Finding My Balance

My wrinkle cream is giving me pimples.

At an age when I might finally be able to admit it's the mid-point, a close to the halfway average of the eventual last age of my two grandmothers, I see myself teetering on top of Mount Aging Gracefully. I am not steady, it's a balancing act, and I've never been to sure of my footing at high elevations. My skin is as confused as I am.

Several months ago I sat with a group of women all close in age, early to mid forties, and one 37 year old. She sat silently as we discussed this new found aging. I was truly shocked to discover that all those pretty freckles on my hands were actually age spots; the old gals enlightened me, but not my spots; those creams don't work they said. The 37 year old chimed in, "neither do the wrinkle creams, so I had Botox". We all stopped, looked and inspected. "See, my forehead used to look like that", pointing to my severely disfigured cranium, "but now it looks like this" and she gestured, Carol Merrill like, at her smooth yet immobile temple space. The forty year old crowd was without words, their not yet gray heads bobbing back and forth as if they were center court at Wimbledon, searching for vast differences in our foreheads. I smiled and crinkled up my skin to get a better look.

Only validating my theory that 37 was the perfect time to have children, I seem to have lost my tiny print eyesight at the precise time my girls have learned to read. Coincidence? I think not. No longer am I limited only to restaurants where I know the entire menu by heart, "what's this?" I say, gesturing at some mouse sized words under the header "primi". Kate reads, in her best Italian, every detail of the cappellacci di zuca and we move on to the wine list.

It does not seem that long ago when I would spend Sundays with my grandmother, dividing the morning paper and joking about my reading the wedding notices while she read the obituaries. Here I am now, somewhere between weddings and funerals, working on the crossword puzzle. It seems to me that my crossword puzzle years should be relatively skin issue free.

Many years ago, when Mimi was considering a face lift, I said no, assuring her that I really liked her wrinkles. I did, her face without them wouldn't have been her face at all. In my life, she had always been a bit lined, "Allyson, just look at this chicken neck, someday you won't think this is so beautiful!". Her face was wonderful, familiar and loved. The benefit to wrinkles, versus the pimple, is that there are very few "Good Lord, where did that come from?" mornings. Wrinkles sneak in where the pimple announces his arrival with gusto; wrinkles reflect happiness and experience, pimples reflect stress over finals and too many late nights at The Wheel.

The real buger is this: I thought I had conquered adolescence. Rarely am I without a date on Saturday night, and when poker night trumps sitting at home with a movie, I cherish the quiet. Long gone are the days when I felt self conscious, with snickering teenagers ready to mock my every move. Of course I do realize that with two seven year old girls in my home, the snickering will soon reappear, to some degree warranted as it's not infrequent that I show up at school with a large hole in my sweater or with my pants unzipped. But still, haven't I grown too old to worry about looking geeky? Isn't it time to embrace my inner geek?

There is no longer room for both adolescence and middle age on my pale freckled face, although I'm not really ready to commit to either. My days are spent fine tuning the balancing act, teetering with one foot on either side, a stop at the Clinique counter on the way to the Estee Lauder night cream. I'm simply confused, as is, apparently, my skin.

Genius.

Motherhood Changed Me

For the first two months we both got up, three to four times per night. It was usually Kate who woke me up, and then I would wake both Jack and Mary as it was snack time. We took turns with each one, alternating bottles and nursing (Jack generally handling the bottle shift) and with rare exception, Mary would finish first, or fall asleep, and Jack would take her and happily climb back into bed. That left me with Kate, and in my struggle to stay awake, reruns of the Nantucket based comedy, Wings.

One night, after Jack and Mary had left me alone in the dark with Kate and the Hackett brothers, I dozed and woke to find not Joe and Brian and Sandpiper Air but Susan Smith, the mother convicted of rolling her car with her two young sons strapped into their car seats into a lake, on my television. Where only one year before the story of Susan Smith horrified me, now, in the dark with my tiny child nestled in my arm, I was nauseated. Motherhood changed me, the idea of being responsible for the death of my children was more than my exhausted self could take and I immediately turned off the television and headed back to bed, keeping Kate close to me for the rest of the night.

My curious self had watched much of the original programming when the Susan Smith story first made news. By all accounts hers was a truly horrible childhood, full of the kind of things that create really destructive adults. She lied, she deceived her community, she placed blame on an anonymous black man and in the end, she killed her children. And eight years ago I could watch it all on television, with a odd curiosity as to how could this really happen.

Not anymore. Motherhood changed me, it's more than I can even consider, and it's unconscionable.

Rant, Rave, Add, Subtract

Jack was out of town yesterday leaving me with the rare opportunity to get the girls to school on time, by myself. Can't be done he said, will be done I thought.

