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.

Intelligent, Beautiful You

by Amy Ruhlin

As the year moved from 2013 to 2014, I played one of those silly word games on Facebook. A square made of rows of letters, with instructions to look for words, and a notice that "the first three words you see, will be yours in 2014."

I'd seen these games before. I'd scanned the rows before. I'd found words before, but I dismissed them. Always.

But this time, they would not be dissed. They attached themselves to my underbelly. They entered my bloodstream. They became a part of my cells.

They had messages: Can you take us in now? Finally? We've been here all along, you know. You just didn't see. You were busy. You were young. You were listening to lies.

Intelligent. Beautiful. You.

I'd never owned those words. Most women don't.

We try, we really do. But we listen to a culture that likes to tell us what is smart and what is beautiful. We think we know, but deep down, we don't really feel it. We never measure up. We're never enough.

But then we turn 50.

And we realize that always having the correct answers to the questions is not intelligence. We now know that "I don't know" is often the smartest response of all. And we're not afraid to say it. We know that not knowing is where real learning begins.

We know that perfectionism is a fool's game. We've learned that our flaws are what make us beautiful.

We know that mistakes are how we grow, not how we fail. We don't care what others think of us, as long as we like the company we keep when we are alone.

We listen to our gut and we follow our instincts. We find our voice and we speak our truth, at least some of the time. Even if it is unpopular. Even if it makes another feel betrayed, because we refuse to betray ourselves.

We know how much kindness matters. And that is very smart. And beautiful.

So Happy New Year Post-50s. Happy New Year to intelligent, beautiful you.

Why I Bought An Artificial Christmas Tree This Year

by Amy Ruhlin

I’ve never been fond of artificial Christmas trees. Actually, in my younger days, I thought they were hideous. I wondered if the folks who put up fake trees in their homes had sad childhoods. Didn’t they understand that the house was supposed to smell of pine? Did they not watch A Charlie Brown Christmas?  You know, the one where he walks through the tree lot filled with pink, aluminum Christmas trees, but manages to find a small, real tree in their midst.  I felt sorry for people who had artificial Christmas trees. I felt like they just didn't get it.

I've had a real Christmas tree every year for the past 30 years. I’ve stood in the cold night air on Christmas tree lots, pinching the tips of countless pine branches to make sure they were sticky with sap. I've sniffed every tree in the lot to see which one smelled the most piney. I've dragged my husband to five different lots in one night to find the freshest tree. I've even removed all of the decorations from a tree that died before Christmas day, bought a new tree, and then placed all of the decorations back onto the new tree.

But yesterday, I told my husband that I was thinking about getting an artificial tree this year. This was not an easy decision. I agonized over it for months.

 "I hate artificial trees," he said. 

Both of our kids were home, visiting from college. So, I tried the idea out on our son.

“What do you think about an artificial tree?” I asked him.  “I think it's better not to have a tree at all, instead of getting a fake one,” he said.
 

I tried the idea out on our daughter. I think she's figured out my midlife hormones and state of mind, because she said, “Whatever you want to do is the best choice, mom!”

I reminded my husband about his bad back. I reminded him of all of those years of strapping the tree to the top of the car, carrying it into the house, and TRYING TO GET IT STRAIGHT IN THE STAND. I hadn't even begun to remind him of how long we spend tangled up in lights, when he said, "Let’s go buy a fake tree."

I struck up a conversation with a woman my age in the fake Christmas tree section of the store, an angel on aisle 5. I was feeling anxious and shameful and fake, so I made sure to mention that this was my first artificial Christmas tree EVER. She sighed, and with kindness, she told me that she understood, that it was her first time too, a few years ago, and that well, at our age, an artificial tree is just easier. 

One of the great things about the sixth decade is that we allow ourselves to do things for simple reasons. Because it's fun. Because it's true. Because it's time. Because it is less stressful.  

My husband and I stuffed our new fake tree in the trunk of our car (it came in three easy-to- assemble pieces). As I was putting the last piece in, two young boys walked by with their father, another angel, this time staked out in the parking lot. “Look!” he said to his sons. "That lady has so much Christmas spirit that she is putting a Christmas tree in her car!” The boys giggled and their eyes sparkled and I felt calm and happy and real. On our drive home, we stopped by another store, and I bought a pine scented candle.

Our house smells great and our tree looks real. I'm actually quite fond of it. I think Charlie Brown would approve.

