Forty and Fabulous

Tomorrow I will turn 40. That's right. On March 5, 1969, I reportedly entered this world kicking and screaming. And I haven't stopped since.

I am a person who always has loved my birthday. For someone who is a center-of-attention kind of girl, what could be better than having a whole day that's all about me?

However, this year, as the anniversary of my birth rapidly approaches, I find myself having some feelings of uneasiness. It's not that the number 4-0 scares me. After all, I still feel young and healthy. It's more about the fact that, as I creep ever so slowly into those middle-aged years, I am finding myself face-to-face with more sadness, more tragedy and more, well, reality. And I hate it.

This last year, I lost two friends tragically: one to Lou Gehrig's disease and one to a terrible accident. In the past month, I've had two friends diagnosed with cancer. And just this week, I've learned about several people who have lost their jobs.

I suppose it's not actually the fact that I'm aging that is bothering me. It's all of the struggles and misfortune I hear about more regularly now that makes me scared. If so much unexpected adversity is happening to others in my life, who's to say that something terrible couldn't happen to my family or to me?

Suddenly, with my 30s rapidly fleeing, I am much more keenly aware of the fragility of life. When I was in my 20s and early 30s, I simply didn't give much thought to when or how my life could end. I was too busy with my friends and family; too busy enjoying life as I knew it; and lucky enough to not have had any significant misfortune. Yet, as the years turn into decades and those around me slowly become victims of what was once the unthinkable, I realize that I, too, must come to terms with the uncertainty of the future.

The thing is, I'm not quite ready to do that.

And so, with my birthday less than 24 hours away, I'm going to try to focus only on the positive and forget about the fact that there is much unknown out there. I am the mother of two beautiful daughters. I have a wonderful, loving husband who has been by my side for the past 20 years. I am healthy and in shape. And I don't have any wrinkles or stretch marks!

As cliché-ish as it sounds, I guess I need to just be thankful for what I have.

At times, I find myself wondering how many years still remain in my life. Although, if I try to live each and every day as though it were my last, then, does it really matter? This year, I have made a huge effort to try to smile more, be friendlier, meet more people and spend more quality time with those I love most. It's not that I think I'm going to die tomorrow. It's that I want to make sure I make the most with however many hundreds of years I have left.

I wish I could say that tomorrow is just another day for me. But the reality is it's not. It's my 40th birthday, and it's a special day. Thus, to celebrate, I've bought myself a present. Tomorrow I'll be wearing a shirt that I designed especially for me. It's a long-sleeve, black V-neck shirt that says "40 and Fabulous" in bright bold colors. If wearing that reminds me that I'm still active and healthy, and a major player in this game we call life, then all is good. And what could be more important than that?

A Little Thing Called Sisterhood

Nineteen-ninety-six was a big year for my husband and me. We finished school, got our first real jobs, bought our own house, and yes, decided that we needed to buy a dog. In fact, I had told my husband that as soon as we returned from our two week post graduation vacation, we were getting a puppy. I even wrote on the calendar in our kitchen “July 14, buy our new friend.”

My husband tried as hard as he could to put off the puppy purchase date. After all, we would both be working full time and our house wasn’t that large. Who would take care of the puppy when we were gone all day? And, where would the puppy run around?

Yet, I completely ignored my husband’s practical perspective in exchange for my emotional one. And, on July 14, 1996 I forced him into the car with me in search of our brand new family member.

As soon as I saw Snickers, I was instantly in love. A tan and white Sheltie, just twelve weeks old, she was frisky and energetic. I knew as I’d never known anything before that she was destined to be mine. My husband was hard pressed to disagree, as the tiny ball of fur licked him furiously, with a look in her eyes that practically begged him to take her home.

As certain as I had been that we had found our dog, I began to have doubts on the half hour ride home. The entire way, as I held my new baby lovingly in my arms, she shook and shuddered and looked simply terrified. My husband reassured me that her fear would subside quickly, once she got used to us and her new surroundings. Yet, for the next twenty four hours, Snickers shook and moped and whined and cried. Something was terribly wrong and we felt completely helpless. Despite treats and toys and lots of petting, Snickers was unmistakably miserable.

Then, without warning an ingenious thought sprung into my head.

“Maybe she misses her sister!” I announced loudly.

“Are you suggesting……” my husband began, hesitantly.

“I’m simply saying that I think I know how to make Snickers happy.” I informed my husband flatly. “Now, get in the car.” And I picked up the sad mass of fur that had been drooping around all day.

