2011: An Evolutionary Year

Wow. Time passes so quickly when you're immersed in living. I last posted a column several months ago, though I've thought many times to myself, "Oh! This would make a great essay!" as an intriguing idea or topic coursed through my brain. Unfortunately, I'm still trying to acclimate to waking at 6:00 almost daily; by 9:30pm, I'm wiped out. And those hours in between are spent working, ferrying kids back and forth, fixing meals, shopping for meals, or trying to keep up with this giant house and its many needs. I, a voracious reader, have not cracked open a book in weeks. That's criminal.

But it's almost my birthday, and that is the time of year at which I look back and take stock of my life. I will turn 47 this weekend. Forty-seven! That's almost 50. That's almost a half-century. That's almost...old. Older. Kind of old. I am grinning as I type because no matter how I word it, 47 is older than I ever thought I would live to be. I'm sure if Dad is reading this, he can remember when I, in all seriousness, declared my certainty that I would not make it past 19 because everyone on the planet annoyed the shit out of me. I am returning that favor to my teenagers these days, who find me obnoxiously annoying simply because I draw breath. I've tried to accommodate them by experimenting with ways to inhale and exhale (read: live) without actually opening my airways. Fun Fact: It's impossible. And so...I annoy them.

But seriously, as I recollect the past 365 days of my existence, I marvel at how different my life is now compared to then. When we are actually in the moments that comprise our days, it is nearly impossible to recognize those that will eventually be acknowledged as life-altering. But reflection offers crystal-clear magnification; it allows us to view our lives as a sort of slide show. Oh, look! There's Becky and Tavia holding up the Christmas tree that wants so badly to fall over, and hey! Here come's Tuck through the front door to save the day. 

Another slide reveals a surprised and visibly elated Tuck as his eclectic group of friends surround him in celebration of his 15th birthday in what Tuck eventually described as the best party he's ever had. 

And in another scene, there I am, packing boxes and crying because I'm thoroughly exhausted and torn between needing to move on and not wanting to move my kids from the only home (and community, and friends) they've ever known.

I watch as the kids and I make the monumentally difficult decision to let go of our beloved Oliver, whose seizures claimed his canine dignity and comfort. We surround him with love there on the vet's office floor as he takes his last breath and gently lays his head in my hand. We say goodbye.

In my mind's eye I see myself growing more frustrated and beleaguered as I try to maintain the house I sacrificed to stay in all those years, the one I lovingly painted and decorated and made into a home. I can't physically do it alone. I can't stay there, being told that it's not really my house anyway, that somehow, all the sweat equity I've accrued over the 12 years means nothing. I weep, for all the disappointment and loss. And then I resolve to keep my splintered family together because whether these kids know it or not, we are strong enough to start over somewhere else and create something wonderful. Different, yes. But wonderful nonetheless.

My brain cannot think of the most challenging moments without also conjuring memories of those most rewarding and enriching. I see myself in Mexico with Rick, where we slept late and indulged ourselves in whatever way we felt like indulging. Time ceased to exist, and we just enjoyed basking in each other's company. The breathtaking sunsets and crashing waves of the Caribbean didn't hurt, either.

I see Rick again, reaching out to my kids with patience and a genuine desire to make them feel comfortable. He knows it's a tough crowd. My kids are loving, but they're products of my influence: They say what they think and they aren't exactly in a place of great trust. I watch as he gently enters the sphere of this family in a manner that is at once cautious and yet oddly confident. He recognizes the importance of building relationships with my children; he knows I value their feelings and opinions. He understands that to embrace me is also to embrace my tribe. As weeks pass, I watch them accept him, welcome him, tread easier around him. He is with us when he can be, and we always look forward to his arrival.

As the year winds to a close, I see us pile into the van: Max, Tuck, Bella, and I (Tavi stayed in Windsor a few days longer), along with our two remaining dogs, Kya and Scout. We drive 2000 miles across the country and I marvel that the trip is so uneventful and, well, smooth. Ok, as smooth as it can be with four people and two dogs in an enclosed, moving vehicle. All in all, that trip could have been a nightmare and was pleasantly not.

