Posts Tagged ‘midlife’
Cindy on October 14th, 2009
You can never go home again, but the truth is you can never leave home, so it’s all right. ~Maya Angelou
When my son Nate first left home for college, I felt strangely out of place in my cleaner, quieter house. I wasn’t ready to call myself “an empty nester,” and my early coping strategy included listing all of his holiday breaks on our kitchen calendar. I looked forward to being Mom again — if only for a few days.
Two weeks before Nate returned home for fall break of his freshman year, I channeled June Cleaver and planned a few family meals. I stocked up on Nate’s favorite snacks. I reorganized my deadlines, freeing extra time to take him out for lunch. I retrieved the Halloween decorations earlier than usual, stringing rows of miniature pumpkin lights and autumn leaves across the mantel in our living room. My husband repaired the plaster damage from a roof leak in Nate’s bedroom, and then repainted it.
As soon as Nate walked in the side door, the epiphany struck: What the kid really needed was a low-key week. Stressed-out from exams, our son wasn’t expecting a Martha Stewart fanfare or nostalgic pot roast dinners. He’d been looking forward to sleeping in and simply hanging out with family and friends. He wanted home — in all it’s normal, chaotic splendor. In my efforts to turn his visit into a special event, I’d forgotten that Nate didn’t want to feel like a guest in his own house.
Realizing my error, I backed off and let the week unfurl without a plan.
In retrospect, the high points of that visit were the times we ran errands together. Driving to the dry cleaner, the grocery, and the drugstore, Nate and I chatted about his new classes, his friends in the dorm, and which Guster CD was the best. College had turned my snarky teenager into a thoughtful young man, and I found myself enjoying his company. At last, I felt ready to move on and enjoy this new phase of motherhood.
More than wrinkles and gray hair, our kids never fail to remind us of our own aging. Overnight, they morph from preschoolers in OshKosh overalls to college students in size 12 running shoes. Along with applauding their first steps toward independence, letting go requires that we come to terms with the fact that time won’t stand still for any of us. It’s a sobering thought — and ever more poignant when autumn rolls around.
Last week, I watched the neighborhood teens pose for homecoming photographs in their formalwear. Giddy with anticipation, the girls could barely stand still while a group of proud parents focused their cameras. The boys struggled to look comfortable in freshly pressed suits, not-so-secretly hoping that the photo opportunity would end quickly. Their youthful beauty took my breath away, and my heart ached a little.
It occurred to me then that my days of snapping photos of prom gowns and homecoming suits were over. And I wondered: Had I fully experienced those moments as they unfolded, or had I merely captured them in my camera lens to savor later? How often had I darted mindlessly from one major event or field trip to the next? In my efforts to make things memorable and special, what else had I overlooked? It finally hit me, as Carly Simon sang, that all we really own is the present moment; that these are the good old days.
It’s a worthy thought to ponder before the onset of the winter holidays — before we get tangled up in Christmas lists and decorating marathons and long lines at the malls.
In anticipation of Thanksgiving, I’m composing a little prayer of gratitude for the mundane and the uneventful. I’m counting my commonplace blessings: the bowl of McIntosh apples on the kitchen counter; the mischievous cat chasing the pens on my desk; a lazy morning with the Sunday paper; a hearty bean soup simmering in the slow cooker. This season I’ll practice coming home to the present, to the grace of ordinary days opening one at a time, like the paper windows on my Advent calendar. — Cindy La Ferle
Cindy on September 18th, 2009
There’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.” — Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland
Somebody once said that high school is “the mouse race that prepares you for the rat race,” and I suppose there’s a glimmer of truth in that. Like a pair of cruel shoes, my high school days were among the most painful in my life.
I attended a public high school in the early 1970s. In those days, especially if you lived in a small Midwestern town, conformity was key. So there I was, a flat-chested drama club nerd and closet poet in a school where accomplished jocks and curvy cheerleaders ruled. Social life typically revolved around Friday night football or basketball games — but I had to fake any interest in sports. Trying to fit in, I tried out for the drill team but was chosen as an alternate, which meant I had to make all the practices and learn the routines, but I didn’t get to perform at the games unless another member was ill.
Come to think of it, I felt like an imposter throughout most of high school.
My real definition of “teamwork” was shopping for props and costumes for the school plays. And I adored the drama teacher. Not surprisingly, a lot of kids snickered behind his back, secretly questioning his sexual orientation. I still credit him and my humanities teacher for making high school bearable and interesting.