Less than an hour later, we were back at Snickers’ original home. I set my lonely puppy on the ground, and within seconds she was romping and barking and even chasing her tail. In an instant, my woebegone pup was vivacious and animated! Just minutes later, the breeder came out with the other female from the litter. The two animals ran towards each other like a scene straight out of a movie. Once they began frantically chasing and licking one another, my husband and I looked at each other knowingly.

That evening, we relaxed at home, curled up with our two happy Sheltie puppies.

Snickers and Skittles were completely inseparable from the get go. They ate together, played together, and even got into trouble together. When one of them sucked down a pair of knee high stockings, leaving us wondering which dog had actually committed the unthinkable act, they were even forced to vomit together! The point was, though, that they were twin sisters with an invisible bond so strong that attempting to break it would also, as we’d seen in the beginning, break their spirit.

When our canine children were three years old, I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl that we named Hannah. I’m pretty certain that the dogs thought of her as their human sister, because they simply refused to leave her side. They licked her tiny toes as she sat in her bouncy seat and watched her closely as I’d feed her. They even slept beneath her crib at times. Clearly, my dogs knew who was in their pack and were aware of their enormous family responsibilities.

Pregnancy with Hannah had been difficult for me. I was nauseous and tired and even had to go on bed rest for almost a month. Thus, the thought of having another baby made me nervous. I just wasn’t sure I wanted to go through all of that once more.

One night, as I was telling my husband my reservations about getting pregnant again, he looked at me sternly and said, “So you want Hannah to be lonely like Snickers was?”

I had never thought of our situation in that way. However, my husband was right. Snickers had been down trodden and downright miserable being alone. But, having a sister to share her experiences and play with her all day long had brought her happiness and contentment. How could I possibly allow my daughter to be sad and alone for the rest of her life? She did, indeed, need a sibling.

Today, as my puppies approach their thirteenth birthday, I am a bit heavyhearted as I watch them limp with arthritis and ignore my commands due to failed hearing. Still, I get so much joy out of watching them play with my two human daughters, Hannah and Jordyn. Those dogs taught me how to love and how to laugh. They showed me how to play hard and how to relax comfortably. Yet, most importantly, they taught me the importance of a little thing called sisterhood. And for that, I will always be grateful.

The Monkey and the Microwave

It was quiet for a change at my house. We were all eating dinner together, nicely, peacefully. Hannah, our nine year old, was actually putting food in her mouth, something we often have to beg her to do. My husband and I were having a real conversation about nothing and everything. And, our seven year old daughter was eating with fairly decent table manners.

Hmmmm..........

I just knew something bad was bound to happen soon. After all, what was a family without a bit of unexpected excitement?

Suddenly, as my husband and I were talking, I noticed his eyes get wide and he started screaming "NO!"

I turned behind me to find that Jordyn, who had somehow gotten up from the table without my noticing, had climbed up on the kitchen counter and was putting something in the microwave.

"NO!" I shouted in unison with my husband. "Jordyn, stop!"

Jordyn looked at us with a bit of confusion in her eyes. "But, I'm only trying to heat my pasta up!" she announced quite innocently. "I want to be a big girl, like Hannah!"

I felt sorry for Jordyn. I truly did. I completely understood what it was like to feel small and insignificant. And I remember vividly trying, as Jordyn had, to act so much older than I was in order to impress the people in my life. Yet, as I lifted the metal fork from the plate she had attempted to cook in our microwave, I couldn't help but shudder at the thought of what might have happened.

"Jordyn, did you know that you can cause a fire by putting metal in a microwave?" I asked her quietly but with firm undertones.

"No," she replied, and burst into tears. "But I was only trying to be a big girl."

How could I be angry at that?

We constantly tell our children to act their age, act mature, be responsible. Yet, when they try to do so, we get angry at the fact that they did it all wrong. I guess I need to remind myself frequently that my kids are only that. Kids. And I can only expect so much from them. I need to be elated when they succeed, but supportive when they mess up. Even if messing up involves a small fire in the kitchen. No, I'm not encouraging experimenting with flames. And I'm certainly terrified of my children hurting themselves or others. That's why I tend to lean towards the overprotective side of motherhood more times than not.

However, as someone who once set the toaster oven on fire attempting to heat taco shells, I've got to have some sense of understanding for my kids when they make the exact same mistakes I did when I was their age.

After a long explanation about microwave usage and a firm promise from Jordyn that she would never attempt to use any appliances without our permission, the four of us sat back down to dinner and finished where we'd left off only minutes before.

I suppose I'll never rest easy again. With cars and microwaves and other dangerous devices, this parenthood thing is gonna land me in a psychiatric hospital one of these days. I can only hope that when I'm admitted, my husband will make sure to watch the kids closely while I'm gone........

