Life in the Gravy
A wordslinger's view of life past 40.. or 50..

May
02

My friend Dave is making it work. He talked about it for a long time, figured out his niche, scraped like mad, and then it happened–His first movie trailer.

Karen’s family left the nest. She worried about money and what would come next. I asked her what she wanted to do. “Um, maybe get an office job.” No, really, I said. If you could do anything, what would it be? The words tumbled out even while she tried to contain them: “I want my own dance studio. I want to teach dance.” I saw the spark in her eyes and felt the fever in her voice. Next thing I knew, she’d remodeled her basement and had 30 young dance students.

A single, 30-year-old mother of one spent years working in a job only marginally satisfying that allowed her to pay the bills. In the meantime she composed music, experimented with a huge variety of instruments, bought a laptop and started mixing her own tracks. She’s already put out one CD on her own, is working on her second, and is now registering for college to expand her considerable talents into parts unknown but suspected. All while working at her day job.

Hmmm. These are all people I know. In some ways, they’re much like me. Yet, they landed on something I haven’t. They figured it out. They decided on the best thing that could ever happen, and pursued it. Really. They’re living the dream.

I’ve been reading about cognitive dissonance. Longer ago than I care to remember, during a time of intense personal ickyness, a friend gave me a book on the subject. I read 11 pages. But I got the drift and ever since then, the idea stuck with me. I think it’s lodged in my brain for a reason–I need to understand it, remember it and how it relates to me. Because, truthfully, I keep pushing up against it rather than just riding the wave into greater purpose.

Believing one thing about myself while acting out the opposite is bogus. The resulting discomfort rages and time’s a wastin’. I love what I work at and suspect it’s lifting me to a higher place. But I know there’s more to discover.

Success stories inspire, but unless my uneasiness provokes action, it’s all they do.

The rub? Still figuring out the dream.. but the good news is, I’m getting closer.

Apr
11

Oh.. that face I love. It still gets me—every time. All those years locked behind the blue eyes and long lashes. Years I can see and remember. Years that he wishes I would forget. But I can’t. I can’t. And that’s why it hurts.. because I have to let go.. and pretend the years don’t matter.. at least for now.

He’s a teenager full of angst and questions. Rebellion and hormones. He stumbles and pushes. Softens and stiffens. I’ve been through this a few times before but still struggle to make sense of it. I could be an award-winning actress.. my heart is on my sleeve, outside my body, vulnerable and aching. But I’m the only one who knows it. And he doesn’t care. Not really.

He can’t. He’s individuating. And I care more than ever. The paradox is strangling, devoid of any sense. But there it is—yet again. The dichotomy that is adolescence—one moment everything he was as a child, the next, someone I’ve never met. And I am expected to be the adult—in control, solid, ready with a firm hand and a loving heart. I am tangled and torn, weary and raw. My love for this child is swallowing me up. And the irony is I can’t allow that. I must individuate, too.. if I want to keep him in my life.

I don’t like this. The older I get.. the more I know what’s at stake for him. But he gets to choose. And I get to watch.

Only, it occurs to me, yet again, that watching isn’t all I must do. I have to continue to live, work, play and grow.. no matter how much his decisions and developing attitudes worry me. I cannot afford to succumb to paralyzing fear. I’ve given into this before and I know it’s not the answer.

Peace.. the only real peace, comes from pursuing my own life–fully, and without reservation. The years of child bearing are over.. and the few years left of child rearing are fading fast. My life waits.. while I grieve over lost childhood that is rightfully over.. but painfully gone. The future calls to both of us. Oh, how I want his to be happy.. but I can’t make it for him.

He is not that child anymore—he is a young man.. and while finding his own way, makes some good decisions along with the shaky ones. He is smarter than I stop to think he is. My first instinct is to question him. I need to stop this. At least most of it. He gets to choose. He gets to choose. He will make decisions I won’t be happy with. That is certain.

So.. maybe, even though his childhood is lost to me, for good.. my future and his, are found. I just have to let it be whatever it’s going to be for him.. and be around to help with any rubble he might want me to assist with.

Oh.. the letting go is like extracting my heart and throwing it onto a soccer field.. and letting it be booted around until he decides to kick it into the net. It’s the passing from one set of cleats to another that knocks the fight out of me. Where will it end up today? Can’t we just land somewhere?

No. Not yet. It’s not time. And besides.. part of what I have to do is find a way for my heart to be more of a spectator than a participant. That freakishly unbreakable mother-love is always there. And while he grows into whoever he’s going to become, I have to do the same.

