Sorry, I Couldn't Hear You Over All The Crinkling

I had one of those moments the other day, something that has been happening more frequently.   I was talking to a friend of mine and we were joking about morning hair.   I was laughing about how when I woke up that morning my hair looked like the lead singer of the Flock of Seagulls.

"What?"  she said.  "Your hair looked like a seagull?"

So I busted out an 80s dance move and said, "You know..  I raaaaan.  I ran so far awaaaaaay,"  and she looked at me like I'd lost my ever-loving mind.

It hit me that she didn't have the first clue what I was talking about.

"The band?"  I clarified.  "Flock of Seagulls?  They were huge in the early 80s?"

"OH!" she said, and I sighed in relief until she went on to say, "Sorry, I was born in 1978."

She's thirty two?   NINE years younger than me?

I have this habit of thinking everyone is just like me.   I meet you, we become friends, and I just presume you're my age because we get along so well.   Sure, maybe I notice you must have a better anti-aging cream than me, because you don't have one frigging laugh line.   But it never occurs to me that you might just be younger than me.

With one exception:  I can't figure out the age of anyone under twenty-five.   I'll think someone is barely out of their teens when she'll casually mention she's in her residency at the local hospital.   She's about to become a pediatrician, for crying out loud, and I was about to ask if she had a driver's license.

Suddenly everyone is impossibly young.   At the second grade open house I was introduced to a lovely young woman - I'm thinking she's a nanny, perhaps? - who went on to explain that she's the TEACHER.   I went to have an annual physical and the doctor's dewy, unlined face was more than a little disconcerting to me.   Call me old-fashioned, but I want my doctor to be downright craggy, weighted down with life experience and tomes of medical knowledge.  

I was chatting amiably with my dentist a few months ago, rambling on about my children, and I finished by saying, "But what are you going to do.  Kids, you know?" 

"Actually, I don't have kids yet," he said, aiming for my mouth with a terrifying pointy instrument.  "I'm engaged and getting married next year.  Open wide!"

Don't get me wrong.  I'm not worried about aging, or getting older.   I loved turning 40.   It felt liberating to be at a life stage where I didn't have to wring my existential hands and wonder what the heck I was going to do when I grew up.   I am the grown-up.   Right?

The kids don't help, though.   The other night we were having dinner, and Finn was talking about how he wanted to be a Dad one day.

"But then you'll be the grandmother, Momma,"  he said.

"I can't wait to be a grandmother," I smiled.

He was quiet for a minute, poking at his peas, and then he looked up sheepishly and said, "But, Momma?   Could you try not to get too crinkly?"

Sure, kid.  I've got hundreds of dollars worth of facial creams upstairs that are trying to do just that. 

"Everyone gets wrinkles," I said.  "It's natural."

"It's okay to get a little crinkly," he replied.   "Like the ones you have around your eyes?   Oh, and your mouth?   And those right there on your forehead?  They're okay.   But, if your neck gets really crinkly that would be too weird."

Last weekend we went for a walk on some forest trails on a beautiful autumn afternoon.   I felt alive, vibrant, kicking my feet through the leaves and breathing the cool air.   Greta and Finn were walking ahead of me, shoulder-to-shoulder.  I commented on how cute they looked together.

"Oh, we're tour guides,"  Greta said casting a glance my way over her shoulder.   "And you're our customer."

"What a lovely tour!"  I exclaimed, falling into my role.   "What gorgeous leaves!"

"AND THIS HERE IS THE TRAIL THAT LEADS TO THE WATER," Greta boomed.

"Why are you yelling?"  I asked.

"Oh," she said.   "It's the Senior Citizen tour.  I wanted to be sure you could hear me okay."

By Dawn's Early Light

It is 4:30am on July 4th, and it is my 41st birthday.

The early morning birds chirping outside my window wake me, and I decide to give myself a birthday present.

It is still dark out, the very first wisps of light are coming over the horizon. I quietly dress in a sweatshirt and shorts, sneak outside and walk next door to the lighthouse.

We are out at our beach camp.    It’s a rustic cottage on the end of a four mile peninsula that juts into the ocean.    There are about forty homes out here on the point, where there is no electric power, only solar panels to run basic lights, and propane powered refrigerators and stoves.    We have running water, although you have to run a gas generator to pump up the water pressure before taking a shower or doing dishes.