But the English teacher took a serious dislike to me. Of course, it didn’t help that I sat with chatty classmates and talked too much in literature class. Regardless, this teacher doubted my budding writing skills, and wrongly accused me of plagiarizing a term paper on the subject of medieval chivalry — a subject I loved and read about voraciously. She nearly flunked me out of senior English, which pulled my GPA down a peg or two. Not to mention my pride.
In other words, in high school I received little encouragement for the things I truly loved and excelled in. To their credit, my parents had tried early on to send me to a private school that specialized in the arts. I had been courted and accepted by the arts school, but chickened out at the last minute.
Before I go on, I need to insert here that I met some of my very best friends in junior high and high school. I also began dating Doug, the sweet guy who’d later become my husband (and still is), in my sophomore year. You’d think I would consider those years The Best Ever. But they were not.
Twenty years after graduation, I remained so embittered by my high school experience that I wrote a downer of an essay for the Detroit Free Press Sunday Magazine. The essay chronicled the awful time I had at the high school reunion Doug and I attended in 1992. Unfortunately, the reunion took place a mere three weeks after the sudden death of my beloved father, and I was in no mood to party with anyone.
Reading between the lines now, I realize that the Free Press essay (which is reprinted in my book, Writing Home) really wasn’t about the 20-year reunion. Though I wrote about feeling awkward in a roomful of grown-up classmates, my unease had little to do with them — and everything to do with repressed grief and the ghosts of my own insecurities. More than anything, I think I was trying to explain how sorry I felt for the creative girl inside me who had struggled to emerge in high school.
So it might come as a surprise when I tell you that lately I’ve been reconnecting with former schoolmates on Facebook — and genuinely enjoying it.
It all began last year when I found Robert, the free-spirited guy who played opposite my lead in the all-school play in 1971. My favorite memory of Robert is the time he and I staged a protest after one of our dress rehearsals got canceled on short notice; we’d been told to move our entourage elsewhere, since the school auditorium was needed for an athletic event. Enraged, Robert and I led a small march (I think there were four of us) to the local school board, ranting all the way about how sick we were of playing second fiddle to the basketball team. On Facebook, I was thrilled and proud to discover that Robert had moved to Chicago, where he became an award-winning journalist and author with several fine books to his credit.
Of course, once you crack open a few pages on Facebook, it’s hard to stop.
Before long, I started hearing from other schoolmates. Earlier this summer, Colleen contacted me to ask why I had stopped writing my column in the local newspaper. I was flattered to learn she’d been reading it for years. When she “friended” me on Facebook, Colleen said she wondered if I would remember her. As she explained it, she’d been “a rebel” in high school, and we didn’t hang with the same crowd. But I did remember. And even though I was a drama nerd, I’d always secretly admired the “rebels.” Unlike the jocks, who were too frigging cool to dress up in costumes, some of the rebels had the guts to try out for the school plays.
From beauty queens to band nerds, my classmates are a fascinating bunch now, and I’m proud of them. Their profiles and family photos reveal that they’ve crafted rich and interesting lives over the past 37 years. One is a psychotherapist; another is a fitness instructor; several work in education, finance, and medicine. Some even share my political opinions, and it’s been fun airing our views in private messages. Others, having been through their own share of medical crises, are at the ready to help with mine. Last week, when I mentioned in my Facebook status that I was struggling to find a neurologist for my mother, several friends sent recommendations — complete with addresses and phone numbers.
All said and done, midlife is a lot more fun than adolescence. It makes us kinder to each other. It sharpens our perspective and thickens our skin — wrinkles and sags be damned.
Like my classmates on Facebook, I’ve endured several crises and turning points, and these have shaped the woman I am. I’ve given birth to an amazing son, come to terms with the loss of my father, and, more recently, watched my only uncle die a slow death from pancreatic cancer. I’ve survived two hip replacement surgeries and learned to walk again. I’ve driven my elderly mother to emergency rooms, and watched my son graduate from college. I’ve happily celebrated nearly 30 years of a nurturing marriage.
But it’s been years since I’ve cared enough to keep score. Grades, trophies, contests, degrees, salaries, and other so-called measures of achievement or popularity no longer mean much to me. Best of all, I’ve finally made peace with my inner drama queen, who now finds expression through writing and the visual arts. I give her free reign now. – Cindy La Ferle
Painting at top: “The Lady of Shalott,” by John William Waterhouse; The Tate Gallery
Cindy on August 2nd, 2009
Memory is a way of holding on to the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose.” – from The Wonder Years
Special note: I’ll be back soon. Meanwhile, here’s one last excerpt from Writing Home. This essay first appeared in August of 2003 in my Daily Tribune (Royal Oak, MI) “Life Lines” column. It speaks to every middle-aged mom who’s preparing for a child’s launch to college…
Lately it seems as if I’ve swallowed summer in one big gulp, like the last swig of Long Island iced tea on a scorching afternoon. I wish I had more in my glass.