Childhood lost—both of our futures found. But oh.. the ache, the longing, the worry.. and yes, the hope. Always the hope.

Apr
08

When my first born was a wee pup, crawling all over me as I watched Nadia Comaneci score perfect 10s in the Montreal Summer Olympics.. the onscreen drama must have seeped over into my psyche which I promptly conveyed to my baby via osmosis. Or something like that.  He’s been an Olympics lover ever since.  He says one of his fondest childhood memories was me dragging him and his sister out of bed to watch the spectacular televised closing ceremonies at the 1984 Los Angeles event.

We speak of the Olympics often. We talk about the athletes, he and I. We muse on performances past, and wonder about future achievements.  During each Olympics, we have one “all-nighter”..  an evening for staying up ridiculously late and eating large amounts of naughty food.. all while watching the athletic competition unfold.  Of course, we toss out phrases like, “I could do that, but I don’t wanna.”

Last summer, the boy and I, not to mention other family members.. enjoyed our fete while watching Michael Phelps win that spectacular race in a gazillionth of a second.  It was a crowning moment in the games made even more extraordinary by all of us experiencing it together.

A few months ago I was missing my boy as mommies sometimes do–even, maybe especially, as they get older.  He’s a husband and father.. and well, he’s actively involved in everything inherent in that busy life.  I asked him for a favor.  I asked if some time, whenever he and his family could manage it, if he could come and spend the day with me.  Just him.  Not that I don’t adore his wife and babies—-I do.  But, I needed some boy time.  Just me and him.

He called a few weeks ago saying that he was working on it and would let me know.  That was good enough for me.

Last Saturday, on a whim, the boy and his family came to visit.  These kinds of visits bring palpable pleasure.

During casual conversation, he mentioned he’d  like to plan our one-on-one day.. but that it wouldn’t happen until February 2010.  Well.. he’s got stuff going on.. I’ll take it, I thought.

Then, he told me the rest of it.  I needed to provide the transportation, he said.. and he’d supply the tickets.  Tickets? What?

Turns out our mommy-son get-together will be to an Olympic hockey game at the Vancouver 2010 Winter Olympic Games.  Just the two of us.

The revelation dawned.. and I’ll admit my emotions grabbed me by the throat.  Not only did he pencil in a day for me.. he decided to make it something once-in-a-lifetime special.

He warned: “Now, of course, we can’t depend on it being anything spectacular..  It probably won’t be another “Miracle On Ice” moment.”

My response?  Doesn’t matter if it’s Czechoslovakia vs. Tasmania. How could it not be spectacular?  It’s the Olympic Games.

We’ll drive or catch a shuttle over the border.. we’ll employ air horns and foam fingers.. we’ll have a real, live, Olympic adventure together.  No words illustrate this joy, yet I’ve tried to use them.. and probably not very well.

Meanwhile, I wait for February 2010 and ponder the gift.. and what it will mean for us—for me and my boy.

Mar
30

My first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting was Saturday night.

Beloved daughter was celebrating two years of sobriety and asked Mommy to come to the party.  I was thrilled.

Whoa. It was a room full of tangible love. I’ve never experienced anything quite like it. Hugs all around.. genuine support.. people of varied backgrounds. I saw quickly there was no one stereotype for alcoholism–it crosses every barrier.  But I think I already knew that.. my attendance at the meeting only confirmed it.

After spending 90 minutes with these people I was astounded.  They were real.. no cop outs.. no pretending.. no excuses. It was an honor to be in the same room with them.. and be part of the ritual not only marking my daughter’s second birthday.. but the birthdays of many others.  Some had 10 years in the program.. some 8.. or 6.  I met one woman who had 30 years there.

After sweet daughter began the program, I read the AA Big Book.  I saw how the implementation of these ideas helped and continues to assist and breathe life back into so many who would otherwise be dead or wishing they were. When I saw the positive roads this journey was opening up for my girl, I began to examine my own life.  The principles are solid.. the success undeniable.

The people I met take nothing for granted. They seem to live each day in joy and possibility.  And when they asked “Carrie’s mom” to speak to the room.. I couldn’t say no.  Instead, I was honored.. and grateful.  At first, it was because of what they’ve all done for my daughter. Then, it became personal. Being there was like having a warm blanket thrown around my heart.  Rapt attention to what everyone said signaled passionate respect.