This is the first year I have internet access out here, but I use it sparingly, because in order to charge my computer battery I have to plug it into the generator.   We get completely off the grid. I love that the kids don’t even ask for television - there is simply too much to do.    Long lazy days at the beach, cookouts, roasting marsh mellows, board games, reading.

There is a pack of neighborhood kids who run wild like sun-bleached wolves.   Every evening there are games of capture the flag and man-hunt.   Each night the kids fall into bed, exhausted but happy.

~~~

This morning I want to see the sun rise.

As I make my way in the dark, the tiny lighthouse beam sweeps silently over my head.  

Years ago, the tower contained a huge bright bulb that produced a wide arc of light, but it required several large gas guzzling generators to operate.   Now that the lighthouse is no longer needed for navigational purposes, this new small bulb is solar powered.   It is our constant, steadfast nightly companion, this lighthouse, and in the chilly predawn darkness I am grateful it is there.   

Up on the point, looking out over the cliffs, the view is breathtaking.   I close my eyes, and breathe the invigorating salt air.

Last night we stood on our deck and watched colorful blooms of light flare all along the horizon – fireworks displays of neighboring towns across the bay.   Steve and I stood nestled together in the cool evening breeze, Finn in my arms, Greta resting her head against my chest.

“I made these fiyahworks for you, Momma,” Finn said. “Happy Birfday”.

“Aren’t you the lucky one, Momma,” Greta grinned, “to have all these people celebrating your birthday.”

As the first rays of light peek over the horizon, I think about how lucky I am.

July 4th can be difficult in sobriety. Not only is it one of the most alcohol sodden weekends of the year, but it is also my birthday, so the first sober July 4th was, well, endured.    Last year my husband surprised me with a trip to Bermuda for my 40th.    It was an amazing vacation, and I thought about drinking less than I thought I would, but there were still some tough moments.

Last night, as we watched the fireworks displays, I looked around at the groups of adults huddled together, clutching their glasses, laughing a little too loudly.   “Bottom's Up!” I heard someone shout, with the reply “Happy 4th!” and the clinking of glasses.

I braced myself for that internal wince – the one that reminds me that I’m an alcoholic who can never enjoy one drink again.

It didn’t come.

I squeezed Finn a little tighter, and he rested his head on my shoulder, his warm arms encircling my neck. Greta squealed in delight at the colorful bursts of light and sound. My husband placed a comforting hand on my back.

I didn’t want to drink. Not because of fear, the I-can’t-have-one-because-then-I’ll-have-twenty kind of fear.   Not because I’m an alcoholic in recovery and I can’t drink in safety.

I didn’t want to drink because the moment was perfect just the way it was.

This morning, at the lighthouse, I think about hope. 

I think about how the tiny beam of light pierces the darkness, leads the way for a weary traveler.   When the sun's rays crest the horizon, the tiny light winks out, no longer needed.   But when the darkness comes again, and it always does, the little light will shine again.

The sky is awash in light and color.    Every day is a fresh start, a chance to begin anew.   A re-birth, if you will.

I feel the sun's warmth on my skin, and I smile.    Life is good today.    Happy Birthday to me.
  

Becoming That Woman

Ever have one of those moments, where you suddenly pop outside yourself, and realize you've become that person?    That person you couldn't ever, possibly, be old enough to be?  

This happened to me this week.    I was at the hair salon, getting my hair foiled and cut (for the one or two guys that read this blog, "foils" is a fancy way of saying I was getting my hair dyed).      As she is foiling and snipping away, my hairdresser tells me she is expecting her first child.

"OH MY!" I exclaimed, and my hands went all fluttery.    "How exciting!  Your first!  Oh, it's so exciting, your first child!"   On I went, using exclamation point after exclamation point.    She smiled patiently, and kept foiling away.

And then I became that woman:  the one that used to prattle on and on to me when I was pregnant with my first.   At the grocery store, the salon, Babies R Us - everywhere I went it seemed these middle aged women were popping out of the woodwork to go on and on about their first pregnancies, their c-section scars or how many hours they pushed, their colicky babies, their sleepless nights, their - EW - episiotomies (for the one or two guys who read this blog I'll spare you the details).    All this TMI was followed by some Disney-esque exclamation, like:  "Oh, but it's such a magical time!"