Then there we are, Max having left for foreign shores, the three kids and I searching for our place in this new community. There are good points and bad, and in my most recent poll, I am told by all three that they would not choose to be living in Colorado now. Yes, they miss their friends. Very much. Yes, Bella misses her dad. Yes, school is better in some ways, worse in others. Typical issues that accompany a typical move. I miss my friends too, achingly so. I miss my old office, which was beautiful and bright and the only space I've ever occupied that felt like it was truly and only mine. 

But we are adjusting and finding things to appreciate: Bella and I especially love the ocean that sits right outside our front door. We love to go down to our pier, where I relax and she explores, showing me her found treasures. Tavi marvels at how quickly she's made friends, good friends, and how easily she transitioned into her school. Tuck has arguably struggled the most, but he also was the one who left the most behind, being oldest and having just embarked on a music career. But even he has found a core group of friends and has begun performing publicly. And we are all lucky because those people we love visit us. Our dear friends Jennie and Tim stayed for a few days. My sister was here to help us with the move. The girls' dad has visited once. Tavi's friend Ali just spent a week with us, and Tuck's friend Dakota will be here on Friday. I'm pretty certain to see Wendy and Tami here in Vacationland before 2012 comes to a close, and the girls are going back to Colorado for the second time in four months this weekend.

We are learning a lot. The move, which foisted our little gang into unfamiliar territory, brought us even closer. We have relied on one another in ways we didn't before, and I realized not long ago, as we sat around the dinner table and laughed and sang and talked, that my kids are friends. A stranger remarked on this phenomenon a couple weeks ago, when Max was visiting and we all were out together. She was amazed at how much my kids seem to like each other, and how much fun they had just talking with one another. I think our self-imposed exile from all that we had known made us appreciate each other more, even as we continue to fight and argue about things we one day will look back on and wonder why.

I also believe that this leap of faith has served to show my children how resilient and strong they are. What they did was not easy, and each has exacted a toll from me in his or her own way. I accept that, because what I essentially did was ask them to trust me, to believe in my wisdom, to blindly go far away. I asked them to think back on their own lives and consider if I had ever let them down or led them astray. I asked them if I'd ever lied to them, or even put my own needs or desires ahead of theirs. They knew I had not, and so they reluctantly took the leap with me. And ever so slowly, their new lives are unfolding. And whaddya know? Those lives aren't too shabby.

It's been a tough year. A tender year. An evolutionary year. A year that serves to remind that we are never too old to change, to grow, to risk. It's been a year that underscores the value in staying true to oneself, in recognizing a good thing when you see it and holding onto it. A year that reminded me that struggle is part of the glory, and trusting my gut is always the right thing to do. 

And so I embark on my 48th year with gusto and a belief that the good I put out into the world is coming back to me in spades. I have the love of a solid man and love him back like nobody's business; my children are good, interesting people whom I adore; I get paid to do something I love, which in turn helps keep my family going; and I find something to laugh about every day. I wake up to the sound of sea gulls every morning and coffee brewing in the kitchen. I regret little and have much to appreciate.

I am joyful.

Do You Know Who I Am? I'm the Bejeweled, Long-Haired Cheese...the One in the Mini Dress

As of this past Saturday, I am the mother of three teenagers and one "tween." Technically, one of those teenagers is an adult, but that's a term loosely used on any 18-year-old, I don't care how mature or wise he may be.

Three teenagers.

Three!

How the hell did this happen? Well, I know how it happened. But I mean...how? I am 46 years old, clearly old enough to claim these kids as my own. But I don't feel like I should be able to claim them. Just this morning, Tavi was chastising me for buying this very cool, multi-colored peace sign bracelet cuff. It screamed my name as I did my best to walk by and ignore it in the store. But seriously--that bracelet belongs on my arm. And it was under $5, which I interpreted as a sign from God that it should go home with me. Tavia informed me that I should give it to her, because I'm "way too old" to wear it. She did not, however, deny it's cuteness.

I remember my mom telling me that once a woman gets to a certain age (can't remember what that predetermined age was), long hair should be cut and no longer worn with ribbons adorning it. My hair is still long. And I still wear ribbons in it. And flowers. And flowered ribbons. I'm also partial to peace signs and anything reminiscent of the 60s, like go-go boots. I not-so-secretly covet a pair of shiny white go-go boots. And a mini-dress with bell sleeves made of some kind of groovy-patterned fabric. I can't help it. It's just who I am. I don't really care if I'm 60, 70, 80...if I want to tie my hair up with a pink ribbon and sashay around town in go-go boots, I'm damn well going to do it. So get the hell out of my way, people. Or at least stop and give me a ride. On your motorcycle, 'cause that's another thing I'll never get too old for. And the faster, the better.