I turned forty-nine this month, and already I’m wondering how to make forty-nine last as long as I can possibly stretch it. Oh, I plan to age gracefully — no dragging my heels into my fifties. I’d like to become one of those plucky old women who wear purple and “learn to spit,” as the Jenny Joseph poem goes. But not so fast.
Recently, Nate and I were having a mock philosophical discussion about the velocity of time. He was anxious for the new family car we’d ordered, which had been delayed in production. To him, the days weren’t accelerating fast enough; time was stalling like a faulty engine. Later he complained that summer break was ending too quickly. His senior year of high school started last week, and I’m still trying to wrap my mind around that idea, too. We’ve been shopping for colleges since May, and applications will be mailed soon.
Just one more year.
Another mom, whose only child is my son’s age, also tastes the bittersweet tang in this last swig of summer. Our lives will change too, she reminds me, when high school ends.
This will be the last year we rush to nuke meals in time for play rehearsals and tennis games.
This will be the last year we quit work early to snag front-row seats at concerts and award banquets.
This will be the last year we snap photos of our kids in tuxedos and prom dresses. And the last year for school uniforms, bagged lunches, bake sales, teachers’ luncheons, fund-raisers, permission slips, and field trips.
Of course, there’s the sweet ring of freedom in all of this, too. Don’t think it hasn’t occurred to every middle-aged mother who stands teary-eyed on the same threshold.
I chose to work at home when Nate was younger, combining freelance writing with Tiger Cubs and carpooling. Later on, I tried to stay involved in high school activities. Meanwhile, I’ve put a few dreams on hold, not to mention the career goals I’ve filed away. I’ve looked forward to the time when I can start my day without checking the school calendar.
But I’ll miss other aspects of having a kid in school. I’ll miss the sense of community I’ve felt while comparing notes with other parents; I’ll miss all the Mother’s Club meetings and school conferences. And I’ll miss the incomparable satisfaction I get every time I work on projects for young people.
This hit me on the long ride home from the campus of the University of Notre Dame, which I toured earlier this month with Nate and three of his closest friends – Andrea, Lauren, and Ryan. Though I’ve known these kids since they were small, it had been a while since we’d spent so much quality time in my compact station wagon. Between long stretches of road construction, periodic rain showers, and Guster blaring on the CD player, I remembered how much I’ve enjoyed the easy laughter and awesome energy of these kids. And I’m excited about this next phase of their lives.
But whether they head for Notre Dame or Michigan State next fall, I’m going to miss them.
As we drove closer to home, my backseat crew quieted down. The sky cleared, and one of the richest sunsets I’d ever seen suddenly appeared in my rearview mirror. My right foot instinctively moved toward the brake pedal – as if that would make it last a while longer. I didn’t notice the cars tailing me on the expressway until Nate pointed out that I was driving like an old woman, way below the speed limit.
Just one more year. Pour it slowly, please. -- Cindy La Ferle
The above photo of my son Nate and his friends (“The Crew”) was taken last summer during a BBQ celebrating their college graduation. (Nate’s the guy goofing around on the left.) Since many were preparing to leave the state for their new jobs, this was the last “Crew-BQ” we’ve been able to have so far. Ryan and Lauren were already out of town and not able to make the Crew-BQ — so they’re missing from the photo.
Cindy on July 15th, 2009
“You can learn many things from children. How much patience you have, for instance.” — Franklin P. Jones
Special Note: On break from blogging, I’m running favorite pieces from my essay collection, Writing Home. This one recalls my first attempts at camping when my son was younger. Share your own camping memories in the comment link following the essay …
Thanks to my previous career as a travel editor, I know how to rate a mattress and a motel bathroom. I’m right at home in a wicker rocker on the porch of a quiet country inn, sipping a tall glass of Long Island iced tea while watching the sun dip behind a mountain range.
But until my son joined Cub Scouts two years ago, my getaways did not include wilderness adventures. To me, communing with nature meant reading Thoreau or potting begonias on the patio. Spending a weekend in the woods of rural Michigan — with a chorus of bull frogs, sundry snakes, ticks, two dozen little boys and their suburban-Detroit mothers — didn’t sound like my idea of a good time.
Like most parents, however, I’ve learned to adapt. And while I am not exactly what you’d call a happy camper, the Scouts have taught me to appreciate the Great Outdoors. In fact, this fall I’ll embark on my third annual “Mom & Me” camping weekend with Nate’s pack. These weekends were designed to encourage mother-and-son bonding, and to refute the theory that women will not sleep with insects.