As I'm prattling away, I suddenly look as myself in the mirror and I really see myself:  a middle-aged woman getting the greys dyed out of her hair, foils sticking madly off my head, bags under my eyes, and - gulp - an age spot or two on my hands.   My hairdresser hasn't said a word in about ten mintues.   I didn't go so far as to talk about c-section scars or episiotomies, but I came really close.

When did this happen?   When did I become the woman of two school aged kids, who won't be having any more children, who is talking to young pregnant women like we're peers?    I realized, with some horror, that she is about ten years younger than I am.   

Throughout my tirade she smiled patiently, nodding her head on occasion, waiting me out.   She's used to it, just like I was.    I know she's thinking the same thing I was when this happened to me:    whatever, lady. 

I stop myself, and leaf through my Us magazine for a minute or two, sheepish.   Finally, I ask what I wish other women would have asked me:  "How are you feeling?   Are you excited?   Nervous?  Have you started buying baby stuff yet?  Are you registered anywhere?"

She smiles openly, and starts chatting away about how she isn't getting morning sickness, she wished she would start showing, she doesn't feel like she has that pregnant glow.    She talks about the nursery they are preparing, the little onesies and booties she can't stop buying.    She isn't thinking about the actually giving birth part, yet, she is wallowing in the warmth of expecting, of becoming.     She is radiant.

"Congratulations," I say, and I mean it.    And then, of course, I say it:

"It's such a magical time."

A Wrinkle Cream Named Denial

"I think I'm using the wrong facial moisturizer, or wrinkle cream, or whatever," I whisper to my friend. "These women all look at least five years younger than me."

I'm at a playgroup run by a local organization - a way for Moms to get together one morning a week, bring their kids, have a cup of coffee and do a little socializing in between breaking up toddler fights. When Greta was small, we went every single week without fail. We were new in town, and it was a great way to meet other Moms with preschool aged kids. Greta always wore cute little seasonally appropriate outfits -- her socks even matched her hair ribbons. I would be showered, dressed to the nines and well accessorized before we left the house, ready to make small talk with the best of them.

"Wow, that's a head scratcher," my friend whispers back, rolling her eyes. "Maybe that is because they ARE at least five years younger than you."

I look around and realize she's right. When did this happen? Most of the Moms there have one preschooler and a toddler or a baby, or maybe they are pregnant with their second child. They are talking about teething, immunizations, and when to wean. Their dewy complexions taunt me.

I haven't been to this playgroup since Greta was three and Finn was an infant. Today, along with my friend's son, Finn is the oldest kid in the room. My friend and I are sitting off to the side, silently sipping our lattes and grateful for a few moments of peace. We have no interest in small talk; silence is golden in our lives. We are the oldest people in the room.

I have become, without noticing it, that harried Mom of school aged kids I used to see in the supermarket. I would be primly pushing my adorable 19 month old along in the cart -carrying a bag full of snacks and drinks for her in case she got hungry or thirsty, along with an educationally enriching toy or two - and wondering what in the heck those other Moms are so stressed about.

Now I know. They are stressed because their 1st grader decided she is a descendant of polar bears and won't wear her coat even in 20 degree weather. Their 4 year old, who didn't have to go to the bathroom when they left the house, is whining that he has to go potty. There is no food in the fridge, and they have to bring cheese and crackers (no peanut products, please!) to the classroom open house the next morning. They have already carted their kids to the library, soccer and CCD, and have to get back to get homework done, dinner on the table and complete the entire week's reading log in one night.

I am lucky if my kids are even wearing socks when we leave the house, let alone matching ones. My daughter won't let me anywhere near her hair with a brush, and prefers to pick out her own outfits - even if it is a tee shirt and flowy skirt in December. Now, instead of obsessing about cute accessories, I find myself saying, "no, you can NOT wear socks with flip flops. It's snowing."

And me? Long gone are the days of showering and doing my hair before I'll step foot outside my house. In a bitter twist of irony, I used to get all dolled up because I wanted to be presentable and put together so I could meet new people. Now I know a lot of people in town, and they are all shopping at Target on the morning I go there hoping my pajama bottoms can pass for sweatpants, my hair sticking out crazily under the baseball cap I crammed on my head as I ran out the door.

I should stop worrying about playgroups and facial moisturizers and have some Moms of pre-teens over for coffee.