But I digress. It's just the three kids and me living here now. I am outnumbered 3 to 1. And in any situation involving Tuck or Tavi, they gang up on me and take up each other's cause. Doesn't matter what it is, I am the enemy who must be brought down. Their ability to collaborate and cooperate is impressive; I wish they'd use that skill to do housework or wash the van. Or rub my feet. Something that might benefit me in some way. Alas, their focus is always on "making a point" or "proving" me wrong. Often, it's just on arguing for the sake of arguing.

I remember feeling as if I always had a point to make. That lasted until I was about 20. Then I gradually stopped caring if people agreed with me. In fact, if too many people agreed with my point of view, I thought I must be wrong. Because the cheese stands alone, and I liked being the cheese.

Now, in my late 40s, I still don't feel the need to get people to agree with me. Add to that a distinct lack of needing approval for whatever I might do or say, think or feel, and I've come to a satisfyingly liberating stage of my life. Is this what most women in their 40s feel like? I would truly like to hear from any of you, because in my 20s, I thought getting older would be awful. But now that I AM older, I actually prefer it.

The writer in me appreciates the irony in that concept. The mom in me relishes the idea that my kids feel sorry for me because I'm OLD. The woman in me just wants those freakin' go-go boots.

To College, and Beyond

One week ago today, I drove with Max to CU-Boulder. And I left him there. And he was happy about it.

Huh.

Just a couple months earlier, Max spent nearly a full month in India, hiking and backpacking. It was his high school graduation gift. I thought it would help me prepare for his leaving in the fall.

I was wrong.

Nothing prepared me. Oh, I knew he was growing up and pushing himself away from shore. I knew that when he made some crazy choices over graduation weekend. I knew it when he transported home a hookah from India, cradling it in his lap as if it were a precious newborn. I knew it when he spent more time with friends than family throughout the summer.

I knew. I swear I did. And I told myself that this was nature's way of getting me used to not having him around. Let me tell ya, I can be one convincing broad. But now that he's actually gone, meaning, HE DOES NOT LIVE HERE ANYMORE, I realize that there is no getting used to it. There's just acceptance, because what else can I do?

Though he once spent nearly all his waking hours--and many of his slumbering ones, too--literally attached to me by sling or backpack or some other baby-carrying apparatus, the Barnacle Boy did develop into an independent young man. Despite the warnings of people who did not know me or Max but who likened our family bed to child abuse, my son did not grow up to be a serial killer (yet) or a mama's boy. He does not suffer from low self-esteem, nor does he have intimacy issues. He's a normal young adult. And he was so ready to leave this house, this town. And me.

I tried not to take it personally. I mean, really. He had the confidence to strike out on his own in part because I nurtured that independence and spirit in him. How many 17-year-olds hop on an international flight to a foreign land by themselves (though he did meet up with a friend) and take each day as it comes, just living in the moment and embracing whatever adventure awaits him? But that's Max. He's comfortable in his own skin, and the unknown doesn't unnerve him. He lacks street smarts (come on, we live in Windsor, population 20,000) but makes up for that in the level of faith he has in himself. Those attitudes? They don't just happen. They are crafted.

So I totally realize and understand that Max was able to tell me it was time for me to go last week as we stood outside his dorm because I did my job right. We don't share all the same values or beliefs. We don't agree on a lot of issues. One of our favorite pasttimes these last few years was late-night debating. Max and I are two sides of the same coin. We are of one another, but we have steadfastly different views on life.

And that is why I can respect my son even as I want to shake him and ask what the hell he is thinking. It is why I can truly feel how much I love him even when I don't necessarily like the person he is being (and he's not liking me). It is, ultimately, why I can let him go with tears, yes, but also with the knowledge that he is exactly where he should be.

That, and he's coming home to visit tomorrow. Heh.

If They're Never Mad, You're Not Doing Your Job

I've been home alone with my 16-year-old, Max, since mid-week. Wes took the three younger kids to his annual family campout in Missouri. With just the two of us to care for, life has been much slower. Quieter. Yes, dare I say, easier?

