Menopausal Mother

    I'll admit it. I've lost my funny bone. It went on vacation to Maui and left me here staring at a blank computer screen with nary an entertaining thought in my head. Oh sure, I can give you all sorts of excuses.... I'm always tired and drawn to the seductive song of my Memory Foam mattress; Menopause has robbed me of any creativity because it's damn hard to be funny when you're sweating at your desk despite the thermostat being set at sub zero temps. And no, I don't care that everyone else in this house is wearing sweaters and complaining through chattering teeth. I've lost my creativity because lately it feels as if the world has gone mad, whether it's over Trump policies or a gorilla shot at a zoo for grabbing a child who fell over a barricade. Social media and the news are full of stories that are quickly making me lose my faith in humanity.

     It's also difficult for me to be funny lately because my Mum is no longer here to bounce my silly ideas off of. She encouraged and inspired me to be the best I could be. She played a huge part in my journey as an author, but now she's gone, and I need to find my voice again without her.

     The other day when I was feeling a bit sorry for myself, I ended up spending time with someone close to my heart who struggles every single day with a debilitating health issue that robs him of living a normal life. It was an eye opener, and made me realize I have no right to complain about my circumstances. I really don't want to wallow in grief and self pity, but depression is a sneaky thief that loves to steal my thunder. It's a ghastly reminder that I'm balancing on a tightrope between sanity and the urge to free-fall into a rocky pit of nothingness. What's the answer here? There is no quick fix. I just need to move from day to day and focus on the small things that are usually the most profound things in this crazy life I live.

     The simplicity of these events is what brings me the most pleasure----that first sip of coffee in the morning when I'm still in my pajamas, a pug softly snoring in my lap; the sweet tang of fresh strawberries from the farmer's market; watching the bluejays in my yard as they gobble up peanuts left in the feeder by my back door; the way sunlight glints off the pavement after a rain storm; my granddaughter's contagious laughter when I alter my voice to sound like the characters in the books I read to her; the way my muscles burn during Zumba class and the afterglow that leaves me feeling exhausted yet empowered; the little kisses my husband sneaks on the nape of my neck when I least expect them; a text from my children telling me that I am loved.

     Yes, I know I'm lucky. Even blessed, as some would say. But knowing this only fuels the guilt that  surfaces whenever I feel myself sliding into that damn rocky pit of despair. I want to turn a blind eye to all the the things that are wrong in the universe and simply focus on what's right. This is why I need humor. It's my therapy in an otherwise scary world. Laughter makes me forget my fears and helps me cheer others who need it as badly as I do. But when that laughter dries up, I feel vulnerable and unsteady on the tightrope. I need that safety net beneath me as much as the next person.

     I'll keep working at humor----it's what Mum would want me to do. But I also have to learn to write for myself, and not just for my readers. It's the only cure I know for beating back a defeatist attitude. I'll find my funny bone again one day. It's out there somewhere, enjoying the surf and sand while I'm drinking lukewarm coffee and praying for a miracle in front of my computer screen. That's okay, though, because the bluejays are out this morning, the dogs are playing in the yard and my granddaughter is reading Dr Seuss to me.

     And for today, it's enough.  



 

When I first learned that I was going to be a grandparent, I was surprised and terrified at the same time. I hadn't changed a diaper or burped a newborn in 16 years. What if I'd forgotten the basic rudiments of infant care? I prayed that it would come back to me like riding a bike----even though I haven't been on one in twenty years, I'm pretty sure I could still pedal my way around the neighborhood. I might wobble a bit at first, but eventually I'd straighten up and glide effortlessly down the street.

After talking to several of my friends who had already been initiated into the ranks of being a grandparent, new worries arose. What if my daughter had the same difficulty adjusting to the drastic changes brought on by new motherhood that I once experienced? What if my grandchild was colicky and inconsolable at all hours of the day and night? Even worse---what if I was unable to bond with my grand baby?

Fortunately, my fears were assuaged once my granddaughter was born. She was a healthy, happy baby, and my daughter eased naturally into her new role as a mother. And I couldn't have been any prouder of the patient, confident parent that she became.

Despite a few fevers, tantrums and troublesome teething episodes over the years, I think I've gotten the hang of grandparenting. Now that my granddaughter is approaching her third birthday, I've had time to reflect on my relationship with her and the advantages of being a grandparent:



1. You can load them up on homemade chocolate chip cookies after dinner, then send them home to their parents before the sugar kicks in.

2. You're allowed to teach your grandchild descriptive words such as "dingleberry" and "fartcake" without an ounce of guilt.

3. When the grandchild has a meltdown in the grocery store and thrashes around on the floor like someone in need of an exorcism, you can hand the whirling dervish over to the parents.

4. You'll have fun reading to your grandchildren all the old storybooks that you read to your own children... but this time you're allowed to tweak the tales: "There once was an old woman who lived in a shoe. She lost all her teeth and forgot how to chew."

5. When the grand baby gets sick, you don't have to be on barf patrol 24/7. This is a job for the parents…and the reason why speed dial was invented.

6. You don't have to buy your grandchildren boring things such as school supplies and uniforms. You can spend your money on entertaining toys such as Tom the Talking Cat, Wubble the Bubble Ball and My Little Pony. Bonus points for loud toys or ones that require assembly and have over 100 parts.