Recipe for a Dance Step

"Oh! What about lemon juice?" I heard my seven year old daughter Jordyn suggest to her sister at a mere seven-thirty this morning.

I was quickly awake. Lemon Juice?

"Um.....Girls? What's going on in my kitchen?" I hesitantly asked my daughters as I came down the stairs, not even sure I wanted to know the answer.

"We're making Promenade!" Jordyn announced happily.

"It's really a square dance step," Hannah, my almost ten year old, added. "But we've decided to turn it into a recipe!" and she happily stirred something thick and black in the plastic cup she was holding.

"What's in this......this......Promenade?" I asked with definite hesitation and a bit of queasiness as I watched a black concoction being lifted from Hannah's cup.

"It's yummy!" Hannah replied. "Cinnamon, and honey and margarine. Oh, and mustard juice and ketchup!"

"And, what's the........the black stuff?" I inquired with a wrinkled nose.

"Coffee beans and chocolate syrup!" came the excited response. "I think I'm going to try it on my toast!"

It was all I could do to just leave the room and let them play. Yes, I hate messes. And, true, I thought what they were doing was thoroughly nauseating. Yet, somewhere in the back of my mind, I remembered doing similar experiments as a child and finding them quite fascinating.

I've tried over the years to be as laid back as I can where motherhood is concerned. I will never tolerate violence or rude behavior. Yet, messy experimentation is something that I force myself to allow. I think I have a bit of obsessive-compulsiveness that makes me keep my house neat and tidy most of the time. And this total disrespect for cleanliness that my children often demonstrate eats away at my core. Still, deep down, I know that somehow, through all of this (un)scientific behavior, my children are learning and growing. Who am I to stifle them?

So, as I sit here typing away at my computer, orders such as "More vinegar!" echo in the background. And I attempt to remind myself to just breathe and let them be. After all, they are learning. Something. Right?

I console myself in the fact that, during this Promenade fiasco, my girls were actually playing together without screaming or hurting one another. Thus, I suppose one could actually look at this whole charade as a true success............at least as far as sisterly bonding is concerned. Oh, and Jordyn informed me that promenade is good for your skin. So, maybe we've now got a real money-maker on our hands!

I suppose that I am learning everyday, along with my children, how to be and how to exist. I need to let the stress of the mess roll off me and allow my girls to have fun and play together.

Yet, maybe next time they use the word Promenade, they'll actually try taking up dancing...........

And the Drama Marches On.......

When I found out I was pregnant with my first child, I prayed and prayed for a daughter. All I could think about was pink. Pink bows. Pink dresses. And someday down the eternal road of motherhood, pink nail polish with matching lipstick. I am, after all, a girly girl of sorts. Thus, having no brothers or young male cousins in my midst, bearing a daughter was all I could possibly fathom.

Months later, as has always been common for me, I eventually got my wish. In June of 1999 a beautiful little girl named Hannah entered my world with a loud voice and an insatiable appetite. And my husband and I were blissfully happy.........

Ten years and one more daughter later, life at my house is a never ending saga. One day, it's a girl at school who looked at my child wrong. The next day, it's a fight on the playground over a very serious game of kickball. Whatever the problem, whomever the cause, my home has become a mental institution for the unlucky recipients of preteen female drama. And I'm starting to think I need a PhD. in psychology to deal with it all!

Last week, for example, a little thing called 'school spirit day' began a series of events that resulted in total and complete hysteria at my house. Some unknown, unsuspecting person at school decided that it would be fun to have a day at school called 'Twin Day.' It sounded, I must admit, quite clever and pretty cute. Each child was told to pick a friend to be their twin for a day. They were supposed to dress alike, and in doing so, show their school spirit. One of my daughters had been planning her twin outfit for days with another little girl in her class. She was happy and excited and ready to show her spirit!

For my other daughter, however, Twin Day was a bit more complicated. Unfortunately, her two closest friends don't go to her school. And the girls she liked in her class had already found their twins before my child even started looking for hers. My daughter even suggested to a few girls that she could be their third triplet, yet, her suggestion was rejected several times. This led to a very tearful conversation about the evils of cliques and popularity, with me continually giving reassurance that her life and her social status were honestly not in jeopardy.

Never in my life have I felt as much pain in my soul as I did during that heart wrenching discussion with my little girl. Not even when I faced, as most kids do at some point, rejection from several of my peers almost thirty years ago, did I feel as much despair as I did now, hearing the ache in my child's voice.