I Miss Things

by Amy Ruhlin

Lately, I've been missing things. I miss seeing my kids everyday and I miss my youth. I miss the bar that my husband and I went to every Friday night in our 20s, to eat thick burgers and drink cold beer. I miss being a teenager and listening to the Rolling Stones when Mick Jagger was 30-something. I miss being a driven graduate student. I miss being a young mother.

I looked up the word miss in the dictionary. I know it's a simple word. I know what it means. But I needed to see it in writing: miss; to feel regret or sadness at no longer being able to enjoy the presence of or at no longer being able to go to, do, or have.

That's how I've been feeling. And I've been wondering if that's okay. After all, I have no deceased loved ones to miss. I still have all of my body parts. My husband and I still love each other, most of the time, after 30 years. My kids are doing well, and I see them frequently. Plus, I'm a happy empty nester. I love my newfound freedom and I'm having a great time. I've embraced midlife. I've worked hard to let go, move on, reinvent, and joined the chorus of voices proclaiming, "thank god we are not clueless 20-somethings anymore."

I've been a good little midlifer. I've taken note of all the slogans: Don't look back. Don't live in the past. Move Forward. Appreciate what you have now. There's so much more to come. Aging is a privilege.

But still.

I miss places where I've lived. I miss the small, friendly town that I grew up in. I miss steamy nights in New Orleans when I was a college student. I miss the first house that my husband and I bought, with the solid oak doors that he painstakingly stained and installed in each bedroom.

I miss my daughter's crib and my son's tricycle. I miss watching my little girl's eyelids flutter, angel wings, as she slept through the night. I miss seeing my son running towards me, anticipation and joy on display just for me, as he got off of the yellow school bus each day.

I thought I had this midlife gig figured out.

But all of this missing. It has taken me by surprise.

But I've decided that it's part of the deal. I've decided that missing is appreciation. And gratitude. Even a prayer: thank you, thank you, thank you for all of that.

I've decided that in the midst of all of this busyness to embrace, reinvent and move on, I will also allow myself a simple, human experience. I'll give myself the space and time and quiet to miss things. Even though it makes my heart hurt. Even though I really just want to ignore it, pretend it's not there, and just get on with being 50 and fabulous.

I've decided that missing is important. It is the recognition of a life fully lived and a reminder to keep paying attention, to keep on keeping on, and to make these years count.

Because one day, when I am in the midst of the busyness of being a kick-ass 94-year-old, it is these days, these wonderful, rich, creative midlife days, that I will be missing.

Parents Weekend, Aging and What Matters Most

by Amy Ruhlin

My husband and I visited our son last Saturday. It was parents weekend at his college. We ate brunch with him in the dining hall, sat with him in the rain at the football game and in the evening, took him out to dinner.

We asked him lots of questions. He told us about his classes: most of them are hard and some of them are fun. He described his professors: all of them are brilliant, some of them are interesting and one has big hair. He said that he's joined the whitewater club and that he can't wait to go kayaking. He's become a certified wall climber and he's discovered coffee houses and literary readings. He's decided that he doesn't want to be a Math major after all. He's changed it to English and History. He was happy and enthusiastic and I could tell that a whole new world has opened up for him. It was thrilling to see.

He also told us that between classes, he likes to sit under the big oak trees on campus. And that one of his professors is especially kind. These were my favorites, kindness and oaks, among all of the exciting things that our son told us.

"So what do you guys do? " he asked us over dinner. Now that your kids are gone. Now that you are old parents left in an empty house on an aging suburban street. I remember being his age. Everything was new and exciting and the next big thing was around every corner. I remember feeling a little sorry for the folks over 50. They were sedate, and seemed boring and trivial.

I thought about what would sound impressive. We're planning a trip to Paris! We're selling the house and moving to Costa Rica! We're taking up sky diving!

I thought about telling him the truth. We take walks to the river in the evenings. The wildflowers along the way are so beautiful. We're trying out the Paleo diet and I finally convinced your Dad to schedule his colonoscopy. It feels good to take care of each other, still, after 30 years. Yesterday, I refilled the bird feeder. I've been noticing so many different types of birds. In our own backyard. I had no idea. We think about you and your sister. About how much fun it was raising you and that now we get to see you move out into the world. We watch the leaves in the backyard. They are already turning gold and orange.

But I didn't want to sound old and lame. So, I said, "We're having fun! We've been to concerts and festivals, stuff like that (which is true). Anybody want dessert?"