7. Any parent who talks incessantly about their precious offspring's accomplishments will receive plenty of eye rolls and cold shoulders. But as a grandparent, you're automatically allowed the bragging rights you were denied while raising your own children. "My two-year-old grandchild knows the Preamble to the Constitution by heart and can recite the Seven Deadly Sins…in fluent Russian…" No eye rolling, please.

8. You can embellish stories from your youth and your grandchild will believe every word. "When I was two, I learned how to skin a bull and make my own diapers out of his hide." No one needs to know that Grandpa grew up in the city and that the closest he ever came to a bull was a plate of Rocky Mountain Oysters.  

9. If the grandkids don't finish their dinner at a restaurant, you have permission to eat their leftovers. "What? Grandma gave you too much milk and now you're full? Of course she can help you eat those extra chicken tenders and fries!"

10. You have the opportunity to pick and choose which recitals/ concerts/ sporting events you'd like to attend. Skip the three hour violin concert but don't miss the twenty River Dancing toddlers in Pull-Ups.

11. Grandparents have free license to act silly, play games and spoil their grandchildren without punishment or unsolicited advice. Because no one will put the grandparents in time-out.

12. You get to skip the whole potty training phase. If someone leaves a poop on the carpet, better check on the dog...or Grandpa.


My connection to my granddaughter is a bridge between the past and the future. When I look at her precious face, I see my own childhood mirrored in her eyes.

I'll never be too old to use sidewalk chalk, finger paints or play kick the can in the suburban streets of my youth.

And I'll never be too old for fairytales with happy endings.



***Want More Meno Mama? This week I'm up at Humor Outcasts talking about my husband's obsession with fire. You can read it here: http://humoroutcasts.com/2014/firebug/

Welcome to another edition of the Fly On The Wall group posts. Today, 14 brave bloggers are inviting you into their homes for a glimpse of what you'd see if you were a fly on the wall.

     Our youngest is only a year from graduating----between school, work and an active social life, he's seldom home. Since our three older children flew the coop years ago, my husband and I have been enjoying a taste of freedom as "almost" empty nesters. I cook less, nap more and I get to spend unlimited time in the garden. Even better, there are plenty of uninterrupted Cialis moments bringing spontaneity back into our lives. My husband and I are rediscovering each other after thirty years of marriage, and suddenly it's 1984 all over again.
   
     Until karma came knocking at the door.

     My oldest daughter was offered a job transfer with the opportunity to move back to her hometown. A month later she arrived on our steps with a toddler on her hip and a moving van in the driveway. The quiet serenity I'd grown accustomed to disappeared before the first suitcase was unpacked.

     Gone are the days of sharing a leisurely cup of coffee over the morning news. My husband and I now sip our daily elixir while watching Chuggington with our granddaughter sandwiched between us on the couch.

     And the changes don't stop there.

     The living room that I kept as clean as a showroom floor is now littered with stuffed animals, a toddler trampoline, a plastic princess slide and a talking choo choo train. I'm having flashbacks of raising four kids with enough play equipment in my house to run an amusement park. I'm trapped in the Land of the Wee People where there are tiny little tables, tiny little chairs and tiny little toys cluttering my home.

     My life has become one long deja vu as I stress about spilled apple juice, gooey tabletops and curious dogs choking on Lego blocks. There are glass rings in the shape of an Olympics symbol on my fine wood furniture and unidentifiable stains that resemble a Rorschach inkblot test on my couch. These mishaps are a sharp reminder of the twenty years I spent with a roll of paper towels in one hand and a spray cleaner in the other.

     I've learned that 8:00 p.m. is the witching hour for small children when the dreaded word "bedtime" is uttered. It automatically sets off a siren that can be heard six blocks away. It's the battle cry of every rebellious toddler waging a war against sleep. My granddaughter is no exception, and the high decibels of her nightly tantrums make my ears bleed. This sets the dogs on edge, and within minutes my home sounds like it has been overrun by a pack of howling coyotes.

     Extra people in the house also means that my garbage bin looks like Mount Trashmore, the laundry pile is the height of Mount Kilimanjaro and the dirty dishes in the sink are stacked higher than Mount Everest. My home has been transformed into a mountain range.

     I'm dealing daily with unpleasant odors that permeate the air, but I'm not sure if the smell is from my flatulating pugs or a diaper gone wrong. Pretty soon I'll need to invest in a gag-o-meter to determine the culprit of stink.

     Other changes include a second refrigerator in our spare bedroom for our daughter's organic groceries. She prefers clean eating. The irony of this is not lost on me since all my children lived by the five second rule whenever food fell on the floor.

      The extra stress from all the changes in our home has caused my husband to gnash his teeth down to the size of corn niblets, and just yesterday I noticed that my night guard is now sporting new holes.

     I may be on the verge of a middle age meltdown, but in all the chaos, I've found magic. It comes in the form of a little girl's laughter when she rushes into my arms after her morning waffles and plants a sticky kiss on my cheek. It's there, at the kitchen table, when I share a glass of wine with my daughter as we giggle and gossip into the wee hours of the night. More importantly, there's magic behind every "I love you" and every embrace.

     I miss the freedom of an empty nest, but I'll gladly trade it for a house full of laughter, and all the sticky kisses my granddaughter has to offer.