Aging is not the enemy. Not aging is. Put THAT in a commercial, Lancome.

     When you have very small children, and you're writing instructions in your will to your legal replacement about forwarding the parts with Ursula the Sea Witch and the right way to go for a walk (plan for about an hour per block; everything gets appreciated and discussed) and the importance of memorizing all the words to "In an old house in Paris that was covered in vines" (you haven't been schooled until a four year old reprimands you with disappointed gravity), you are in for a bad night.
    This is the moment where you will find yourself paralyzed by the incalculable weight of a mother-shaped black hole in the lives of the little ones you swore to protect from harm, because you've realized that you're the one who is going to hurt them the most, in the end.  You will think of all the holidays, the birthdays, the average days. You think of your child wearing a photo of you in a locket on their wedding day, so that you can be there 'in spirit', or maybe, instead of a locket, there's a tattoo of your name along her ribcage, like a mortal wound. You're blinded by tears now, no chance of finishing the will; instead, you stand in the shower and howl into a soaked towel like an abandoned wolf in a trap, all the while trying not to wake little dreamers with feety pajamas.

     It is a crucible, this illness.  It will reshape your skin, your bones, your flesh, and eventually, your mind. Your vanity stands as much chance as paper in a fire. Not only will you not care about wrinkles and muffin tops, you'll forget that you ever did. 
     Your tether to a normal life, simple routines, like the listen-to-the-dishwasher-run-while-you-watch-tv-as-a-family type kind, will disappear under a mountain of dirty laundry, neglected bedtime routines, uncared-for children.  Your body swings with wild circles of the pendulum, from swollen to skeletal and back again. You can judge how you look by the way a stranger's eyes pass over you; those are the good days. On the bad days they will flinch, unable to hide their initial grimace of shock.  

     Every useless visit to a doctor, every trip to the ER, every listless hour staring at the crack above your bed, you will leave parts of yourself behind. Some days you are already a ghost, moving through a house left clean by other women.  You smile lovingly at the children playing in the family room, their games new and unknown to you. They seem very far away, those little ones. Part of you knows this distance should concern you.

      And then the wheel turns again. There is no dramatic call from the hospital, no dropped phone from nerveless hands, no opportunity to burst into tears while thanking God, no triumphant announcement to the family, no "We're out of the tall grass, it's all downhill from here, they said I'll die an old woman." No chance for tried and true cliches. Instead, slow dying will quietly turn into slow living. The work of putting a storm-wrecked family back together will be even slower.  I am thirty four.  I cry the day I turn thirty five. 

     The day I turn forty, I drive to the mall with the children and buy an overpriced tube of the reddest lipstick I can find. The pretty saleswoman is barely out of her teens. I tell her it's my fortieth birthday. I probably seem a little intense for a makeup counter. She tells me not to feel bad, there's wonderful anti-aging foundation she'd love to show me. I tell her today is one of the best days of my life and she smiles uncomfortably as she hands over the tiny black paper bag.  

     One day my child, now a pre-teen, will discover a silver strand in my hair. I'm sitting in the library, using the computer, my daughter standing behind me, running her fingers along my head, and the man at the computer next to us most likely thinks us insane as we laugh out loud.  I say "No. Really?" She says "Really. For real, it's there. It's silver, no, maybe it's white, oh wait, there might be two," and we laugh again and slap high five and she wanders off. The man scowls and moves down one chair. I feel like a six year old with their first loose tooth.  I've been released from limbo; that progressive direction so obvious and easy for the rest of the world is finally mine for the taking. Forward: the motion of functional people. 

     I am healthy now, with a few insignificant exceptions, and I see the years stretching in front of me, immeasurable bounty. I am greedy for all of it.  Every year is a win. I know the enemy now. It isn't getting old, it isn't looking old. It is not being there to see my children grown. Time is a bitch, no two ways about it, but I fear lost time, time not spent with loved ones, time without a future, the kind where pages are ripped out of the book before the end of the story. That's the real enemy, the one that makes my blood run cold. 
      It is defeated it with every silver strand, every laugh line, the changing shape of my aging face, my obviously middle-aged hands, my increasingly middle-aged concerns.  It's defeated by the casual evenings I spend with the girls, laughing at sitcoms while the dishwasher runs in the background, the kind of lifestyle that makes bohemians shudder and cross themselves. We have shared jokes that only we understand. We have memories of board games, walks by the lake, the winter we all took turns having the flu, burned suppers, arguments over dirty laundry, overly short skirts, and clothes borrowed without permission. Our memories. Ours. We three. Not my legal replacement. Not well meaning, loving extended family. I am here. I am victorious. I am winning. 
     Outsiders see an unremarkable woman, just another soccer mom, nothing to note, except, perhaps the unusually heavy circles under her eyes, and an un-toned, decidedly non-MILF body, legacies from chronic pain and a whimpy thyroid. There is nothing more pedestrian and unassuming than soccer mom life, hours spent grocery shopping, knitting in line at the bank, driving to school, to games, always driving somewhere...outsiders see a beat up minivan, a tired looking soccer mom, two teens, most likely snarling at each other, or scowling at me.
     They don't know they're looking at veterans of a war. They don't see that we're winning. They don't understand; they have their own worries, their own fears and struggles.  We don't mind.  We are gracious in victory.

