Kidding myself: An awkward age

This weekend I had the delicious opportunity to hold some babies.  Is there a more lovely feeling than the warm trusting weight of a 3-month-old wee one, curled in toward your neck and sleeping on your shoulder? It blisses me out. Sigh.

Not once but twice (twice!) the following conversation happened with two different people:

Young, mid-20-something mom walks by and notices me holding baby: "Aww. Look at you! Practicing to be a grandma?"

Me: ...

Okay, so let me just say up front that I am absolutely looking forward to being a grandma. Someday. I think it will rank right up there with the most fantastic and wonderful of gigs--in the dim, rather distant future.  But just because I have an 18-year-old daughter doesn't mean I'm actively practicing to be a grandma or that it's even on my radar screen. (Hear that, Lauren*?)

On the other hand, I am newly 42 which is very much an awkward, generationally ambidextrous age. I get it. Some 42-year-olds are grandmas, after all. Biologically it's possible. Others (including several of my friends) are still having babies themselves. 

It wasn't out of line to say. They were being friendly. It just surprised me! Aren't I just a little past mid-20-something myself? 

No, for me it was an abrupt paradigm shifting moment, like those optical illusions where some people see the young lovely woman and others see the old hag**. Our ward, for example, is pretty brim full of young moms and pretty scarce on the ones at my stage. Suddenly, I realized how they must see me! I think of myself as their peer but they must think of me pretty much as their mothers' peer! OY. 

. . .

*of course, the irony here is that I made my own lovely, young mother into a grandmother when she was just shy of 48. So I'm one to a talk, huh?

**I'm definitely not implying that grandmothers look like old hags. Just using it as a vivid demonstration of the shift I experienced...

Fail.

I'm over at Segullah today, writing about failure and its lessons.  Do stop by and even share a story, if you're so inclined.

Lunch language

unrelated picture but I love how they ended up posing just the same, down to the shape of their hands

Saturday morning.

We divide to conquer the day's list. Greg takes Sam with him to the barber (both need trims) and the dry cleaners, I take the girls to Costco for supplies for the trip and food for the party we're hosting when we get back from vacation. The humid air makes quick work of my hair and my clothes cling to me, damp and unflattering. We get the cart loads packed into the car, drive home, unload and put everything away. Surveying the room with our looming departure in mind, I move on to the laundry, replacing dry with wet and wet with dirty. And there's always more where that came from.

You know the drill.

In the middle of it all, Sam arrives home and, trailing me while I carry piles of laundry upstairs, asks his usual question "when are we having lunch? I'm hungry." I sigh, loudly. There's so much to do. And it feels like we just finished breakfast.

"Sam, you know where everything is. You can make it yourself, can't you?" (Once I heard someone ask "What, are your arms painted on?" and that's how I feel in this moment.)

"Um, okay." His voice trails off as he backs up down the stairs, trailing his hand down the banister. "I didn't know if we were getting it ourselves or if it would be more...together."

I watch him take his deflated self back down to the kitchen, trying to figure out what his deal is with lunch. Everyone else in the family is always content to grab something on days like this, happy to tailor the timing and content of lunch to their own preferences. No big deal. But not Sam. He's always trying to organize us into a midday meal.

Guilt-nudged, I follow him down and enlist his sandwich-making while I peel fruit. We sit down together and share communal chips and salsa. He chatters happily about Louie and contradictions and plans for middle school and the book he's reading. And thanks me three times for doing lunch.

And then it hits me.

I don't know why it's taken me so long to realize.

Lunch is his love language. Or one of them, anyway.

It's a revelation. Huh. Kids have a love language, too, not just venus-and-mars married couples. This bit of obviousness has completed evaded me before now.

Of course I knew he really likes lunch, but I suddenly understand that it's more than just a preference for my daily servitude. For him, it is connection. It is proof I care enough to stop and spend time with him. For me, lunch is simply nourishment and work. For him it is like a family sacrament, where simple bread and peanut butter transform miraculously into a dose of love.

Well. This I can do.

