Why I Feel Like a Queen This Mother's Day

by Amy Ruhlin

These later years of motherhood have gifts waiting for us, of that I am sure. I don't know yet what they are, but I stay alert.

My daughter, and my son, are both in their early 20s. They are smitten with the idea of endless possibilities and surprising opportunities. They are embarking on their young, exciting lives, and heeding the call: "Come on in! The water is fine. You'll love it." They wade in, eagerly, waist deep. I strain to watch, standing safely along the shoreline, my feet firmly planted in the sand.

As I watch them dive in, I remind myself that this is now their time. We boomer parents had our own spotlight for many years. But now, we stand a bit in the shadows, and if we have the courage and wisdom, we will at least try to be the elders, the ones who have the sense to get off of center stage and instead, offer a supporting role. Comes a time, boomers.

My son recently took me to his college art studio where we ran into some of his fellow students. He eagerly introduced me: "This is my Mom," he said. I loved the way he said "Mom" -- there was gladness, gratitude and dare I say, pride in his voice. His hip, young friends' eyes lit up. "Your Mom! Wow, has she seen your work yet?" "Not yet!' he replied. When they left, my son and I walked through the studio together, while he gently and humbly pointed out some of his art. I could tell that it meant something to him to show his mom his work. And somehow, for the first time, instead of feeling like an older mother, I felt like a Queen.

It wasn't like when I was a younger mom. I didn't feel needed. I didn't feel like I had to have all of the answers. Or that I was taking care of him. Instead, I felt recognized. I felt appreciated. I felt honored.

So, give it up boomer mamas. Our supporting role is the best one yet.

All hail the Queen on this Mother's Day.

On Aging As A Couple

by Amy Ruhlin

My husband comes home from work with his backpack slung over his shoulder, the same way he carried a similar pack during our college years. Back then, the weight of the pack was a few textbooks and a pack of cigarettes, but now it's his fancy laptop and files of responsibilities. He slides the strap down his arm, eases the pack onto the kitchen chair and unzips the outer pocket, the space where, in our younger days, he stashed Marlboro Lights. He takes out his pain meds, his only relief from the arthritis that has settled into his spine. I can see the stress of his workday rooted in the reddened rims of his eyes and the years of devotion as a husband and father carried in his gait. He's a good man, the best I've ever known, and his love has been strong and wide, always, in our 30 years together. He's solid, his feet planted firmly on the ground, his Irish heritage often on display with his playful mischief. It's been only recently that I've faced the fact that like me, he is vulnerable to time. Like me, he is a little tattered and worn. And like me, he is growing older.

I've been so preoccupied with my own issues of aging--perimenopause, kids flying the nest, fine lines and sagging breasts, that I've kept my husband safely frozen in time. In my mind, he's always been the 21-year-old boy that I first laid eyes on in a hotel lobby in 1981. He was working as a bellman and he wore a ridiculous, black bellhop uniform that made him look like a leprechaun on his way to a funeral. But still, I fell for him, hard, and have loved him ever since.  It's not like I love his battered 53-year-old self less than I loved his fresh 21-year-old self. In fact, the reverse is true, and therein lies the problem.

I know we are the lucky ones. We have each other to help bear the burden of aging, to soften the blows of time. He’s always been my safe space to land, the one whom I trust completely and who can make me laugh at anything, most importantly, at myself.  But selfishly, I don't want him to grow old too. It’s just too damn scary and he’s too much to lose.

I’d always heard that it takes courage to truly love another and as I age alongside my husband, I'm learning how true that is. Love is a trickster. In the beginning, it’s like a fruity cocktail before the heavy meal.  It’s sweet and easy, but as you move along, it becomes richer, more textured, loaded. It’s more satisfying and substantial, and yet, you know it is getting closer to the end. But, perhaps, learning how to fully love another, despite the enormous cost, is its ultimate goal and a benefit of aging.

I ask him how his day was as he pours water into a glass and then swallows his pill. He says something to make me laugh and then he opens the back door and tells me that he needs to step out for some fresh air, but I know he is really going out to sneak that Marlboro Light he had hidden in his backpack, underneath the meds. I know that, at least for now, he’s got my back and he’ll lock up for the night, so I head upstairs for bed, feeling glad and grateful that together, we are growing older.

Rest, Live and Be Loved

by Amy Ruhlin
 

Sometimes I think we boomers are in a bit of a panic. At least, I know that sometimes, I am. 

Especially in those moments when I realize that we’ve been on this planet for more than half a century. When I mention this small fact to folks my age, they often look shocked and horrified. Surely that estimation isn’t right. Can’t be. We’re too hip for that. Too busy. Too revolutionary. We don’t do old.