thank god

The girls and I saw tiny white buds on a Tulip Tree today.
I think we made it through winter.
Thank god thank god thank god.

It's been a bad one.

The sun can't come soon enough.

Shut up about your organic lifestyle and keep your photos of beautifully prepared food to yourself. I'm not kidding.

     Here's the thing.  I'm not deliberately poisoning my kids.  Yes, they are teens, and we occasionally have moments where we are not blinded by a glowing ball of family love, but I am seriously concerned about their health and well being. As an invested, loving mother, I read books about food, articles about nutrition, blogs about lunch time and snack time and the most important meal of the day.  I know organic is better than inorganic. I know local food leaves less of a global footprint and is usually better for you.  I watched Food, Inc. I read Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver, about the year she and her family tried to eat locally, and were surprisingly successful. I've read the Michael Pollan books.

     But here's the other thing. I can't remember the last time I bought organic, locally grown food.

     Because here's the third thing: I'm broke. All the damn time, I am broke.

     My daughter's first semester of college? It's on a credit card.  God knows when I'll be able to pay that off, let alone the next four plus years of tuition. My high school kid came home last month with the class fees bill in one hand and a cookie/magazine fundraiser in the other. It took the entire year, last year, to pay the two hundred dollar school bill. I have to find eighty dollars for a track uniform and traveling money, before February.
     My car? It's a piece of crap Toyota mini-van, twelve years old, with a semi-functioning muffler. The drivers window takes thirty minutes to roll  up because of tweeky wiring. The side door that is supposed to open and close with a button? Busted. It's been fixed two times already, and I can't afford any more mechanical expertise. The front light is hanging out after a driver's ed type learning experience. Don't even get me started on the gas mileage. So that's the car situation.
     My dishwasher is broken, the sprinkling system is broken, the side window on the house is broken. I try to repair what I can (fixya.com type pages are consulted more than a few times a month), but even home repairs take money. The laptop is broken (bought new with a warranty from BestBuy, who refused to fix it, may they rot in bankrupt hell). Are you getting the picture? Many things need money, only a few things get it.