I have a lot to learn.

The Present

I have always loved back-to-school time. As a kid, I was at my happiest organizing new school supplies - Trapper Keeper, pencil case, new folders. Life felt full of promise - an opportunity for a fresh start. September has always felt like New Year's to me - even at 40 I am still programmed for the academic year.

The crisp fall air gets my mind going - I get nostalgic, wistful. I think about where I am in life, all the things I thought I would have done by 40. It is laughable, really, how little my life resembles where I thought I'd be at this point. At 30, if I had seen a snapshot of my life today I wouldn't have believed it. Jewelry designer? Recovering Alcoholic? Stay-at-home mother? No way. At 30 I was still chock full of dreams of success in Corporate America. On the verge of getting married, I looked forward to becoming a mother and working full time - enjoying, in my mind's eye, the best both of those worlds had to offer. I marvel at my confidence back then, my belief that I had it all figured out.

But life, of course, has a way of giving you what you need, not necessarily what you want. Working in Corporate America and being a Mother completely overwhelmed me - I felt inadequate in every way - an under performing employee and a negligent mother. I chose to stay home full-time, imagining instead a life out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Wrong again. Tripped up by my own unrealistic notions, I slipped deeper and deeper into the despair of addiction. Looking back, it is easy to see how I set myself up for failure. Dreams are wonderful. Expectations? Not so much.

Greta loves to look for the first star she can find at night and make a wish. Then she turns to me and asks what I wished for. Each time I say, "I wished for my family to be healthy and happy."

"But don't you want stuff? Like maybe all the beads in the world? I wished I could have every Webkinz. And if I can't have that, I want every Littlest Pet Shop. In the whole world."

I smile, thinking of all the things I would have wished for when I was younger - heck, even last year - and how off track I would have been.

I was rubbing Greta's back as she fell asleep the other night, and as she drifted off she whispered "Momma? I love my life." And I realized - I love my life, too. It is just that I forget to remember that sometimes. It seems so, I don't know, final? complacent? to just stop and look around and say yup, everything is just the way it should be.

So this year, instead of getting caught up in my usual Fall Frenzy, I am making only one resolution: No Resolutions. Life comes along at its own pace, and when I get caught up in all my "should haves" or "want tos" it is just me trying to wrench control of the inevitable passage of time. Here is another thing my jaded, cynical, sarcastic self wouldn't have said a few short years ago: Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, all you have is today - which is why it is called the Present.

Heaven

We're back from Bermuda. It was an amazing trip - perfect weather, so relaxing, great food and lots of reading of trashy novels (and one great book - Breakfast with Buddha - HIGHLY recommend it if you haven't read it).

It is a trip that will go down as one of my all time favorites for many reasons. First - it was a surprise from my husband. He told me a few months ago that we were going away for my 40th. This set me thinking (something I should never do). I pictured a weekend camping trip somewhere up North, like New Hampshire. I thought camping, because it is something I don't really prefer to do, and my husband loves to do ... so what better opportunity than to "surprise" me with camping?!?! On the camping thing... he claims I pulled a total bait and switch on him - when we were dating I said I loved camping, and the moment we were married I said I would never sleep on the ground voluntarily again (I had also told him I liked mountain biking, which was a complete and total lie designed to entrap him in my clutches).

He didn't do much to allay my fears when I pressed him for details on where we were going.

"Are we camping?" I asked.

"Define camping," he said.

Sigh. "Are we sleeping on the ground?"

"Define ground," he said.


It went on and on like this until my imagination got the best of me and I had us dog sledding across the frozen tundra of the Arctic and sleeping under elk pelts.

So I was understandably ecstatic when I learned we were heading to someplace tropical. It was the perfect place for us ... a crazy little resort called "9Beaches". It is a pretty array of cloth sided cabanas which sit ON the water. Literally. There is a little plexiglass hole in the floor where we could watch the fish swim by. Rustic and comfy all at the same time. Perfect.

We went out to a nice dinner on my birthday, but otherwise travelled economically -- stuffing our suitcases with granola bars and beef jerky and other non-perishables to save money. We had our own little beach right off our cabana, with a scenic (and shady) cave and direct access to water that hovered around 85 degrees. Heaven.