Funny how my children keep bringing positives into my life.  When I was a young mother I thought I would always be the one supporting, helping and providing insights for my offspring.  As the years roll by, and as I allow it.. my soul reaps the benefits of people, places and things I never would have thought of on my own.

Like AA.

My name is Sue Ann and I am not an alcoholic.  But they invited me back anyway.

I intend to accept that invitation.

Mar
24

Well, it’s official.. David Letterman is no longer single.  Truth be told, he’s been attached for a long time.. but until the final vows were said, I considered him fair game.. the mother of his young son notwithstanding.

I’ve loved him forever.. as long as I can remember knowing who he was.  And true, in later years, he’s become more cynical and even bitter at times.. and well, older.  But I forgive him for this because he’s brilliant. He doesn’t pander to the lowest common denominator like Jay Leno, and his wit is dangerously sharp–still.

A man with a sense of humor has always caught my eye.. but one who’s also flawed and a bit deranged is irresistible.

You know that gap between his teeth?  Perfect!  His skewed charm, his flirtability.. all fodder for years of my dreams.

Dave said he avoided marriage partly because he felt other men saw him as sort of “the last gunslinger”.. a man who’d escaped the trappings of that convention.

Hmm.. well.. maybe other men are disappointed.  But I’ll tell you what.  David Letterman’s new gig only makes him more attractive to women–at least this woman.  It only sweetens the deal.

His purple tie, his gray socks, the goofiness.. it’s all part of the love.

I’d wish him good luck, best wishes and all of that.. but I’m still smarting from the news that he chose someone else instead of me.

Never mind that he never met me.

Unrequited adoration?  Probably.

It’s still great to know that he’s in the world and making funny stuff happen.  That has to be good enough for me.

Mar
23

My friend turned 55 over the weekend.

He talked about being a senior citizen now.. at least in California.  He mentioned the upcoming “senior moments” he’d be experiencing.  I protested wildly.

“No!” I asserted. “I hate that term.  The only reason we can’t remember things as we age is because of all the stuff crammed into our brains. It has nothing to do with our capacity to remember.”

Even as I wrote it I saw the fallacy.  The more we have to remember, the older we are.  It does have to do with aging.. and that’s that.

My friend’s claiming to be a senior citizen was especially disconcerting because since we are the same age, it meant that I was one, too.  He makes a good point, though, when he says he probably won’t live to be 110.. dispelling that trendy adage about 50 being the new 30 (or 40.. I forget which it is right now).

Technology and medicine keep raging into the 21st century with innovations that prolong life. Let’s face it.. that’s true. People live longer, healthier lives than ever before. Maybe that’s part of my objection to the “senior citizen” reference.

But I suspect it’s something else.  I’m not ready to die.. at least I don’t think I am.  That long, slow decline from age 40 (or even earlier, some say) gets faster with every year.  I find myself not denying it as much as ignoring it. But maybe I do both.

My friend is right.  55.. or even 50.. is not the new middle age.  We are way past that.  It doesn’t mean we are dead or dying,  just past middle age.  And with everything our modern world gives us to look forward to.. I still expect vitality and joy.

Come to think of it.. what’s ever been so great about “the middle” anyway?  It’s safe, it’s sandwiched in between two extremes.

I am officially past middle age and while that slapped me silly when I realized it, it also cracked open doors.  Doors that lead to more of who I really am.. doors that fling wide to parts unknown.  And that doesn’t necessarily include The Early Bird Special at 4:30 pm.

I like the sound of that adventure..

Mar
16

I’ve been told the right brain never sleeps.  After all the facts and figuring of the day, the left brain says nighty-night, shuts down, and leaves the right half to ponder and muse.  This, supposedly, is the reason that often when we wake, we have ideas that didn’t occur to us the night before–the playful, more liberated brain has had time to ruminate over an answer.

If that’s the case, Saturday morning should have produced rocket science at our house.  The boy slept (off and on) for close to 20 hours.. and I put down a solid 12.  Yum.

But.. no illumination, really.. just a relaxed mom and her boy who spent the day getting haircuts, leisurely cleaning rooms and watching Iron Man. So much for the hurry-up-and-get-things-done mentality.

But maybe that’s all that really mattered that day.  It was rainy–a condition conducive to slothfulness.  Although, we weren’t actually lazy.. just mellow.  Is there a difference?  I hope so.

I know people who weigh their worth in how busy they make themselves.  The lists of to-dos are endless.. they are always on the phone.. they’re always running late.. and there’s never enough time.  I used to play that game, too.  Soon, you start to believe you’re indispensable.. and when illness, true emergency, or something else slaps your face, reminding you you’re not, that’s when the light begins to dawn.  The right brain tells you there’s another way to live..  maybe even a more satisfying way.  You remember how to play.

