldn’t stand being around myself. My entire life has been blessed with fabulous male friendships.  But I honestly do not know how I would get through this life without my girlfriends.  They are the glue that holds me together when I am falling apart. They fill in the gaps when things start to crack.  They know me better than I know myself and they love me for who I am – and, at times, I am sure, in spite of how I am.

I am certain that same sex friendships are important and necessary.  But I can’t speak to what it is like to be a man or to be friends with a man - as a man.  So for now, this one’s for the ladies.  But keep reading, all you men who love the women in your lives and understand that when we get together with the girls, it’s a good thing.   A very good thing.

To Facebook or Not to Facebook? That is the Question.

The peer pressure is mounting.  I’m weakening, losing my resolve. I mean, I don’t want to get left behind…  stuck outside the circle…  or do I?

I have resisted the Facebook phenomenon because, for me, the reasons for joining are not all that compelling.  It’s fun!  Okay.  I’m always up for a good time.  But I’d rather go out for margaritas or a walk on the beach than sit in front of the computer.   It reconnects you with people from your past.  That intrigues me.  (I do occasionally wonder what happened to that guy I made out with in eighth grade.) But I’m fine with the memories and the friends I have today.  It’s the main way people are connecting now; it’s replacing email; if you don’t join in, you’re out of the loop.  That’s where I start to waver.

I have always waited and watched before jumping on the latest technology (or other) craze. I was the last to get an answering machine, and only when three frustrated friends chipped in and forced one on me for my birthday. Remember when Call Waiting was new?  My husband renamed it “Call Rude” and we cancelled after trying it for a short time.  When at last I gave my daughters permission to set up My Space pages, not wanting them to feel like social oddballs, I made them swear on their Converse All Stars that they would be responsible with their postings. My kids were late in the game getting cell phones and we added texting long after the majority were bumping into trees and parked cars as they walked home from school, texting all the way.

So here I am again.

Let it Snow

We heard the sirens in the distance and knew exactly what to do. We had done it before. Many times.  You have, too.  It’s automatic.  My daughter was at the wheel and as the lights became visible, clearly heading our way, she signaled, slowed and pulled over, as did the cars sharing the road with us.  Everyone waited patiently as the fire truck and ambulance raced toward us, maneuvering through the path we had collectively created for them.  I covered my ears as they passed us and then we worked our way back onto the road and resumed our journey.

“I love this,” I said.  “What?” my daughters asked.  “I love that when we hear a siren, road rage and hurry are suspended and people start working together.”  The girls agreed that it was cool, but couldn’t resist teasing, asking me if wanted to stop at the store, get food and blankets and bring buckets of water.  We laughed.  They know me for what I am – a bit of a sap – a sentimental believer in human goodness.  But I do find it worth noting that people who, just minutes before were racing to pass us or flipping us off as we passed them (not that I ever do anything like that while driving…) were suddenly transformed by the fact that someone needed help.  In an instant, we switched from being isolated individuals with personal agendas to a unit, working together to help someone in serious trouble – someone we don’t even know.  No longer adversaries, vying for position on 23rd Street, we had become allies, united by a common goal.

The cynics (including myself on certain days) might argue that the hefty fine for not cooperating is the real motive for our behavior.   Perhaps.  But I’ve seen this sort of thing enough to believe that there is something else at work that compels us during times like these.  When something big happens, something that affects us all, we behave differently.

Take snow for instance.  Did you ever notice how peoples’ moods change when it’s snowing?  Last week, as soon as the snow began falling, I felt my mood lift. Walking down the dock, as the flakes became evident, everyone I passed greeted me with a smile and said, “Snow!”  Not “Hi,” but, “Snow!”  (Complete with exclamation mark.)  Who hasn’t stood in awe and delight at the window when the first snow of the season begins?

Bye Bye Stuff, Hello Time

When people hear that I live on a 42’ sailboat in Ballard, the most common reaction I get is, “You live on a sailboat?  Wow. That is SO cool!”  I suppose it is. But during the decision and then the transition process I felt anything but cool.  I didn’t just say, “Yeah, let’s do it!  Let’s sell our house and all our stuff and live simply and shrink our footprint.”  I cried and argued and worried and stressed and resisted – qualities and behavior not often associated with cool people. So while it may be “cool” to live on a boat, I feel like an imposter accepting this particular designation. 

When my husband first started talking about it, I didn’t take him too seriously. Dan had had so many schemes and plans to move us toward financial freedom over the years that I began calling him “Ralph” after Jackie Gleason’s character from the Honeymooners.  “OK, Ralph, sounds great,” I’d say when he presented me with another idea.

I was sure it couldn't happen because, well, what would we do with all our stuff? How would we ever find the time to sort through our things, decide what to keep, what to store and what to toss?  How could we stomach putting the house on the market and having strangers traipsing through every day?  What about actually moving - leaving our dear little house? Changing our mailing address?  It paralyzed me to think of adding such daunting work to all we were already juggling.

Truthfully, we had been toying with the idea for a while.  During our many summers cruising the west coast of Canada, we traveled deeply into the rainforest and even more deeply into ourselves. After a month or more on our floating home that provided everything we needed, I would dreamily say, “I would be happy if we lived on the boat full-time.  I could do this.” And I really believed I could.