With 18 minutes before the bell, Mary and I stood at the door, coats on, backpacks stuffed, socks aligned. Kate was choosing a scarf. She needed to switch mittens, she couldn't find the hat she wanted, her sock was on backwards, her elbow itched. Hastily I made the necessary adjustments to Kate's wardrobe. Mary and I stepped jauntily down the stairs, Kate sauntered, taking in the beauty of the 6 degree morning.

My frustration was released mightily on the trip to school.

"We had 18 minutes Kate! 18! We never have 18 minutes, that's a record. We did it, we could have been on time, we could have been early. It is a 7 minute trip to school, do you know how much extra time you would have had this morning?"

Silence.

The ranting continued.

"What is 18 minus 7? Anyone? 9!"

"Mom?"

"Nine minutes of spare time, what would you have done with all that time? We'll never know, now we'll be lucky to be on time."

"Mom?"

"I would hate for you to be tardy today, really. NINE minutes people!"

Silence.

"Mom, that would actually have been 11 minutes of time, 18 minus 7 is 11, not 9".

Nothing stops a good rant like a good laugh.

Two Chickpeas in a Pod

My daughter, the one who uses her finger to wipe clean the communal hummus dish at the local tavern, the one who stuffs herself with pita and carrots when presented with a full dish of pureed chickpeas, will not eat hummus on a sandwich. The tortilla with hummus and grated carrots returns, untouched, in her lunchbox at the end of the day.

"Mom, I do not like hummus", says Mary.

"Mary, you love hummus", says her mother.

"Not on a sandwich. I do not like hummus on a sandwich or in a tortilla, only in a bowl."

We argue, this is the most illogical thing I have ever heard. This makes no sense at all, it's the same stuff, why on earth would it matter how it was presented? At six she has lost her rational mind, hummus is hummus, be it in a bowl or spread onto a sandwich. She has been eating hummus for years, why now must she voice an opinion as to how it is served? This is how the power struggle is to begin, with hummus? Imagine what our life is going to be like at 16 when the issues grow to privacy and independence, imagine the challenges in front of us if we begin the battle now, at only six, over something as silly as hummus. How can I possibly be expected to communicate with one so ridiculous, clearly I have done something wrong, she is irrational and belligerent. Life together is going to be difficult if this is where she chooses to assert her will. The entire episode exhausts me and I'm not pleased.

In her lunchbox Mary finds a tortilla spread with avocado and grated carrots. She devours it, clearly preferring this over the battle rich hummus option.

"Mom, thank you, that was the greatest lunch ever". High praise from the one who, the day before, was ready to go on a hunger strike to defend her no sandwich position. The line in the sand moves much more smoothly when someone returns home this happy.

"I'll have the Village Veggie but swap the hummus for avocado please", says Mary's mother at the neighborhood sandwich shop. The line in the sand is swept away when one realizes that they have been ordering the same sandwich, for at least 10 years, no hummus, add avocado.

Because really, I just don't like hummus on my sandwich.

Me, Myself and I

Writing from the inside out is much more difficult. In no time I can bang out a paragraph or two about my family, or friends, or complete strangers who spark my curiosity, but writing something about myself is far more challenging. Being asked to put together a brief autobiography is the most strenuous writing assignment I've faced in decades. Maybe it would have been easier years ago, when I could define myself by occupation. For years, and years, I was a student. Diploma in hand I became a terrible waitress, and when that proved too rigorous, I went back to the safety of student hood.

To the complete shock of my father, a man who had struggled through years of basic math with me, my next incarnation was banker, a title I held onto happily for years. Easy to describe, my personal ad would have read "single banker, more fun than stuffy suits imply, able to stay up much too late before early morning meetings, loves friends and family and blind dogs". When I left the banking world for the incredibly juicy not for profit community, I listed my profession on the new patient form at the dentist as "philanthropist".

Just this morning, while discussing author Doris Kearns Goodwin, my fellow swimmer asked "where does she tend bar?", meaning with which University is she affiliated? I have no bar, no University, no place to hang my hat and nothing terribly exciting to say about myself.

It's much easier to define yourself in relation to others. For years I was introduced as Bill's daughter and even now, when I run into friends of the family I extend my hand with "I'm Mary's granddaughter, so nice to see you". At dinner Saturday night I was Jack's wife, and at school I am Mary and Kate's mom, but on my own, it can get rather dull.

Or maybe who I am is, for now, the sum of all that I have been; an absent minded Chicago adoptee, lover of words and history and clean restrooms, prolific scribbler but completely inept at writing one thing about herself, mother of two, wife of one, daughter of many, who, in a pinch, could help you work out that estate plan you've been meaning to get finished.

Life was clearly easier to define when I had a bar to tend.