Excuse the (St)ages

An open letter to my adult children: 

It is true I have lost it. Not my mind, just my ability to control my mothering habit.  I know you are twenty-seven and twenty-eight. I know you are married. I know you have jobs and responsibilities. Did I say I know you are married? I know you walk through the world everyday looking like an adult to everyone. Really, you even look like an adult to me, but in my heart you are my child; not that you ARE a child or childish. You are my evolutionary child, and in my memory I see you walk through the years, growing and changing into your adult selves. Everyone else sees only the final product, but my heart-sight is a timeline of love and investment. 

I try so hard to follow my eyes and not my heart, to give you adult standing and room for your own ideas, likes and dislikes, tastes, and preferences. I try to suppress the urge to push that unruly piece of hair down, tell you to brush your teeth if I think you forgot, remind you to stand up straight, be polite and watch your tone with each other, or take your elbows off the table and use good manners. I know you are self-sufficient and learned all these lessons long ago, but sometimes I just lose control of my motherhood and feel the need to give a tune-up. Good habits die hard.

I will admit it is (I am) annoying at times like these. I even annoy myself because tiptoeing  over the edge of the parenting perimeter is painful. Do you know how hard it is to give up the All Access Pass when your kids ripen into adults? At twenty-seven, I went on high alert and have trained myself to give all to the cause, and now I am in forced parenting retirement and must stand-down. (Don't nobody need no parenting?)

Here is the kicker, I have recently discovered, through my Advanced Studies in Human Development course, that I am at the age of transference in which I feel the need to impart gained wisdom and experience. That explains it: it isn't just unrequited parenting love that is the issue, I am staging. How comforting. 

So, when your dad and I give opinions or share thoughts, and you say, "You sound like old people," in shock, I wonder if I am suppose to be embarrassed by my age? I am stunned to find I am -  I didn't know that was happening! I suddenly feel ashamed that time dragged me over an invisible hump when I wasn't looking, and I mentally pat myself down to check:  no, I don't feel old. Maybe the expired parenthood license does that to you?

Should you be embarrassed to be young people with your own opinions and thoughts and less experience? If I point that out will I make you prickly, and will I end what could be a deep discussion of legitimate issues with different viewpoints. It is new parenting territory, fraught with pitfalls and new verbal challenges. So, adult children, pay attention. We all have a challenge to meet in the middle. Your dad and I must move backwards toward you, and you must move forward toward us until we find level ground where our history of love and commitment to family is the fertile ground upon which we remodel our relationship. 

About losing it. I still may. My mothering may escape my hands and lips from time to time. Your dad's fathering may escape in the form of a tone or a look. Advice or inquiry may slip out unsolicited and prickle or irritate. Just chalk it up to our "imparting" stage of life. When your stages show up, we will give you the same allowance.  Know this: love covers a multitude of (st)ages. 

Punctuating Life

Tears gently rise to the surface after lying dormant in a veiled corner of my heart, surprising even me.

I think of Mary, Jesus’ mother, who “pondered these things in her heart,” realizing I have been unknowingly pondering, and today I am finally aware of it. What has awakened the sleeper in me? Perhaps it is the recently decorated Christmas tree, five years absent the ornaments that belonged to my daughter Megan and one week absent the ornaments belonging to my son Drew.  Perhaps it is the knowledge that the journey of motherhood, begun 27 years ago and repeated 25 years ago, has a period at the end of it.  .   Rarely has that punctuation mark been so boldly evident on the timeline of my life. 

What does it mean?

I don’t know. But, it feels significant.  It feels like it needs a marker.  A memorial.  Gracious words to wrap around it, spoken from a podium or a soapbox - or a blog. Hm.

Intertwining has altered my adult life: the first, when I became one with my husband, Max, the second and third time, with the birth of each of my two children. Each new twist of my person around another person changed the image of my life.  With each, a determination quietly germinated within, locking my heart to theirs and asking that I give all to successfully nurture the transpiring fusion.  It has been a loving, life’s devotion, tied to my faith in the hand of God and his answer to my childhood prayers.  Solid love with a spiritual binding is amazingly unbreakable.