It just doesn't seem to fit the boomer storyline- sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll, baby. And after that, upward mobility, tiger moms and helicopter parenting.

I mean, we've got this. 

So, true to our nature, we’ve turned these later years into opportunities to reinvent ourselves. Which is a wonderful thing. I created a blog when I turned 50, after years of raising my children and having a career as a therapist. And from that simple, and for a lot of us, courageous act of deciding to write at this stage in life, I’ve had the amazing opportunity to have my work published on a little website called The Huffington Post. I’ve also volunteered, worked for a non-profit and currently work as an independent contractor.  I've reconnected with old friends and with parts of my own self. A full steam ahead reinvention effort. 

But lately, my reinventing seems to have stalled.

 

So I’ve been taking naps. And taking great joy in wearing my colorful, winter scarves, being and laughing with my husband of thirty years, and watching our children embark on their exciting, young adult lives.

On good days, I tell myself that I’m just chillin'. On others, I worry that I’m just being old. I worry that I’m being an inadequate reinventor and wonder if I should do something new, like become a bank teller. Or take up skydiving.

Yesterday, I had a conversation with an old friend via text. She told me that in addition to working full-time, she is going back to school to get her degree, something she’s always wanted to do. I told her how happy I am for her, but that I didn’t know how she did it, because frankly, I’m beat.

 

And then she texted me this: “You’ve done it all. Now is your time to rest, live and be loved.”

 

I wanted to reach through my cell phone screen and hug her.

 

I decided it’s okay to just chill for a while. Or to just be old. And to just love and be loved.
In fact, in our 24/7 crazy world, these acts could be the most revolutionary reinvention of all. And that is very much a part of our boomer storyline.

 
Rest, live and be loved—I’ve got this.

This Is What 50 Does

by Amy Ruhlin

I’ve been soaking up time.

I can feel the red of a maple leaf turning. I can catch sight of a baby’s smile from across three aisles in the grocery store.  I can luxuriate in sliding the zipper up on the sides of my new, slinky, black boots.

 I’m on high alert.

I can hear the holiness of a guitar, appreciate the molecular structure of water, and understand the meaning of a piece of art, without formal study.

I can feel the texture of minutes passing, gritty sand falling through the narrow center of the hourglass.

The night that I turned 30, I sat in a bar feeling distraught.  I was out with my husband and his sister and brother-in-law, wallowing in my utter disbelief that I was not in my twenties anymore. Finally, my brother-in-law looked me in the eye and said, “Amy, it’s no big deal. Time passes.”

His words shut me up and rightly so.

 But time past was still a jolt, a hand on my shoulder in the groggy morning whispering, “wake up.”

 It was a shallow, ridiculous terror-thinking that 30 was old. But it was also only a symptom of a larger mistake – a misuse of time.

Like an unappreciative lover, I used it. I got things done and marked off accomplishments. Time was only a means to an end. And somehow, on that night when I turned 30, I knew that this was missing the mark, and that my obnoxious, whiny 30-year-old self was actually on to something.

Clarity is what surprises me most about the sixth decade. Though time is fleeting, there is no need for distress. Instead, I can know that in each moment, I fully lived.

All We Wanted Was A Selfie

by Amy Ruhlin

I recently spent an evening with three childhood friends, one of whom I hadn't seen in 38 years. Not that it mattered.

More than three decades had passed since we were together as young teens. Between the four of us, the years gave us marriages, divorces, children, death, fancy degrees and impressive careers.

We proudly shared photos of our grown children. We reminisced a bit.

We spoke of our spouses, successes, failures, and regrets. We could have easily spent the entire evening sharing our personal histories and our oh-so-important life stories. But we didn't.

Because in the midst of that mysterious, sacred bond that connects childhood friends, something even bigger seems to emerge. In the small intangibles that remain from the innocence of youth.

We listened to music from the 1970s and tried to guess the artists and the names of songs.

We watched a clip of the great 1984 Talking Heads concert film, "Stop Making Sense," where David Byrne gesticulates wildly in his over-sized white suit while he performs "Once In a Lifetime": "Time isn't holding up. Time is an asterisk. Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was..."

We drank lots of wine and lots of water and spent most of the night in uproarious laughter, as we posed for the perfect group selfie. One where we maybe looked 32, instead of 52.

Early on in the evening, I announced that at our age, I wanted to make sure that I didn't waste any time. I wanted to spend it on what's important.

And by the end of the evening, I had our perfect selfie: a circle of old friends, sprawled out on the floor, in the midst of hard laughter. Tangible proof that the small things are often large. And now, a constant reminder to spend time on what's important.