What’s really important will get done–eventually.

Meanwhile, I’ll turn off the phone, sleep in late and eat bacon once in awhile.  Maybe next Saturday morning I’ll do all three.

Mar
13

It’s been awhile.

I’m back to unload on whoever’s out there.. and might want to read what I write.

One of the notes going around Facebook lately is “25 Random Things About Me..”  a feast for the voyeur and tattler in all of us.

How about the same for mothers?  I say “mothers” rather than “parents” because, let’s face it–it’s different.

In honor of Friday the 13th.. and because 25 is way too many for a Friday.. I kept the list to 13.

Here’s my take:

1.  You never know.  I mean you really never know.  You may think you know.  You may pride yourself in knowing.  You may make it your life’s work to know. But the truth is, you never know.  Not everything.. not even some of the things you thought you knew. Children keep a cache of well-hidden secrets. You never know everything.  Just accept it.

2.  Since mothers are usually in charge of food gathering, I offer this nugget: You can never have too much food available, especially for teenagers. Have food of all kinds, and lots of it. This will ensure crowds at your house, but the odds are you will never be sorry for it.

3.  It’s been said that mothers wear their hearts on the outside of their bodies.  For most of us this is true.  There is the occasional mother that is not a nurturer by nature. But usually, we are. Big time. Everything our child does is fodder for our emotional well-being, or not-so-well-being. They become extensions of us.  And while this isn’t healthy, it’s common practice. Go ahead, love ‘em to death, but at some point, in the name of everything maternal, back away and keep your feelings to yourself.  Running out onto the baseball field after Junior throws the winning pitch is not a good idea, no matter how close you are.

4.  Mothers often take credit for the good things their children do.  It’s because we have so much invested in them.  Their success is ours, too.. right?  Not so fast, Ma Walton. If we take credit for their accomplishments, we have to absorb the bad stuff, too.  At some point, they make their own decisions..accompanied by consequences.. and if I’m lucky, I’m along for the ride, that’s all.

5.  We  like to take take ourselves too seriously.  But what about our responsibilities–shouldn’t we take them seriously?  Yes.  Ourselves? No.  My thinking here is that no one should do this.  But mothers have a tendency to hold onto pride and entitlement. It’s unattractive and repels children.. not to mention men.

6. Whenever I produce a healthy belch.. usually after a couple of good swigs of Dr. Pepper.. it makes my 15-year-old son smile.  This is worth any public humiliation I may endure.

7.  I’ve learned I need to back off.  I lean toward pushing.. pushing a child toward betterment, responsible behavior, for information. A nudge is OK. Doing my homework about the child is crucial. But pushing just alienates him.. and makes me come off cranky and yes, bitchy..  which, of course, I am.  Give the kid some room.

8.  As the mother of an adolescent son, I must lock my bedroom door.  I’ve learned the hard way that seeing one’s mother in her underwear only confuses already confusing feelings in a teenager.  Even as a daughter, it played with my head a little when I saw my mother in her undies.  11-18 year olds especially don’t like to think of their mothers as people with lives and feelings, and well, underpants.  Just lock the door.

9.  You know when a child says, “You don’t understand”?  We really don’t.  We can’t.  We may understand what it was like for us, and while that has value, it’s not definitive. Mothers like to think it is.  Our children are growing up in a society that even 20 years ago was unimaginable.  They are faced with burdens we do not know.  Maybe our best response when they say this to us.. and if they haven’t yet, they will..  is “You’re right. I don’t.”

10. Mothers should touch their children lovingly.. even teenagers.  Especially teenagers.  It’s easy to snuggle and snog with babies and toddlers.  But the older ones need it, too.  They may not talk about it or request it.. although I know that some do. Most, however, will turn shades of scarlet if this is done in public.. or in front of friends (the kiss of death).  So hug them, put an arm around them, pat them on a cheek or tousle shaggy hair.  Just do it.. and do it a time or two every day.. because this means something.  To them it means they are still adorable to you, even though they are older and awkward.  It teaches affection.  And to a mother, it can be oh, so satisfying.