But what do I do with the period?

Perhaps it is more like a semicolon; not a hard break, just a longer pause to gather my thoughts and move forward…or gather more people? Perhaps the intertwining, significantly noted on my life’s continuum, is being strengthened with new strands: a son-in-law, Jon, has slipped into my heart; sweet grandchildren Karlee and Kaidyn have wrapped me up; and a precious new daughter-in-law, Mallory, has joined the bond. Look at all those semicolons!  Perhaps, my tears have more in them than I first believed.

Perhaps it isn’t “perhaps.”  It is.

My mind fights the past to gain the present, but I understand the tears better, now.  What I have loved for so long is not lost; it has divided into new branches and flowered.  The soil of my heart is being enriched with new elements; I still have nurturing to do.  Funny.  My autocorrect just suggested a semicolon in that last sentence: I thought it appropriate, considering.  God is still answering my childhood prayers, and I am still loving my family.

Period.

  

Pregopause

(Heads-up to Guys:  Perimenopausal comments contained within...you may not want to go there, but you might learn something important about women.)

Written a few months ago, here are some thoughts on a period of my life I call "Pregopause." I just worked up the nerve to post it. :-)

The day before was just like any other day, nothing special, just a day.  I did not know it was a significant dash on the timeline of my life, marking the last day of youth, or I would have paused to enjoy it.  What can I say? I was young and didn’t know any better.  With no fanfare, I turned 50.  I felt no different and looked no different, so I dressed up in some feel good clothes, fixed my hair and makeup, and thought, “Man, you look pretty good for fifty.”  Snapping a Facebook worthy picture with my phone, I texted it to my husband, accompanied by the words, “Fifty, bring it on!”  I didn’t know the whole world got the message… and took me seriously. 

IT began with a visit to the doctor for my annual exam.  “And your periods have stopped…menopause,” the nurse muttered as she typed on her laptop.  What?  I immediately corrected her assumption! The doctor completed the perfunctory chest exam with her stethoscope and, without warning, moved on to my neck.  What?  She started looking at my ankles, pushing places on my abdomen that she had never pushed before and ordering unnecessary blood tests.  Apparently, at fifty your warranty expires.  Who knew?

My husband started talking retirement while I was still worrying about pregnancy.  Many of my friends were fanning the hot flash hand, but I was still going strong on a monthly basis.  I started looking for signs. I thought I had night sweats for a while, but it turned out my Memory Foam mattress topper was just retaining heat.  I am stuck in a phase of life called “Pregopause,” my term for life between two fears: pregnancy and menopause.  A look on the CDC’s website did nothing to quell my anxiety.  There are over 500 live births per year to women in their fifties.  Yes, I want to be one of the few!  No, just kidding, God (in case he thinks I am serious, too).  

I broke a part of me while helping the music teacher at school hang a backdrop for the Christmas program:  I missed the last step of the stage and snapped a bone in my ankle.  Sympathetic looks were accompanied by the comfortless words, “Well, when you get to a certain age…” STOP!  A first grader in one of my classes had a broken leg.  Apparently six is that certain age, too.  A broken bone does not equal osteoporosis.  I am being dragged into old age by the nicest of people.

Two things gave me pause.  Mastitis, an infection in a milk duct in the breast, puts me into a fevered and chilled state.  Isn’t that a nursing mother’s issue?  Many tests later confirm a cyst in my breast, but all is declared fine.  Then, my period goes into overdrive, and five progesterone pills are required to slow it down.  Blood test results support my medical claim:  I really am in Pregopause!  According to my hormone levels I am not pregnant (slightly amusing thought), but I am also not in menopause.  It seems I am growing a small fibroid cyst, not a baby.  Somehow that doesn’t seem comforting. Of course, my so-called friends tisk-tisk and chalk it up to age-related changing hormones, sending more concerned, yet somehow joyous, looks my way.  Apparently, I need some new friends.