 

Why Your 20-Year-Old Self Wants You To STFU

by Amy Ruhlin

It seems popular these days to read headlines such as, "10 Things I Would Tell My 20-Year-Old-Self." Or, "5 Words of Advice I Wish I'd Followed In My Youth." When I read these articles, I can almost hear my younger self: "please, please STFU. Can't you just simply love me?"

As if we all somehow were supposed to know better. As if we all somehow, were just awful. Because we did insanely stupid things. Because we made dumb mistakes. Because we were really ridiculous, and oh my GOD, what were we thinking?

As if we were not enough. As if things could have somehow been any different than they were. As if we were not doing the best that we could.

In my thirties, I became a mother. And motherhood swallowed me whole.

I was a good young mother. A good enough mother. I don't think for one second that I was better than any other mother, but I worked hard at motherhood. I gave it my all.

I loved having young children in the house. I loved having my heart pried open by the sight of small, precious hands and the depth of wide, innocent eyes. Some days, it was just a lot of hard work, but mostly, it was a blissful time. My happiest years, when everything, for the first time, felt so right.

In fact, it all felt so right, that I think I decided, on some unconscious level, that everything before, including my younger self, must have somehow been wrong.

So, I left that part of me behind. I ditched her. I pushed her underground. I lost her. I think a lot of us do.

She hadn't understood anything, after all. She sweated the small stuff. She didn't have her priorities straight. She didn't know to enjoy the little things. She actually cared what other people thought of her. How silly she was! How foolish and shallow she had been.

But, as my kids grew up, and prepared to leave the nest, my younger self seemed to resurface with a vengeance.

Once, when I was cleaning out a closet, I stumbled upon my college degrees and suddenly found myself in a rage, waving my diplomas in the air like a wild woman, and shouting, "I HAVE my Masters degree!" Some days, I would find myself lounging on the sofa, eating greasy potato chips and flipping through magazines, just like it was 1982.

For a while, I struggled. Hadn't I  gotten myself all together in my 30s and 40s and left my foolishness behind? Was I going crazy? Was it all just hormonal? Was I having a midlife crisis?

Eventually, I realized, that in some strange way, I was making peace with my past. I realized that my younger self, like most all of our young selves, had actually kicked ass. I realized that in the midst of all of her flaws and lack of wisdom, she got me here.

I realized that making peace with our past, with our crazy younger selves, works so much better than beating up on them or giving them advice. It makes us whole. It allows us to move forward and to age with gratitude and tolerance for ourselves and for others.

I think my 20-year-self wants to write an article. I'm not yet sure what all she has to say, but I think I know her title: "10 Reasons Your 20-Year-Old Self Wants You To STFU."

Motherhood Never Ends

by Amy Ruhlin

It's almost Mother's Day, and my 19-year-old-son is preparing to move into his first apartment. My 22-year-old-daughter is getting ready to graduate from college. I have made it through my first year as an empty-nester. And life feels huge.

At times, I've felt like I'm the one who went off to college. I adore my kids. I miss them so much that sometimes I physically ache. But, also, right alongside of the hurt, I've been having the time of my life remembering other loves.

I've attended rock concerts to see musicians who I haven't even thought of since 1975. I've traveled to the beach, and to the mountains, and to nearby towns, all on a whim, at the spur-of-the-moment, for my own enjoyment. I've been responsible for no one other than myself.

There was a time when I would have considered all of this unnecessary, or maybe even selfish. But now, after 22 years of motherhood, I realize that it has been one of the most loving things that I could do.

I've remembered what it feels like to be 20-something. I've remembered how to be wide open to the world around me, to stand at the edge, to feel possibility.

Yesterday, I visited the kids at their college. I took my son some items that he needs for his apartment: bedding, towels, utensils, toilet bowl cleaner. I took my daughter shopping for graduation dresses. I took my whole self into that familiar sweetness of mothering.

And this time, it felt bigger. It had expanded. It included me.

I was able to fully embrace and celebrate the thrilling place where my children are in their lives, because I have been doing the same for my own 52-year-old self.

Thankfully, motherhood never ends. Even in the midst of facing an empty nest and watching our kids fly away. It simply stretches, and shows us that it is a love that is huge.

This article was previously published on The Huffington Post

What My Children's Art Taught Me About Aging

by Amy Ruhlin



When my kids were young, I displayed their works of art all over the house. I taped them to their bedroom doors, framed and hung them on my kitchen walls and held them by a magnet to the refrigerator door. Youthful innocence, hope and truth greeted me around every corner of our home. They sometimes even called out to me by name: "For: Mom," in black or red crayon at the top of the paper. Somehow, seeing my children's art everyday made me feel forever young.

I had my favorites. Once, at an art festival, my daughter painted a face with a square head. It floated in the sky, surrounded by heart-shaped clouds.

"Why is it square?" I asked her. "It was supposed to be a house," she said. "But I messed up, so I just turned it into a happy face!"