I’ve also learned that the travel writer’s motto, “Always pack light,” doesn’t apply to north woods camping. On our first outing, for instance, Nate fell into a bog within fifteen minutes of our arrival at the camp site. He had to borrow my hiking boots until his own dried out the next day. Meanwhile, I had no choice but to tour the swamp in soggy tennis shoes.
“This weekend is an endurance test for parents,” one mom confided, half-seriously.
The following year I stuffed half a dozen pairs of boots into the back of our Jeep, but forgot my own raincoat. Of course, that was the weekend it poured and poured … and poured. I’ll never forget the sight of six devoted moms building a campfire in the evening drizzle. (We were determined to do this thing right: We were going to roast every single hot dog and melt every marshmallow we’d hauled along with our Dura-flame logs.) Our boys, however, were smart enough to hide from the rain. Searching the campground by flashlight, we finally found them in one of the cabins playing Life, the board game of the moment.
“Bring the hot dogs in here,” one nine-year-old demanded as he scooted his car-shaped marker across the board. “I’m getting ready to sell one of my houses and I’m having a midlife crisis!”
If we’re very lucky, the hike to the public restrooms is only 15 minutes (uphill) from our campsite. The trick, I found, is to keep a spare flashlight in your sleeping bag so that you can grab it quickly if nature calls at 2:00 a.m.
Nobody sleeps much on these weekends. The kids are buzzing on caffeine, having consumed several gallons of Pepsi and Mountain Dew. The moms, smelling like a bonfire and desperately wishing for one hot shower, toss fitfully in their sleeping bags while the boys play flashlight games and tell ghost stories.
“Did you hear the one about the one-eyed man who went berserk in the north woods and was NEVER FOUND…?”
After two nights like these, the long drive back on Sunday is tolerable only with a mug of instant coffee and the promise of a warm bath. Completely exhausted, Nate and I usually ride home in silence. But last October, on the way home he mumbled, “Thanks for the weekend, Mom…Great weekend.” It was a rare moment of sincere, unprompted gratitude.
Catching a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror, I remembered I wasn’t wearing makeup. My eyes looked older, and in an instant I saw the years racing past me like the cars on the expressway. My boy looked older, too, his lanky body slouched on the seat next to me. Suddenly, that weekend — my endurance test — seemed awfully short. I was proud of myself for hiking swamps and building fires in the rain. – Cindy La Ferle
– This essay orginally appeared in The Plain Dealer Sunday Magazine (Cleveland) and MetroParent (Detroit). It is reprinted in Writing Home. –
Cindy on July 1st, 2009
“No one really knows how you must change. Not even you. Not until you start.” — David Viscott, Risking
Working on our new/old house in St. Joseph last week, I spent a lot of time thinking about change, restoration, and reinvention. Designed by Frank Lloyd Wright in 1957 — just a few years after I was born — the house (like me) needs a little updating. And so, nearly every week, my husband and I head west on the highway, then roll up our sleeves and go to work on the place. We patch roof leaks, polish cupboards, weed gardens, clean carpets, scrub rust stains from vintage bathtubs….
There’s a wonderful view of the St. Joseph River from the house, too, and I like to admire it when I take breaks from my chores. Watching the parade of boats on their pleasure trips, I thought about how my middle-aged friends and I are all in some phase of transition.
Many are journalists or automotive workers who’ve lost jobs or are facing major career detours. Some of us have just gotten used to the freedom of the empty nest, yet suddenly find ourselves caring for our elderly parents. A few are convinced that the river of change will lead us to new and exciting adventures, while others aren’t quite sure where to steer next.
But this much I know for certain: It’s hard to slow the current when our culture keeps urging us on to the next big thing; when we’re valued more for what we achieve than for who we are.
I’ve also discovered that renovating an old house is a lot easier than reinventing yourself (or your career) midstream. But as the poet Rilke advised, sometimes we need to pull back from our busyness and “live the questions.” And so, as the river tells me, I’ll let myself drift awhile, and simply take in the view.
Cindy La Ferle is author of Writing Home, an essay collection on home and family topics. She blogs weekly at Cindy La Ferle’s Home Office.
– Photo of the St. Joseph River, by Doug La Ferle –
When my son Nate first left home for college, I felt strangely out of place in my cleaner, quieter house. I wasn’t ready to call myself “an empty nester,” and my early coping strategy included listing all of his holiday breaks on our kitchen calendar. I looked forward to being Mom again — if only for a few days.