What I really need is a class. Just like when we were in school, at a certain age the boys need to be separated from the girls and each group shown a film about changes that will be occurring in their bodies.  It really is the same:  We giggle and whisper about it, only hearing hints and rumors about what is going to happen to each of us.  We dread and welcome it at the same time.  My doctor cheerfully said, “I bet you will be glad when you finally go into menopause – no more periods!”  My reply, “Yeah right, trade swollen breasts and periods once a month for a saggy chest and hot flashes – doesn’t sound like much of a trade off.”  She only smiled and snickered, knowing the truth in that statement.  I am glad she thought it was funny.

In spite of my protests, the truth is I know it is coming.  My physician sister says that at 53 I am past the 51.6 year average that marks the beginning of menopause for most women.  I don’t know how they determine that average since most women I know who have reached that age have had a hysterectomy or medical procedure that changes the natural progression of things. How large could their statistical sample actually be?  Everyone knows statisticians can’t be trusted.

The fight may be going out of me. Even my own flesh and blood, my traitorous daughter, joined the cause by blessing me with the most beautiful grandbaby on the planet, forcing me to choke on the “G” word and pick a name:  Grandma, Granny, Gram… who will I be?  One of my friends has the interesting name of Gumball for her “G” word: cute, but not for me.  Too round.  After a year of trying out “Grammy,” my grand daughter dubbed me “Ninee,” saving me from the “G” word but not the implications.  Now I am blessed with an equally beautiful second grandbaby, and I am not so secretly content with my status of grandmother.  Would you like to browse for a moment the 1000+ pictures on my phone?

Maybe I am changing, but I would like to quietly enjoy my body giving a good go of it in my final days of PMS, bloating, pimples, cramps, tender breasts, and headaches, without the world enjoying the change more than I do.  I loved slipping quietly into 50 - feeling good about myself and having a wonderful day, blissfully unaware of the world’s changing perspective about my age and me - and I hope to slip just as gracefully into the next phase of life.  So, Menopause bring it on; but be gentle, okay?  I am not as young as I used to be.

This blog is actually mine - Susan Blake

This blog is actually mine.  My cousin sent a question to me about the authorship: it didn't occur to me that it would not be obvious, but I guess "Soozbie" is all that identifies it at first glance.

I love a good discussion, another point of view, or a "yeah, me too!"  So, PLEASE, feel free to respond, just be nice.  ;-)  I am a newbie, here.  

The point is, everyday I have a choice about the "me" I choose to be in the world in which I interact.  We all do.  These are my thoughts about how that goes.  It started with a choice to exercise or make an excuse; this blog pushed me out the door.  I thought I might write one time and be done with it, but now I am curious to see how it evolves. 

It occurs to me now that blogging about life is like a reality diary, and I just gave the world the key.  I hope it isn't actually Pandora's Box  http://greece.mrdonn.org/greekgods/pandora.html , but maybe hope will fly out of it.

Thank you for reading my stuff.

Susan <3

I have doggie mace, and...

Yes, it is true:  I have doggie mace, and I will use it if provoked.  I will say I am sorry.

I haven't yet, but it always accompanies me on my walks.  Like a gun slinger, I strap it to my belt ready for action at the first snarl, baring of teeth under curled lip, rush of canine flesh and threatening bark.  I know, I know, you love "doggie woggie, my baby, sweet little lover boy," and you think I am cruel.  Come on, it is specially formulated for dogs.

I planned to purchase a five shot can of regular mace that can knock a full grown man into an unconscious state for about 15 minutes, but a dog-loving friend of mine handed me two cans of Halt shortly after hearing my intentions of macing tear-ductless dogs; or maybe it was because I said I would kill the next dog that tried to bite me.  I described my intent to wrestle it to the ground and break its neck: if it is him or me, it's him.  I can't remember at what point my friend freaked out...

I meant it, too.

Don't get me wrong, I like "Precious" under controlled circumstances, but you know the old saying, "once bitten, twice shy..." http://www.funtrivia.com/askft/Question94604.html

What about "twice bitten, kill the next one?  - or mace it."  Yep, this is a "me" you didn't know existed.  I am normally mild-mannered and try to be nice to everyone,  but this really is my story.  It isn't premeditated, it's prepared.