     The girls are savvy; they don't ask for money unless it's absolutely necessary. They are old enough that they know it could be much worse, that many, many people are in a very bad way. They help out, they bargain shop, they do what they can. They are better than good kids, they are great kids. If you knew them, you would adore them. They are the opposite of a bad generation. They know just how far a dollar doesn't stretch. They study, they volunteer, they do chores. Like many terrific people, they deserve better. But when my kids come to me and say they need five bucks for this school project, ten bucks for that one, and come on mom, it's only a few bucks for the school dance/game/team supper/etc, I have to re-budget the week, and sometimes it's the difference between macaroni and cheese out of a box and a real supper with real food groups.
      That decision, the one between boxed pasta and real food? That is the point I'm trying to make. I know how risky it is to feed growing children crappy food. I'm well aware of the potential consequences. Indeed, the idea of certain inherited health problems descending on my children puts the fear of God in my heart. I very much appreciate the gravity of the subject. I think pesticides are a menace. I have no desire to decimate the bees and butterflies. My personal garden is one hundred percent pesticide free. Of course this means that I'm fighting bad bugs and plant decimating fungi with homemade quasi-effective homemade remedies like mouthwash and chewing tobacco, because I can't afford the more effective store bought organic solutions.
     There is a marvelous, independently owned natural food store just down the road from us, full of locally grown food and organic products. It does very good business with the community at large, but not, unfortunately, me. I can't afford to shop there. I can't afford the organic food anywhere. I'm trying to afford enough food for growing teens, period. The the food system is broken: it is absolutely true that it's cheaper to eat crap food, I can attest to that first-hand. I spend hours looking up the 'healthy and cheap' recipes, and hours more searching out bargains at Wal-Mart and Aldies. I wish healthy and cheap were synonymous, but mostly they aren't.
     Lately, I have started to resent all the books, articles, movies and blogs about organic food and pure eating, with their close up photos of beautifully prepared food and articles waxing rhapsodic about the latest supper party with cherished friends and consummately prepared recipes 
     I didn't realize I held anything more than guilt and envy toward any of it until I realized, a few months ago, that I had jaw pain from gritting my teeth while reading yet another summary of a blogging mommy who had changed her family's life for the better because they went green. I became fully aware of my angst after reading a list in a respected health magazine that listed  the ten fruits and vegetables that should never be eaten unless they were certified organic. I'm sure they didn't intend readers to snarl "Eat this, motherf*$%#*" after being illuminated with helpful advice, and I'm not saying I did, but I can't say I didn't, either.
     Listen, I love food. Who doesn't? I love cooking, eating, talking and reading about food. I don't, however, love shopping for food. I don't shop in stores where the food is beautifully presented and the grocers are smiling and helpful and delighted that you are there with them. I am always amazed at the hordes of people who do shop in places like that. Apparently they are doing okay in this economy, because some fruit, bagels, chicken, and rice can set you back sixty dollars in these happy bastions of gastronomy. I, on the other hand, shop in stores where people pick stuff up, stare at it for a minute, and then reluctantly put it back on the shelf. We all wear crappy clothes and look tired. It isn't a joyful experience of choice and prosperity; the stores have bad lighting, no music, hostile, overworked staff, and discounted, dented groceries. There isn't an organic section, but there is food that is significantly less money to buy than anywhere else, so I don't care about the decor or the lack of choice. Even so, even having found a shop that is within my budget, my stomach hurts when I shop. I spend a lot of time looking up recipes, writing out lists, budgeting every extra cent to lend to the grocery bill, and still walk the isles with a stomach ache and gnawing regret.
     I'm done with blogs, shows and magazines that warn me of the dangers of inorganic food and the upsetting facts of the American diet. I know, okay? I KNOW. We're all fat and unhealthy and don't eat enough fruits and vegetables and we're raising children who don't know how to eat. Goddammit, I know all this. I'd be happy, nay, delighted, to go back to the days when my kids were young and ate broccoli and hummus for snacks. The only thing I worry about more than money is my kids future, specifically their health and happiness. But I just can't afford to feed them the way they deserve to be fed, and take care of them the way they should be taken care of. Like I said before, many things need money, few things get it. In the meantime, don't tell me about the dangers of this and the poisons of that, because the one thing my kids are not, is hungry. They eat enough, if not the right things, and that is a blessing that lets me sleep a little at night. Don't take that away from me, too. It's not much, but it's what I've got.

You are only as happy as your unhappiest child?

My mother used to say this phrase. All the time. ALL the time.

I hated it. I used to tell her she was co-dependent on her children; she would laugh, but she didn't take it back.

You are only as happy as your unhappiest child? Nonsense, I would say. How about, you are as happy, if not happier, as your happy child? Surely this is the essence of co-dependency, this shared misery? This cannot be good mental health, I said.

I didn't just hate the idea behind the words, I hated the words themselves. Things were the way they were; homey catchphrases didn't express, define or change my reality. I thought my mother oversimplified things, I thought she didn't have her own emotional life. I thought a lot of things back then.

Now? Now I am the mother of two teen girls. People, I will tell you, this world is HARD on teen girls. Teen girls are, frequently, very, very sad. Oh my god, are they sad.

Lately, I am sad, too. My teenage self would writhe in disgust, would spout heated words like "co-dependent" and "their life isn't your life." I am a slow learner in everything, even so, I am surprised by just how sad I am, when my daughters are sad.

Sad is like happy: simple words for un-simple emotions. To say I hurt because my children are hurting is like saying the ocean is big. Words fail me. Words have failed me all year.

I had actually forgotten about the stupid phrase. I had blocked that thought for decades. And then this year happened. Both of my children are on antidepressants. Both of my children currently struggle with anxiety, body image, self-esteem, self-loathing, millennial pathos. Both of them have come to me, in the middle of the night, a few months apart, and told me they didn't think they could handle things anymore. Both are struggling with sorrows beyond bearing, both say they won't ever be happy again.

I have lived long enough that I know it isn't true. But right now? It feels true.