Now if I can just convince him that wiping up the table crumbs and putting dirty dishes in the dishwasher is my love language.

The call of shame

Last week I completely forgot to take Louie to his vet appointment, a make-up appointment for one I had to cancel.  I got a somewhat irritated message on my machine ("I don't know what happened, but you didn't come for your scheduled appointment. Please call and schedule another.  It's important that he's seen regularly." ).  Because I don't love using the phone (and especially when the other person is irritated with me), I waited until this Tuesday to call and make another appointment. As soon as I said my name, the receptionist knew who I was.  

"Oh yes, Louie's owner.  I have you right here." (translation=you are on our black list now).

I apologized profusely and tried to be charming.

Maybe it worked, maybe not.  But she offered me an appointment at 3:45 that afternoon.

"Great!  I'll be there."

That evening, we're having dinner and I look down at Louie.  I've looked at him all day but that particular glance reminds me.  Oh my WORD. I forgot to go to the appointment today. 

What kind of person can't remember to go to an appointment she has made that very day? One who is losing her mind, that's who.  They didn't even bother to call and leave an annoyed message.  If I was on the black list before, now I was on the outer darkness list.

So it had to be done.  The call of shame.  To make a THIRD make-up appointment for my dog in less than a week.  Was the frosty reception on the other end of the line my imagination? No.  I oozed humility and shame and apology.  We made the appointment and I could tell the receptionist was thinking "I won't hold my breath."  Ugh.  So it's come to this: I'm that person now.

Side story: When Lauren was 4 or 5, we went on a road trip.  Greg worked at a crazy-hours DC law firm so every stitch of the packing was left to me.  And the food for the car ride. And the entertaining games and coloring books.  And the beach toys.  We finally got in the car and were about an hour into the trip when Lauren asked "did you bring Pink Bear?"  I slapped my forehead.  "Oh, Pink Bear!  No, honey, I forgot.  I'm sorry."  Silence for a moment.  Then Lauren piped up "Geez, Mom, can't you even remember two things?"  Of course, it did no good to explain that I had actually remembered 10,497 things and had forgotten one.   

So, of course, here I am again.  The vet thinks I can't even remember two things.  But I want to make a copy of my calendar and bring it in and say "look here...these are all the appointments I did remember this week!  This is everything I'm keeping track of, so if I blew off the 5-minute shot appointment, I'm sorry.  But I'm really actually quite dependable."  

Instead, Project Help Mom Remember was instituted, a shock-and-awe reminder system. Maddy made a sign for the fridge LOUIE VET 9:30 TODAY.  Lauren texted me at 9 "remembr Louie 9:30."  Greg called from work.  Everything short of a string around my finger. Mission accomplished!

Playing big

Today as I was watching my daughter's violin lesson, her wonderful teacher Cate asked "Maddy, do you consider yourself to be someone who holds pieces of herself back & tries to take up less room? Or do you think of yourself as someone who opens right up and shares with everybody and isn't afraid to be noticed?"

"Well...both, I guess." (Which is true...she does both. Maybe we all do.)

"Hmm. Right now your violin is asking you to open up more.  To be bigger.  To take up space. To share more of what you're feeling through your music.  It's a great invitation!  Can you do it?"

Meanwhile, I'm over on the scratchy sofa, inspired and inwardly nodding my head and saying "Yes, I can, Cate. I will play bigger.  I will share. I will take up space."  

My life has been asking that of me lately, too, and it's scary: a challenging new church calling, for example. A chance to step up and demonstrate what I've learned in an unfamiliar setting. And a lingering desire to express myself in writing.  I'm a walking contradiction (um, my first blog was called Ambitious Homebody...that about sums it up). I want to rise to the challenge that opportunities bring.  But I also crave staying well within my comfort zone.  Preferably with jammies on. Pieces of this Nelson Mandela passage have been rattling around my brain so I had to go look it up:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

Amen, Nelson Mandela. You know what you're talking about, sir.

[I have edited this a couple of times as I've thought about it further. Sorry for the re-publishing!]