I know what your are thinking, "My dog is all bark and no bite.  He's just a sweetie who wouldn't hurt anyone." Maybe when YOU are around that is true, but without you, your dog is, well, a dog.  In my experience, 99% of dogs, absent their owners and sometimes with, will behave in a menacing manner toward a stranger walking, running, or biking past their property.  If they are in a pack, they are even more menacing (attacked by 4 dogs about a year and a half ago while walking).

So, how does this fit in with the new me?  Well, obviously, I no longer intend to be bitten or scared out of my ever-lovin' mind while defenseless on my walks.

Why am I writing about this.?

Once again, an owner let "sweet little baby, yeah, yeah, yeah, give mommy a kiss" out in the yard this morning, unattended, probably for an innocent potty trip, and "sweet baby" turned his doberman act on me as I walked by.  With pounding heart and adrenaline laced veins, I turned on my version of "dog whisperer" and avoided unholstering my defense mechanism, but I have to ask, "Who is really at fault here?"  The dog?  Me?  Or the owner?

Do your dog and me a favor, and don't put either of us in a frightening, possibly violent situation.  Never leave him unattended and free outside:  leash or fence him.  We will both thank you.

Ready, Set, ... What?

I am dressed.  Running shoes on.  I am ready.  Just sitting here thinking about what to do: ride my bike, P90X, Total Body Gym, exercise ball, elliptical?  Breakfast, anyone?

See, I have plenty of equipment to look at right here in my own home, but also plenty of practice at neglecting the possibilities, along with distractions that either seem more pressing or less sweaty.  Maybe you can relate.  There is one distraction that is part of the new me, and I actually started it a few months ago, neglected it, and picked it back up about a week ago: spending time in the Word of God.

A few months ago, I downloaded a free app, YouVersion, which has about every translation of the Bible in it that you know or have never heard of, even foreign language versions.  My current favorite is ESV (English Standard Version) because it is suppose to be pretty close to the original text. I find it is fun to read the same verse in different versions because it challenges my thinking and makes me work harder to understand the passage.  Sometimes I flip to King James because it is the one I remember from childhood, and there is a certain comfort in the familiar, plus the flow and language can be difficult, which makes me feel like I am reading a college textbook, so it must be a smarter read. Truthfully, sometimes it is just a beautiful versions to read.  Around my Jr. High years The Living Bible took off, which made the Bible easier to read, but there were always whispers about it.

The whispers contained words like "inaccurate" and "paraphrased," so I always felt like I wan't reading the real Bible, but I still have the one I carried back then, complete with prose that touched my heart and pithy little sayings written in the cover.  "God is heavy." "Dog spelled backwards is still man's best friend."  One is a sticker with a hand pointing up: "One Way, Jesus" (the Jesus Movement was still in full swing).  According to my own handwriting, my dad gave it to me for Christmas of 1972.  Surprise!  My dad was a deacon and a Sunday School teacher, and he thought it was okay for me to read the underground version of the Bible!  I do remember it speaking to me, challenging my life, and moving my spirit, so there must be something to it.  God used it in my youth to help me walk a fairly straight path, not a perfect one, but certainly pointed in the right direction.  Currently, The Message appears to be The Living Bible of my generation.  Sometimes The Messages makes me smile because it is often so far off of the original text in language, but, if you think about it hard enough, pretty close in conveying the meaning of the passage.

On to the new me and the app YouVersion: There is a devotional feature with various plans ranging from two days to a year which focus on various interests a person might have concerning spiritual health or curiosities.  This feature has a creative name:  Plans.  Simple can be refreshing.  I was going to list some of them, but there are many pages of plans, some compiled by well-known authors or institutions in the Christian faith.  It is like having an entire section of the Christian book store in my pocket.  I chose "The Essential 100," which is as it sounds - 100 days of essential verses that give an overview of the Bible, the big picture of God's Word.  My phone/computer even reminds me daily to read.  When my spirit became a couch potato, YouVersion started sending occasional  emails to me to nudge me back.  Obviously, I need a nudge now and then both physically and spiritually, which is why I started writing this blog yesterday.

