50-something Moms Blog

Slope Climbing

Today all the kids were away and I decided to garden. As in pulling weeds and getting dirty. And it damned near killed me.

We had gardeners once. We had a really great team to come in every Friday and I so loved how manicured everything was.  We were just getting ready to have them do some real landscaping for us when I got laid off.  Paid gardeners were the first thing to go. And I wept a little bit.  

In a neighborhood where there is tremendous curb appeal and pride-of-ownership, our house is the eye sore. I hate that. And I'm quite certain my neighbors do too. And I have noticed a lot of weeds coming up like corn stalks and my neighbor across the street is trying to sell her house so I thought I should get to it before I was asked to. Because if it ever got to the point where anyone had to ask, I would be so embarrassed that I would have to move. Its bad enough to know they are thinking it.

Facing the Scale

I was cleaning out my wallet the other day and deeply embedded in one of the credit card slots was a very old but never used card - the one that says I am a member of a gym.  

Gym.  That word looks strange in view of the fact that it is seldom written, let alone uttered, by me.  I hardly even notice when they automatically take money out of my account every month so that I can have the privilege of keeping this card.  But I have heard tell that you can actually go to a gym.  So I finally got off my lazy butt to check it out for myself.  Low these 6 months after joining.

Once inside, it is clear that I don't belong.  These women are in shape and they even look like they are enjoying themselves (or at the very least, they are not crying).  They have done everything possible to make this gym "spa-like".  In fact, there is a day spa attached.  No men at this facility.  Lots of equipment, spacious rooms for classes and, oh yeah, mirrors.  Walls and walls of mirrors.  Which means I have to see.  

I am not fooled by the lovely facade.  This is a place of pain.

Too Much Rope

When my three older daughters were just babies - before any of them could really talk coherently, I clearly remember sitting with them at a roadside "Denny's" on our way to Grandma's and wondering what they would be like as adults.  What would they look like?  What would they have to say?  What would a restaurant experience feel like without a spilled drink all over the table?  

That day, they were interested in who was sitting in the booth behind them, what disgusting thing they could find under the table, how many trips to the potty they could get out of a 45 minute stop, sugar packets and what it felt like to bathe in pancake syrup.  I longed for the day when I could control them better, reason with them, share a meaningful conversation.  Mostly, I longed for the day when I could relax as a mom. 

Such a joke.

My oldest is 21 and my twins are about to turn 20 in a couple of months and I long for the day when I can control them better, reason with them, share a meaningful conversation and relax as a mom.  Obviously, I have learned that this day does not exist.  

Facing Puberty and Menopause - All in One Day

When my now 10-year-old was about 5, she asked me one day: "Mommy, when I am a teenager are you going to be a grandma?"  I replied easily: "Well I suppose its possible but that would mean your sisters would have to be married and have children by then."  She quickly rephrased.  "No.  Not are you going to be a grandma, are you going to look like a grandma?"  I pretty much stopped looking at mirrors after that.

I have to admit that in the 5 years since she posed that question, gravity has certainly done its job but I still clean up pretty well with the help of my arts and crafts kit (makeup) and my support system (spanx).  I don't feel 52.  Or at least not how I thought 52 would feel like.  So it didn't really occur to me that I am definitely older than the majority of the other moms at school.  They are still skinny and pert and they still put on makeup before they leave the house - even if its just to drop little Alison off at school.  Okay, so I'm not one of them.  I am not 30.  Oh yeah.

It isn't so bad.  I had three other daughters, now grown, for whom I was more age appropriate.  And in fact, there are a real good handful of us late 40s/early 50s moms doing carpool.  I really don't notice it. Much.  No, really.  It's not an issue.  I mean who cares anymore?  Okay, I'm lying.