Someone once said that with motherhood comes the end of all restful days. And that person, whomever they were, couldn't have been more right. At almost forty years old, I couldn't care less what others think or say about me. Through hours and hours of self exploration and many years of therapy, I have developed a very secure sense of myself. I am confident and content in who I am and in what I believe. Yet, if anyone dares to even think one bad word about one of my daughters, they will have to deal with me, the enraged mama lion. I am my children's ultimate supporter and sole protector. And I have made it my life's work to keep them happy and safe.

Luckily, the whole 'Twin Day' delema had a somewhat happy ending, despite the tears and distress it had brought into my home. My daughter eventually found another little girl, from another class at school, who still needed a twin. They dressed alike on Twin Day, wearing matching green shirts and jeans. Unfortunately, because they were in two separate classes, no one actually noticed that they were each others twin. Still, my daughter was happy, and that's all that mattered.

Somewhere in all of this, there's got to be a moral. Many have said it's that I should have wished for sons. And, while it's true, I suppose, that sons do not bother themselves with the petty, meaningless day to day nonsense that girls envelop regularly, I wouldn't trade my daughters even if I had the chance. Because despite the whining and the crying and, yes, the drama that comes with having girls, I also get to experience the hugs, and the kisses, and yes, the pink accessories that are and always will be the essence of who I am and who I hope my children will someday become.

And so, my house is filled with lots of estrogen, turmoil and confusion on a regular basis. Yet, even as the drama marches on, I must admit, most of the time, I'm still blissfully happy.................

Birth of the Anarchy Annals

I woke up this morning, realized I was off work and had no specific plans, and wondered what I would do with the day ahead of me while my girls were in school. Errands? Go shopping? Have a secret rendezvous with my mysterious Latin boyfriend? Okay, I've been watching too many Desperate Housewife reruns on the Lifetime Channel. Anyway, just as I was trying to map out my life for the next eight hours, I heard a raspy voice from down the hallway crying, "Mommy! My throat hurts!"

So much for my alone time .........

Well, the thermometer registered a fever and my daughter coughed a few too many times. So, I called the school to make Jordyn's absence from first grade legitimate, gave my child a Tylenol, and threw myself back in bed. Several hours later, Jordyn and I both woke up. And, surprisingly, we both felt better than we had earlier. I felt more rested, and she felt, well, all better. With the help of a three hour nap, my sick daughter had miraculously morphed into a very healthy child. She began running around my bedroom singing and dancing. She was asking for food and begging to have a playdate.

Immediately, I knew what could actually get accomplished on this seemingly wasted day. Now that my daughter was back to her normal, overactive self, she was fully capable of cleaning her room! Now, this room cleaning thing had been a long time coming. Gradually, over the past ten days, her room had gone from fairly neat and tidy to total and complete chaos. Each day, I gently reminded her to straighten the mess. And, each day, I was given a very plausable excuse as to why the task could not be completed.

So, now, finally, after countless hours of begging my daughter to complete her daughterly obligation to maintain a kept room, I basically had her in a position where she couldn't refuse me. She was home during school hours, with no one available to play and no where else to be. And now that her fever was gone and her energy had returned, Jordyn was finally going to clean her room!

With high hopes and a renewed sense of well being, I marched over to my daughter and flatly informed her that she was done playing until her room was clean and her laundry was put away.
I was confident. I was firm.

I was now face to face with the temper tantrum of a lifetime.

Is there some book or some website that all children read behind their parents' backs, that teaches them to go limp as soon as they hear the order to put their toys away? And, does this nebulous manual go on to instruct them to have an all out hissy fit if going limp fails to get their parents' attention?

My daughter was apparently paralyzed on the floor in front of me, yelling and crying and calling me the world's worst mommy. I guess she learned that name in the book as well.

It took all the courage I could muster up to look my hysterical, quadriplegic daughter straight in the eye, remind her one last time to clean her room, and then, bravely walk away..........

The screaming continued for days.........Well, at least that's what it felt like. In reality, it took her over three and a half hours to clean the mess she was supposed to have straightened up almost two weeks before.

By the end of the entire ordeal, she was all cried out and I was about ready to leave my life and never return.

My lucky husband returned home long after the temper tantrum and the name calling had ended. However, he was just in time to witness our two daughters hitting each other and fighting over some random, dearly coveted magazine that, apparently, only belonged to one of our children.

Now it's nighttime, and the kids are in bed. My husband's resting on the couch and I'm dying for a diet coke and a mindless rerun on the Lifetime Channel.

Maybe those Desperate Housewives episodes aren't so ridiculous after all.........