And as I mentioned before, it was good to miss the kids. Not that I didn't think of them constantly, but it was amazing to reconnect with my husband, finish sentences, and walk hand in hand on the beach. Alone. Everywhere I went, there were reminders of the kids, which was bittersweet.


"Greta would LOVE that shipwrecked boat!" we exclaimed. It was over 100 years old, and reminded us of the boat in one of her favorite books: "Burt Dow, Deep Water Man".


"Finn would go crazy chasing after all these geckos and frogs," we said.

It was a mixed blessing to be just two adults on vacation. I am so used to being Greta and Finn's Mom... it was odd to be treated like we didn't even have kids. We saw many families there, and it made my heart ache a little.

I will pick them up at my Mom's tomorrow. We called them tonight when we got back, and Greta was chatting away about all the fun things they did. Finn kept repeating, over and over, "Momma? I missed you!". I feel like the luckiest person on the planet to have these two beautiful kids to come home to. I can't wait for the endless questions, the sticky hugs and the long summer days. Heaven.

Look Back, But Don't Stare

As I mentioned, I am not wistful about birthdays. At least, not about getting older. Today is the eve of my 40th birthday, and I am thinking about things despite myself.

I'm sitting here in Bermuda - a surprise gift from my husband Steve. It is beautiful - peaceful, sunny and completely relaxing. My kids are having a ball with my parents for the week. Life is good. It is really good.

It is impossible for me to take all this in, however, without my mind pinging back to where I was just two years ago. Even though I am very open about my recovery, I don't talk often about the specifics of a darker time in my life, but now I feel compelled to get it out - write it down and move on.

I don't remember the eve of my 38th birthday. On July 3, 2007 I was seven days from falling apart completely, but I didn't realize it then. I was the last to know how bad things had become. This is how it usually works with addiction - you have worked hard for years to construct what you think is a perfect veneer. All around me, family and friends could see the desperate shape I was in, and I thought everything was just Fine, thank you. The reality of my life was this: I was in late-stage alcoholism. I hadn't eaten solid food in eleven days. I couldn't stand for long periods of time. I couldn't go more than an hour or so without a drink. Instead of having a wake-up call, I dug deeper and deeper into my addiction - clinging to it, thinking it was the only thing keeping me afloat, when in fact it was steadily dragging me down... drowning me.

To someone who has never suffered from addiction this seems unfathomable. My husband, family and friends were watching this smart, funny, loving person slowly kill herself. No amount of pleading, threats or illness could make me see how bad it was. Denial, the cornerstone to addiction, is a powerful, powerful thing. I don't think I can find words to describe what that kind of denial is like. It is like your mind builds itself a beautiful castle - you decorate it with all the trappings of life - ornate and shining. You put your family, your children, your life inside it. You want the world to see this shimmering testimony to your success, your emotional well-being, your normalcy. As things get darker and smaller in your life, you add more trimmings - like movie props - hoping that nobody will notice you have built this castle on quicksand. Addiction enables you to ignore the truth. If, on occasion, a glimmer of how bad things are bubbles to the surface and you see how tenuously you are holding on, your addiction tamps it right down.

And, before you know it, your addiction owns you. It calls all the shots. You don't want to think about that too much, so you drink more, or you use drugs more, and your addiction gets stronger and stronger. You are its slave.

I was completely desperate, scared and alone when I turned 38. Sure - I had friends - plenty of friends. I hid my secret dark world from all of them. The people closest to me were beginning to wonder why they never heard from me anymore, why I was always 'sick' and couldn't make it to events. I didn't leave the house because I couldn't hide it successfully anymore, and I wasn't about to stop. I thought it was the glue that held me together.

I am one of the lucky ones. My husband and my family got together and intervened. I ended up in long-term treatment. I left my family, my children, my friends for essentially the whole summer of 2007. I went into treatment absolutely terrified. I wanted to stop, I didn't want to stop. I could not fathom living a happy, rewarding life without alcohol. It was my liquid courage, my steadfast companion.