When she started school, she drew a picture of a school bus. It was blue instead of yellow, and above it she wrote, "It does not take you to school, it takes you to the candy store, and the bus driver pays for all of the candy." I laughed each time I saw it, and I applauded her audacity, at least in her imagination, to change things up, to rebel with a crayon.

In the third grade, she brought home a drawing from art class: a beautiful creature with a large, yellow head; orange, droopy ears; and a green body. In each hand, it held a brown maraca. "What is this?" I asked her." "It's a kachina doll, mommy. It shows you that there is life in everything, and I think it's supposed to protect you." I hung it on her bedroom wall and whenever I was having a bad day, I'd lie on her bed and stare at it, and I swear it made me feel better.

My son painted apple and orange trees. Red and orange balls danced on the ground and lined the top of popsicle-shaped trees and I have never, ever seen happier fruit since.

When they started high school, I knew it was time to take the artwork down. Otherwise, I just looked pathetic: an old mom clinging to old memories. But all I could muster was to move them upstairs, to my office, where I could secretly look at them. After all, I was trying to be strong, to move on, to reinvent myself and to prove that I could let go and begin the process of aging gracefully. Once the kids started college, I finally moved their art to the attic, and even managed to throw some of it away.

A friend recently asked me, "What keeps you open?"  "What do you mean, open?" I asked her. 
"You know," she said, "like when your kids were young, they kept you open." I thought about that for a long time, and I wondered if I'd somehow begun to close up since they left. I wondered if I was
turning into a cranky, old woman.

I asked my husband. "Am I becoming a cranky, old woman?" He knew better than to answer, but the truth is, that, at times, I am. Especially when I catch myself saying things like, "Kids today! They don't know what real music is!" Or, "Been there, done that!" It's so easy, at least in my case, for cynicism and distrust to creep their way in, without the magic of little kids in the house.

So, I decided to make a conscious effort not to let that happen. For a while, I thought about dragging the kid's art back out of the attic. But, I don't think that will be necessary, though I admit, I sometimes wander around up there just to look at it.

Yesterday, I watched a cardinal fly from tree to tree in our backyard. I found myself gasping at how red and alive he was. Then, in the evening, when I looked up at the sky, the crescent moon was outlined so perfectly against the blue glow of early evening, that it nearly made me cry.

My children's art, or rather, what it pointed to, is actually still all around me. I just need to remember to stay open as I age, so that I can see it. I think that may be the real fountain of youth, the one true thing that keeps that cranky, old woman at bay.  

The Empty Nest is Just Another Begining

by Amy Ruhlin

I ride shotgun as my husband drives south on a Georgia highway towards Atlanta. Day has turned to night, and I stare out the windshield at the steady glow of a star. Stability in the sky.

We’ve spent the day looking at houses, north of the city, towards trees and mountains and lakes. Towards possible homes for our newly emptied nest. Towards possible places to begin a third act.

It took me a long time to get here. To this beginning. To even wanting a beginning. I reveled in the glorious middle of my story for so many years, and I didn’t like it when I reached the end. I wanted it to continue.

We come closer to our suburb and the star disappears. I see the lights of Target, where we’ve shopped for the past 18 years. I see the red, neon open sign in the window of Kroger, where we pushed our babies in grocery carts, and bought them candy in the checkout lines. I see the lights of the dry cleaners where we’ve dropped off countless bundles of our clothes. I see artificial lights, but remember real love.

I thought our life here would last forever. I loved it all: swing sets in the backyard, bikes in the garage, crayons throughout the house. The sound of my children's voices. Everyday. My son was only one, and my daughter was 4, when we moved into our current home. I never thought I could leave it. I was too attached.

But those years didn’t last forever. Our kids grew up. They opened my heart and blew my mind and then they left. And though I am grateful and happy and free at last, I, like most parents, have struggled with the loss and grief of letting go. It hasn’t been easy, and I’ve had to make a concentrated effort to move on. But somehow, despite all of the conflicting emotions, or more likely, because of them, the ending is turning into a beginning.

Today  I wasn't looking for backyards suitable for swing sets. I wasn't looking for neighborhoods full of children. And at times, what I wasn’t looking for scared me, and made me sad.

But then I saw porch swings. And backyard hot tubs. And gentle walking paths down to the water’s edge. I saw possibilities that we never could have considered when our kids were young. And I remembered the many things that we loved before we were parents.

Ageing brings the realization that there is always a beginning, a middle and an end. And that the only real stability is in the heart, down deep, where we store all the things we love.

I can’t wait to find our empty nest house. If you drive by, we’ll be the slightly graying couple on the porch swing, rocking it to and fro, reveling in our beginning.