Just yesterday as we were driving to get Max a burger, I asked if he was enjoying the solitude. "Yeah," he replied. "Just think Mom, this could be how life is ALL the time." I smiled at that...Max has always and forever believed he should be an only child. I ruined that, three times over.

I know Max believes in the truth of what he said, but I also know how much he loves his family, even as he denounces us as stupid and annoying. Tucker and Max are as close as any brothers I've ever known. When they're here at the house, they're usually together. They exchange insults on a regular basis, but separately, they admit to the love they feel for one another. It's how family is.

Last night, I had the good fortune to enjoy the company of some wonderful friends, people I respect. The topic turned to parenting and kids, and we pondered the idea that raising kids with strict discipline does not necessarily result in kids who regularly make good choices. Conversely, kids raised with looser discipline don't always head down the wrong path.

I do think there's one measurement for parenting that is consistent across the board, regardless of parenting style: If your kids are never mad at you, you better step back and think about what you're doing.

With four kids between the ages of 8 and 16, I can almost count on the fact that at any given moment, at least one of them thinks I know nothing, am out of it, am mean, abuse of my power...the list goes on. In short, I suck. Knowing that the people I love most in this world feel that way on a semi-regular basis used to make me crazy. It hurt my feelings, made me second-guess my decisions and choices, left me feeling inadequate. But as they got older and began to voice their dissent more often, I came to recognize the phenomenon as one that I was just going to have to live with or change how I parent. And that second option wasn't very realistic.

Not that I'm a perfect parent. God, no. I wish I were, but Mom always told me to wish in one hand and poop in the other and see which filled up fastest. But I listen to my gut, and that intuition is reliable. And, generally speaking, my kids are good people. As one friend put it, I "allow them to be individuals and still give 'em a kick in the ass when they need it." Well said, friend.

I'm not here to be my kids' friend; they have enough of those. I feed those friends. I let them sleep at my house. I counsel some of them when they ask for advice. In short, I live with those friends; I don't want to be one of them. Some days, I don't want to be a parent, either. I'm tired. Or just feel lazy. Or am on the edge of the abyss because I have said, "Would you (fill in the blank)" 821 times already and the request still hasn't been fulfilled. Maybe I have a work deadline I'm struggling to meet. I don't want to cook dinner for myself or anyone else. Really, I just don't wanna do it.

But.

I signed up for this job willingly and without much understanding of what it entails. I took the risk, accepted the challenge. And so I will see it through. And if that means Max is mad because I won't allow him to sleep at a friend's house unless a parent is home and knows Max is supposed to sleep there, too bad. It's my job to know where my kid is, or at the very least, where he isn't.

If being a parent means explaining to Tucker for the 93rd time why I will not let him see that R-rated movie he so badly wants to see and which everyone else has seen, so be it. I'll do it. My teeth will be clenched, my eyebrow may twitch. Saying "yes" would require less effort, and I'd be the hero instead of the enemy. But I will still say "no."

If parenting this particular set of children the way I think they should be parented means Tavia is going to shoot me the 56th dirty look--really, Mom, are you serious?--of the day, then I will be the recipient of the 56th dirty look of the day. She will stomp up the stairs, slam her door, and be mad...until she isn't, which is probably not too long because she wants me to paint her nails, draw with her, toss her the volleyball so she can practice her bumps.

Bella, at 8, is young enough that she still wants to always do the right thing. My requests and restrictions may impose upon her happiness; they may be met with pouts and slumped shoulders to show me she's carrying the weight of the world. But by the day's end, I'm getting kisses and being told she loves me.

I can live with all of this. What I couldn't live with are kids who don't talk to me. Who never share the good and bad of their day, who can't be bothered to hug me goodbye or kiss me goodnight. I can live with the unpleasantness, but not without the good stuff. And I don't think the good stuff is a given; I earn that. How? By caring about where they are and who they're with. I love them with words and actions. The limits I impose act in the same way hugs do; they say "I love you," "you are worth caring about," "I know you're smart, but I'm one step ahead of you."

I'd rather my kids are always happy with me; that would be a slice of heaven. Who needs angels and clouds and everlasting life if you've got kids who understand you're just doing the best you can by them, even if that means not letting them do what they want? But I'm no fool. I know being a parent sometimes means they see me with horns and beady, red pig eyes.

That's cool. I look good in red.