When I emerged from treatment, I had no idea who I was anymore. I didn't know how to return to my life. My husband, who is one of the most amazing people I know, stood by me, but he didn't enable me for a second. He was very clear that this was a one-shot deal to turn my life around. We made a pact that we weren't going to dwell in the past, only look to the future, one day at a time. And for the first time in a long while, my future was up to me. The idea scared me half to death.

I didn't know what my friends would think - would they accept me? Would I have any left? And my children - oh, my children - what do I say to them? How do I make it all better for them when I am terrified to the core.

Little by little, though, we healed. I went to meetings and met the incredible people I know today who hold me together like glue. I healed. I learned that I don't have to make it all better... I just have to be better. That my actions speak a thousand times louder than my words. I learned from my kids how to live in the moment, be grateful and joyous about the little things in life. How to forgive. How to love myself just as I am, with all my imperfections. It takes time - it takes a long time - and a lot of hard work, from everyone. And more than a little patience, understanding, acceptance and love.

If someone had shown me a snapshot of me, sitting here in Bermuda on the eve of my 40th birthday, relaxed, serene, grateful and free I would not have believed it. Since getting sober I have built a beautiful relationship with my husband, my kids. I have more friends in my life than I ever could have believed. I have started a little business that brings me great joy. I am sitting here writing about my recovery with pride, honesty and determination - talking about the very things that nearly killed me. It is an important lesson I try to remember every day. Running from the things that make me afraid only makes the fear chase me harder. Turning around, planting my feet, squaring my shoulders and facing them down makes them shrink, or disappear altogether.

A good friend of mine in recovery said a beautiful thing the other night. He said "in recovery, you get to write your own endings". In the throes of alcoholism, once you put a drink into your system you no longer have control over what happens to you - alcoholics react differently to alchohol than 'regular' people ... for alcoholics it seeps into our core, our identity, and it takes over. I get to write my own endings now. This doesn't mean I have control over what happens - far from it. It means I get to be present for everything life has to offer.

In some parts of the country, they call your sobriety anniversary (your sober date is the first time you went 24 hours without drinking or using) "Birthdays". I understand why. Because you get to be re-born. You get to begin anew. You look back at your past, but you don't stare. You look just hard enough to be grateful for all you have now.

Untethered

My husband Steve gave me my 40th birthday present last night - he surprised me with a trip to Bermuda. We leave on Thursday morning, and will spend four days right on the water, enjoying the sun and relaxing. The kids are staying with my parents for the week - I dropped them off this morning. I am beside myself with excitement - Steve and I haven't been away alone together on vacation in many, many years. It is an extravagance for us ... but this year is also our 10th wedding anniversary, so we're splurging.

I have two days home here without the kids before we leave. I don't know quite what to do with myself. I spent the first hour or so walking around my house in a daze - no little hands pawing at me, no requests for juice, nobody was following me from room to room. I'm not peppered constantly with unanswerable questions. I made jewelry, and didn't have to get up every four minutes or so to break up a fight or look for a lost toy. I had a lovely trip to the post office.

I got my hair done. My hair done! Instead of hovering over my sink haphazardly trimming my bangs with the kitchen scissors, I had my scalp massaged. I went to Target (man, I love me some Target) and picked out some nicer clothes for the trip. And by nicer I mean pants and shorts without drawstring waistlines and shirts without stains. I found a long flowy skirt and a cute pair of sandals. I tried everything on, without a kid opening the door to the changing room and randomly exposing me to people. I didn't have to worry about Finn crawling under the changing stall and horrifying the woman next to me. I luxuriated in making decisions about what to buy. I perused the book aisle for an hour. I saw a Mom there negotiating her kids through the toy aisle. She looked exhausted. I felt this strange compulsion to go up to her and say "Hey - I have two small kids, too - I'm not usually this relaxed!".

Tonight Steve and I had a quiet dinner at home, just the two of us. We watched whatever we wanted on TV. We finished sentences. We finished thoughts. We could wander off and do what we wanted, without having those quiet negotiations at every step: you want dishes or bath time? if you put them to bed I'll tidy up the kitchen. We sat on the porch after dinner and watched the sunset. We chatted.