11.  We will fall on a sword for our children. But too many of us do it even if it’s wrong. One mother in the Midwest sold her son’s car because she told him one of the rules was no drinking, and she found a beer bottle under the seat.  She did not witness the act of drinking, but despite claims the bottle in question didn’t belong to her son, she put an ad in the paper to sell the car, touting herself as “the meanest mom on the planet.”  She received calls from all over the country.. parents, emergency workers, hospitals.. all thanking her for the courage to take a stand.  It’s hard to do this.. but mothering is not a popularity contest–although some of us try to make it into one.

12.  Don’t take it personally.  Mothers do this.  We pout or induce guilt, we turn into martyrs or screaming machines.  They are children.  They’re younger than we are. They are still learning.. even if they are 17-years-old.  The benefit of our years and experience comes in handy here.  That, and a look at the big picture.  If we are functional at all, and show we care even a little.. they love us.  Don’t worry.

13.  Expect goodness.  Children will do “bad” things sometimes.  They will, of course, balk at requests, chores, authority, and clean underwear.  But there is a lot of good there.  Teenagers can be disrepectful and downright mean.  We teach them appropriate behavior and start over again.  They are individuating.. they have to do these things.  Look for all that’s good..  grades, positive behavior, reliability, kindness.. and let the compliments flow free.  Expect it all.. but especially the good.  It’s there for the taking.

Feb
20

I’ve become part of an online community for women over 50.. It’s an amazing place full of blogs, articles and rich with the experience and wisdom of many lifetimes.

I may check in here from time to time.. but most of my blogging will be at Women Etcetera. Check us out!

http://www.womenetcetera.com 

Nov
18

The hackles.. oye, the hackles. Just when I think I’m beyond this, it happens all over again.. and it’s never pleasant. However, tonight, the justification for my pointed and intense conversation with a teen aged son was too much to put aside. It had to be done–and it was.

A friend of his shared, with what I felt was great insensitivity, some of my son’s shortcomings. I know this because I was present. The ‘friend’ held nothing back in what I felt was a rude presentation involving his own opinion and what he called the opinions of others. I listened, incredulous, while my son, a young man dealing with his own awkward adolescence, soaked it all in. I could tell he was a bit embarrassed, disappointed, and yet anxious to learn social mores from his friend. Finally, I could no longer stay silent.

My first inclination was to turn around and slap the boy who was dispensing this vitriol with a sickening ‘I’m just trying to help,’ sweetness. Like hell, he was. I sensed his own bias and my blood boiled to a fever pitch. But, my son is a teenager, and mommy to the rescue is not the approach that will work in the long run. Instead I pointed out a few (not all) fallacies in the friend’s delivery. He backed off a bit, perhaps feeling he had overstepped a few bounds. Well, duh.

We dropped off the friend and my son was quiet, but not despondent. However, the damage had been done. A friend, someone he considers a good friend, didn’t shut up when he should have.

I felt hot tears behind my eyes.. and while my son seemed OK, I wasn’t. He heard things about himself, spoken under the guise of friendship, that should have never been said. I took a few moments alone and resolved to address this with him, even though he was on to something else.

I made him turn off the TV and look at me while I spoke. I wanted him to hear what I had to say and see me say it. I told him his friend had been rude and insensitive.. and that while there was a grain of truth to one aspect of his diatribe, most of it was bunk. I told him that if he never heard anything else I said to him as a teenager.. to hear this: there is nothing wrong with you. Don’t believe for a second you have to be like anyone else. Yes, you are quirky and individualistic. If people don’t get this about you and think you are weird, you don’t want to know them anyway. You will find your people and they’ll get you. Don’t think you have to be someone else–ever.

Somewhere in my venting, I used the wording of “not giving a rat’s ass about what someone else thinks.. but being true to yourself.” This made him smile. I rarely, if ever, use the word “ass”.. I made him look me in the eye and hear my tone. I wanted him to know I was deadly serious. I think he got it.

He will hear things others say about him.. all of us experience this.  I can’t stop that. But I can teach him how to process them.. and provide him with tools to deal with criticism– warranted or not.

To me, tonight’s episode felt like an attack on my child. I can only imagine how it felt to him. Although, boys handle these situations with more detached indifference than girls. But I saw in his eyes what I saw.. and my heart would not allow it to just sit there and become worse, without some sort of parental intervention. He is, after all.. only 14.. hardly equipped to sluff off such things without at least some degree of consideration.

Someone attacking your young is so much worse than an assault on oneself. I hated this.. but after setting the record straight with my boy, it feels cleaner, better.. and more hopeful than just letting him sit in the sludge doled out earlier this evening.

He will see and associate with this friend.. but an adult he trusts has given him the truth about what was said. Maybe it will help. My heart can hope.