I have spent sleepless nights weeping quietly into pillows, while an almost grown body curls into mine with the sweet, trusting sleep of a child. I have tucked bed covers burrito style around my daughters, tight, to keep them safe, unconsciously sighing along with my child from the relief of old habits. I have gone to bed alone and awoken to the forgotten sensation of pins and needles in my arm while a child burrows into my side, head pressed into the softness of my bosom, searching for animal comfort, a safe, warm body.

I remember that I would rather let my arm literally catch on fire than disturb a sleeping child.

The dumb, ridiculous phrase came into my head in the middle of the night. I was gazing at her sleeping face and thought, "I am only as happy as my unhappiest child."

In my mind, I rose from bed, walked to the kitchen, and slammed my head repeatedly against the wall. In my mind, I am stronger than this. You can't even needlepoint it on a pillow; that's how stupid the words are. In my mind, I got back into bed and used my aching head to form intelligent, well reasoned arguments against cliche' ridden vapidity; I sorted out all the reasons why a semi-intelligent adult could still live a happy, fulfilled life while sympathizing with her upset daughters. Happy adult to the right, sad teens to the left.

I almost wish it worked, the way it worked in my mind. I almost talked myself into it. I know the difference between sympathy and empathy. I embrace the idea that the cornerstone of good parenting is stability. The idea that my child's successes and failures are MY successes and failures is repugnant to me. These concepts have always worked out for the better, in my little family.

This year is different. This year the children are sad. This year I am sad, too.

YES YES GOD THIS THIS

                                           Somebody that I used to know, Star Wars version.
                                Much funnier than the South Park episode about the same subject.

R.I.P.

                                     Here lies Sock.

                   

Pretty colors, lovely yarn, good needles: sock had every advantage and no excuse for its behavior.

Sock led a short, irritating life and will be missed by no one.  

I ignored its tiny woolen tears and scratchy promises to do better next time, and, as promised, laughed and laughed while I unwound the little bastard.

Here are the Sock's remains: more interesting and amenable on Gir's head than it was capable of being in all of its fourteen frogged incarnations. 

Ever since I learned how to knit socks, I've always had one or two to work on, to carry around in my purse and keep me entertained while watching tv or in long lines. I thought I would miss not having one to work on, but I don't. Not at all. 

After all the aggravation, I find the general lack of socks very peaceful. 

Maybe Sock was, in its own tedious, unhelpful way, trying to tell me that it wasn't really a sock. Maybe it dreamed of curling around an arm, soft and warm, the way the best gloves do. Maybe Sock was a rebel with a cause who longed to break out and morph butterfly-like into a small shawl, or even a beret, thus paving the way for other sock yarns to follow. Maybe Sock, poor old Sock, is a martyred hero who will rise from yarny ashes to become something better than it dared dream of, like a cat sweater. 

Rest in pieces, Sock.


Speaking of laughing while you kill something; Bob Schneider

I might be killing a sock tomorrow.

     My pedicure unintentionally matches the sock I'm knitting (kid #2 says that showing this much joy over matching toes/sock and then taking a picture of such is more proof that middle age is a curse beyond bearing).

This is what crazy looks like.

                                                         

     I've used this yarn before and loved it. I've used these needles before and loved them. I've used this exact pattern many times before and loved it. The colorway is a pretty blend of blues and greens and tweed mixes of both. For some magical reason that escapes me, I loathe this sock. I've frogged the heel eight times. I've frogged the leg three times. Nothing is enormously, specifically wrong, just a few fiddly, easily fixed problems, and yet I've come to despise this sock with the kind of deep, personal hatred that I usually reserve for Best Buy. 

     I feel like I have to finish this sock, and then the pair, because that's what you do, right? You finish what you start.  I'm going to have to reach deep inside my soul for the fortitude to even knit one more row. I might have to watch some Nike commercials. This sock is making me wretched. To wit:

Dear sock, 

All your friends knitted up just fine. 

I know comparisons might upset you,

but honestly, what is your problem?

Surely you know me well enough by now


to sense your future is in peril. 



Even the needles have noticed

that you aren't trying.

Is it the pattern? I have others.

Maybe the thought of being worn on a foot bothers you?

I've got a fingerless mitten pattern,

or maybe a shawl.

I bet it could work.

I don't tell you this because of any love for you, 

it's because I'm trying to do right by you,

but you better get your shit together 

or I'll laugh and laugh while you unwind into nothing.

P.S. You make me crazy and not in a good way. I'm watching you. 

Signed, 

someone who probably shouldn't own sharp pointy sticks right now

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