I feel completely untethered. I can't remember the last time I could just dart out of my house to do an errand - no fumbling for kids' shoes, diaper changing or bargaining endlessly to get out the door.

I keep waiting for the guilt to show up - a vague feeling of uneasiness that I shouldn't be enjoying this time so much. That I'm supposed to miss them unspeakably, and be worried that they will be too homesick, get a sunburn or a tummy ache and I'm not there to comfort them.

But you know what? It isn't there... the guilt isn't there. I'm thoroughly enjoying myself. I know they are safe. I know they are happy. They adore my parents and will spend 7 days being showered with attention the likes of which they can't get full time around here. I am wallowing in this time, because it is precious. I don't want to waste it feeling badly that I'm not with them. Right now, it just feels too good to be free. Towards the end of the week, I will wallow in the fact that I miss them... it will feel good to miss them, because it will make being together again feel special. For me and for them. Too often we get so used to each other that we all kind of disappear a little. I caught myself looking wistfully at a picture of them on the refrigerator - a picture I see a hundred times everyday and don't even notice.

So while my husband and I will have some time to reconnect, the kids and I will too. Because we will miss each other - a lot - and when I get back a normal day will feel that much sweeter.

On Turning 40

In nine days I will turn 40. Usually birthdays don't give me pause - I don't spend a lot of time thinking about getting older. Maybe it is because emotionally I feel like I'm about 28, or perhaps I'm happily in denial. Either way, I have never been particularly wistful about birthdays.

But it is impossible to hit a milestone birthday like 40 and not think a little. And then, of course, there are the comments from friends, who do seem to think 40 is a big deal. "My God," a friend of mine said recently, "we're halfway to 80!" Thoughts like that are precisely why I don't think about age much.

I kept a journal for years. I wrote almost daily for nearly 10 years, starting at age 18. Less so as time progressed, and hardly at all in the past five years. Nostalgia drove me to open these journals recently, and I smiled back at my younger self as I read through the pages. I saw something I had forgotten about: I used to keep lists. In my early 20s I felt a compulsion to document my life that bordered on ridiculous. It makes me think of one of my favorite sayings: I may not be much, but I'm all I think about. I would divvy up my life into catagories, and make lists immortalizing myself (at least in my mind's eye). Here is a sampling of lists I made on my 19th birthday:

What I hate: my handwriting, violence, insecurity, loneliness, chipped fingernails, sororites, arrogance, authority.

What I like: Red Revlon lipstick, Fleetwood Mac, road trips, leather jackets, Almaden wine, flirting, independence, my dog.

What makes me scared: being alone, feeling out of place, anyone being angry with me, people leaving, death.

What makes me happy: warm socks, a room full of people I know at a party, a beautiful spring day, driving my jeep, a lazy day in my robe reading a book, a good converstaion with someone I didn't know I liked, getting a letter in the mail, a smile from a stranger, a new term - a chance to do anything.

It is ironic .. these lists wouldn't be much different today. I don't do much flirting anymore, unless it is with my husband and then he looks at me skeptically, wondering what I need from him. Almaden wine would be scratched from the list (or perhaps switched to 'what makes me scared'). I still have terrible handwriting, and an enduring fear of conflict. And I'm still not a joiner; if suburban Moms had sororities (some would argue they do) I still wouldn't like 'em. I have switched from Revlon to Loreal lipstick, but I still love my leather jacket, although my husand (who is more conscious of trends than I am) won't let me wear it out in public anymore.

What I learn from my 19 year old self is this: the things that I need to be happy are very simple. Life gets complicated as we get older: careers, marriage, houses, children - all of these things mire us down in the day-to-day grind of life. It warms my heart to see that at 19 I understood the value of a warm pair of socks, a good book and friendship. I think I understood them then better than I do now. These days it is far too easy to overlook the simple goodness in life.

So, at 40, I would add only a few things to my list of what makes me happy: the flash of my kids' smiles, giggling, creativity, my little family, peace of mind.

I have also lost some fears - I am no longer preoccupied with what other people think about me. I love being alone. I don't fear death as much as think of it as the next step, whatever that is. And I have gained things I cherish - gratitude and acceptance.