But once Dan started getting serious about it, I learned pretty quickly what a faker I was. I panicked when I realized that this one wasn’t going away.  The universe has a bothersome way of calling you out when you start patting yourself on the back at how cool you are.  “Oh yeah?” it seems to say, “let’s see just how you deal with THIS.”  And suddenly you are looking in the mirror, stark naked, not an undergarment or hair-product or tube of mascara in sight to disguise the flaws, the raw truth of how far you still have to go to that perceived coolness to which so many of us aspire.  Grasping at straws, I demanded the impossible:  a boat with three dedicated sleeping rooms, a couch, and a master bed that could be gotten in and out of from either side.  “It won’t happen,” I secretly thought.  That way I would never be exposed.

Mid-Life? Bring it On!

            Has it happened yet? Have you been called “M’am” at the supermarket?  Have you woken up and looked in the mirror to find your mother staring back at you?  Do you perform an occasional strip-tease during a business meeting as a hot flash comes on? Or have you noticed men staring as you walk past them on the street – not at you as they once did – but at your daughter?

            Or how about this…

You’re out with your husband, enjoying cocktails with some work associates after a holiday party.  You feel pretty good in the outfit you bought for the occasion – it’s swishy, slimming, and youthful.  You’re chatting and laughing with the other wives and you notice that they pay close attention when you speak.  Ahhh!  I’m fascinating as well as gorgeous tonight, you think.  The other women are a bit younger than you; their children home with a babysitter while your teenagers are out with friends.  It seems like just yesterday that you were forced to keep glancing at your watch, as these women do, to be sure you wouldn’t be late for the babysitter.  The talk turns to the wear and tear motherhood puts on women’s looks.  “Wait until they’re teenagers,” you throw out casually but with an air of authority.  One of the women counters with “But you look great!”  Before you have time to take in the compliment she adds, “I hope I look as good as you when I’m your age.” 

           (SOUND OF TIRES SCREECHING ON PAVEMENT.) 


          When I’m your age?  When I’m YOUR age?  Suddenly the noise in the bar begins to fade, taken over by a weird humming sound as all the blood in your body rushes into your ears and your brain tries to sort out what this statement means.  How old do they think I am?  What do I look like from their perspective?  Were they paying such close attention to my comments because they see me as their elder, wiser counterpart – the Village Crone?  You do your best to appear engaged in the conversation but the internal dialogue is too loud and you find yourself wishing you had the excuse of a babysitter to hurry you out of the bar.  Your makeup feels like it’s melting and the bulge around your waistline feels suffocating.  The clock has struck midnight and Cinderella suddenly ain’t lookin’ so good anymore.

Scenarios like these are happening to me with increasing frequency.  I am often (too often to ignore it) mistaken for my younger sister’s mother.  I’m blown away when it’s time to get my driver’s license photo re-taken and I see the difference between the old picture and the new one.  And what about invisibility?  I always thought it would be cool to have a super-power, but I was thinking more about, say, flying... or x-ray vision... or time travel...    than becoming invisible to entire sidewalks full of people younger than I.

Let’s face it.  We live in a youth-worshipping culture where women (and men -- guys are not entirely exempt from this phenomenon) are pressured to dye their hair, lift their lids, nip and tuck chins, necks, breasts and butts.  In short, to do anything but allow the natural process of aging to occur.  There is a sense of something coming to an end, of being about to topple into the abyss of old age where society will view and treat you differently. 

So what do we do?  Do we just disappear?  Do we give up and resign ourselves to the end of life as a vibrant, worthy, physically beautiful person?  Or do we embrace the change, accept the results, and rejoice in the freedom that can come from letting go of the superficial?   We certainly would not be alone if we chose that approach – far from it. 

The New Normal

September....  Back to School time... An invigorating crispness in the morning air, leaves beginning to turn color and drop, satisfyingly crunchy underfoot.  Newly cut hair and freshly sharpened pencils.  Lunch boxes unsullied by the stink of half-eaten sandwiches.  Children flipping open the covers of brand new crayon boxes nad pressing their noses against the cool flat tips, inhaling deply the smell that, even as adults, transports us to Septembers so far in our past they seem another lifetime.


For parents, some Septembers are more dramatic than others.  There is always that sense of beginning, but some years simultaneously signal an end.  Kindergarten for example.  The very first day of school.  Such excitement!  Such anticipation!  Breakfast eaten hurriedly so there is time for photos and last minute outfit adjustments.  Parents' smiles and optimism hiding their secret dread of turning their children loose to a world where other adults will hold sway over their thinking and judgment.  Where they will be subjected to fickle friendships and owies with no Mom to kiss and make better.

I remember vividly the first day of my older daughter's kindergarten year.  I thought about the day so often with a mixture of excitement and dread, but nothing prepared me for the real thing.  "C'mon!  Finish your cheerios!  We can''t be late!"  The short walk over to school, her hand feeling suddenly oh-so-small in mine that I tightened my grip just a little.  The charged energy around the school yard as we entered the "big kid" world of teachers and books and new friendships.  The principal greeting everyone.  A few familiar faces.  And then, at last, the classroom.  Parents and siblings stood off to the side watching as the teacher introduced herself to the children and laid down a few ground rules.  Sarah looked small and angelic in her seat way in the back of the class.  I was in love with this moment.  But then the teacher's attention turned to us, breaking the spell.  "Thank you parents, brothers and sisters.  See you after school."  We shuffled out, our younger daughter in Dan's arms, all smiles and waves on the outside.   But inside was a different story.  Something major was changing.  I felt like I was outside my body, watching it happen.  Why wasn't I happy anymore?