Revelation! And I am not talking about the last book of the Bible.  My spiritual struggle and my physical struggle seem to be very similar:  lots of equipment to accomplish my goal and lots of distraction (and laziness) that gets me off track.  This morning it is this blog, what a laugh!

Here I go:  Essential 100 and ride my bike, then on to all the important distractions in my life.  I hope you have a better you today, too.

Shame is a Motivator

Shame is apparently a good motivator for me
37.5 minutes and 3 miles later.  Walking in the cover of darkness is actually freeing, no one to judge my form or figure.  Although, I was worried about running into some deer, a wild raccoon, or a pothole. With my favorite tunes setting my pace on my iPod and the metronomic swing of the dime-sized light hanging from the earbud cord, I managed about a 12.5 minute mile.  Not too shabby, and my attitude must have swung with the light because I am feeling better about "me."

Background
For three years I walked the local 1/2 marathon.  The first one was just an attempt to finish the race before the time allotted for the race ended.  With only  6 miles as my longest trek, I approached my first 1/2 with no small amount of trepidation.  Goal:  Don't leave in an ambulance and beat the street sweeper following the end of the festivities.  I had 3 1/2 hours to finish, but managed to finish in a bout 3 hours and 23 minutes.  Goal achieved, but I could barely walk for several days.

Year 2:  Goal:  Be able to walk better after the race.  I worked harder to be in shape using a schedule my husband found on the Internet and had a accomplished 13 1/2 miles before the race began with a period of rest in the week before.  What a difference!  My time was about 10 minutes faster, and I could actually get up after I sat down at the conclusion of the race and walk the next day without groaning (too much).

Year 3:  Goal:  Beat last year's time.  And I did!  I made it in under 3 hours: 2 hours 59 minutes!  What a thrill!  I was almost 25 minutes faster than the first year and beat some of the runners to the finish line!  

Year 4:  Goal:  Gain 10 pounds.  Not really, the goal I mean, but I really had gained the weight. A broken ankle 8 months prior was soothed by the healing power of Peanut M&Ms, which put me on the sidelines.  I am sure there is valid research about their healing properties somewhere, so it is surely worth the poundage for strong bones. They were dark chocolate.

This year:  The 10 pounds is still my companion, walking has been spotty, attitude is poor, and the 1/2 marathon will pass without me.  Fail.  The odd thing is I like "me" in shape.  After year two,  I did P90X all winter and switched to walking in the spring.  I felt strong, flexible, and in shape.  By the way, P90X is powerful, and I actually felt all over better doing that than walking fast, but I need the walking to participate in the 1/2.

One thing I don't like about a 1/2 marathon:  They put your age in the paper and on the Internet; afterwards, everyone says, "I didn't know you were that old."  Bummer.  How about, "Man, you were fast!"  And, if they DO say that, it is qualified by "for your age" or "you beat people much younger than you."  I like keeping people confused about my age, not mass communicating it!  Consider yourself warned if you are thinking about walking a 1/2 marathon.

So, now what?
I could walk the 1/2 this year by drawing on my will-power (which did me so much good today) and then dying as I remove the chip from my shoe.  It would probably make the paper and the Internet, along the with a shocked headline about someone "my age" dying so "young."  See, it is "young" if you die at 53, but old if you are competing in a 1/2 marathon.  How would they decide which way to spin it?

Beside me, on the counter, is a Run/Walk Marathon Training Schedule. http://running.about.com/od/halfmarathonracetraining/a/runwalkhalfmarathon.htm
I think I can actually start on Week 3 and not collapse.

Why train with no possibility of the August 1/2 marathon?
Remember:  I need a new me.  I need to loose those 10 pounds so my closet and I will become friends again.  AND, there ARE other races.  Some 5K advertisements came in the mail this week, so.....hmmm. Right now, I will make a little pencil checkmark by Day 1 on Week 3, and make myself feel a little better about the "new me." Done.

(A side note about 5Ks.  They sound impressive because they are in kilometers.  Anything in kilometers sounds very smart and hard, but, really, I pretty much did that tonight.)