So maybe, in honor of my 19 year old self, I should throw on my leather jacket and some red Revlon lipstick, jump in my Jeep (yup, still have a Jeep), crank up the Fleetwood Mac, take a road trip, flirt with my dog and celebrate my independence. Works for me.

Work It, Girl

My husband and I have a new deal going. Three mornings a week, he will do the morning routine with the kids, and I will get up and go to the gym. This arrangement is fair on a number of levels, not the least of which is that getting the kids up and dressed in the morning is like running on a treadmill: lots of flailing about, sweat, tears and motion but you never actually get anywhere.

Its not that I don't like exercise, I do. Really. I totally understand that it is good for me, that it makes me healthier, gives me more energy. I don't know how it happens, but walking into the gym before a workout I feel slow, sluggish and middle aged... and walking out of the gym after a workout I feel like Jane Freaking Fonda in her glory days (minus the striped leotard and leg warmers). I even have a playlist on my iPod of workout songs; it is called "Run, Ellie, Run".

The problem is motivation. Once I'm up on the treadmill or pumping weights I'm good to go. It is getting there that is the issue. First there is the problem of what to wear. I marvel at the women I see working out in these matching sexy outfit type things. My workout gear consists of one of my husband's old tee-shirts, some black lycra biking shorts that I bought about a million years ago (LOVE that lycra - it just stretches and stretches ... I wouldn't want to be on the treadmill next to mine when it finally spontaneously combusts), and some cross-training sneakers I found on sale that are so white a ship could navigate safely to shore using just my feet as a source of light. I'm not completely hopeless, though - I realized a few months ago that white athletic socks that go up above your ankles are, apparently, no longer in vogue.

Then I have to figure out what time of day to go. Let it be known that I detest mornings - I have never been a Morning Person, and never will be. My husband, who is a Morning Person, leaps up out of bed every morning full of zest and ready to face the world. I don't fully wake up until 10am and several cups of coffee. But if I wait until 10am to go to the gym I am going to see lots of people I know. This sounds like a good thing, but even if I overlook the fact that they will see me in my gym clothes, my tendency to chat makes it more of a social hour than a workout hour.

And, of course, by 10am I will have the kids with me. We are fortunate enough to have a terrific YMCA in our town - it is new, clean and has a fabulous playspace complete with babysitting for the kids. I know of Moms with young kids who put on workout clothes, drop their kids at the playspace, and then duck around the corner to the Y's cafe for a peaceful cup of coffee. The problem with the playspace is that it is a complete crap shoot as to whether my kids will agree to go. This creates a situation full of pleading, bribery and tears (and sometimes the kids cry, too) that I find detestable. And there is another problem.. the space itself has no solid walls: the whole area is surrounded by glass so loving parents can wistfully watch their kids play. It creates a problem for me, though, because once I manage to get my kids to go into the playspace and get them settled, if they catch a single glimpse of me as I sneak over to the workout area they dissolve into tears. So I need to engage in all kinds of bizarre, clandestine moves to get past the playspace to the adult workout area. I have crawled on my hands and knees, or put my gym bag over my head. It is embarrassing.

If I manage to do all this successfully - drop them off, get to my workout area, get on the treadmill - there is still no guarantee I'll be able to complete my workout. The Y has a policy that if a child is inconsolable for more than 10 minutes, they will come find the parent. Nothing strikes dread into my heart like the sight of one of the playspace workers, wearing their happy little blue aprons, come around the corner and start scanning the treadmills for the offending parent. Nine times out of ten it is me.

So each day I would become exhausted thinking all of this through, and everyone knows you don't get a good workout when you're tired.

But I'm about to turn 40. And I realized that 40 is one of those ages where things just start to go. As in south. And since some of my parts seem to have already went, I decided it was time to crack down and just do it. So I'm getting up early, skipping my morning coffee, and going to the gym, alone, three mornings a week. It is not pretty. But there is nobody there to (a) see me, (b) socialize with or (c) hear me singing along to Eminem. Maybe for my 41st birthday I'll buy myself one of those sexy matching outfit type things to workout in. Its good to have goals.