Later, I thought about what I'd really wanted to say to my son. Ah, buddy, it's all so simple. I've finally learned that it's not what you do but how you do it. I've finally learned that the small things really are the big things. I love my days, son. I can see the small things. But they feel big. And new and exciting. Keep sitting under those oak trees. Notice their beauty. Keep seeing kindness. Take it in and pass it on.

But what 18-year-old wants to hear that? What 18-year-old is ready? It has taken me 51 years to figure it out. It's simple but it is not easy.

I needed youth and mistakes and wild goose chases and disappointment and disillusion. I needed whole new worlds. All of it brought me to where I am now. And I know that I'm not alone. I know that this is a gorgeous part of the aging process for all of us lucky enough to experience it. We get to whittle everything down to what matters most. And while our kids may see us as a bit lame and a little boring, I think that we just might be showing them what the phrase "life begins at 50" is actually all about.

Life in the Empty Nest

by Amy Ruhlin

My nest has been empty for three weeks. The first night was the hardest -- the night my husband and I drove home from dropping our son, our youngest, off at college. Neither of us spoke a word in the car. Speech was too small, so we sat in silence, but I could feel us moving, together through the seismic shift.

When we got home, I sat down on the sofa and finally, I wept. My husband wrapped his arms around my shoulders.

"You did a good job," he told me. "You were a good mom."

I heard his words and the vise around my body began to loosen its grip.

Love comes to us in different forms, but when it comes to us through our children, we seem to claim ownership. Mine, we think. But the truth of it is, they are only passing through. And still, we give it our all, so it's hard to let go.

That night, my husband and I both had dreams about our son. Nightmares, actually. In my husband's dream, he sat on a beach and saw our son being attacked by sharks but he could not save him. In my dream, I sat on the floor with my son cuddled up to my side. He was small and frail and afraid as we watched a man in the room circle us with a loaded gun.

In the light of morning, I knew that our job of protecting our son was over. And despite the bad dreams, or maybe because of them, I knew that our son was safe and that he was now able to protect himself.

My husband went to work. I work from home, so I was on my own for the first full day in our new nest, a day that I had been dreading. But as I moved through it, I found my rhythm. I worked and I stretched and I piddled, but mostly, I felt grateful. I walked through the empty rooms of our house but they felt full: of love, of memories, of possibilities.

In the evening, I heard my husband's car putt-putt into our garage and I leapt up to greet him at the door. This surprised me, as I haven't done any leaping in a long time.

"Hey!" we said in unison, as he walked through the door. I felt 26 again. And I could tell that he did too.

We had a roaring good time together in our 20s, my husband and I. We married, began our careers, renovated a house and at the age of 30, had our first child. I thought those early days would last forever.

"Wanna go out for tacos and margaritas?" my husband asked me. I smiled and grabbed my purse and we got back into his car.

At the restaurant, the waitress offered each of us the 32 oz. sized margaritas and we laughed when she brought them to the table. Neither of us had had a drink in that large of a frosty mug since our early days together.

Over the next few weeks we went out for mimosa brunches, drove our boat across the entire length of the large lake near our home under the moonlight, visited a new blues club to hear a jazz harpist, had a spur-of- the-moment weekend beach getaway and sold the family car.

Our nest is different, but it is not empty. All the good stuff is still here: love and hope and joy and laughter. It feels a lot like it did in our 20's, when it was just the two of us. But this time, we know that these days will not last forever and that we are only passing through. We know that there will be more seismic shifts and how lucky we will be if we can continue to move through them together. And we know that a time that is often seen as empty, is actually the richest time of all.

A Ring for the Empty Nest

by Amy Ruhlin

I recently lost one of my favorite rings. A "mothers ring," it was called: a band of studded white gold with a small, peridot gemstone in the setting. The peridot is the birthstone for August, the month that my son was born. I wore it on my right hand every single day for the last 17 years, along with a second, identical ring, except for the aquamarine gemstone in the setting, which is the birthstone for March, the month that my daughter was born.

The rings were handmade by a jeweler in Texas when my children were very young. I cherished those bands of gold and I loved how they looked on my hand. I wore them as a celebration of my children and of motherhood. And then one day this spring, I looked down at my hand, and the peridot ring was gone. It had slipped off of my finger without me even noticing. It was a strange thing to happen after all of these years. The ring had remained snug and safe on my hand through all of the rough and tumble years of child-rearing, and then as if on cue, it quietly slipped away. For a while, I continued to wear just the one ring, my daughter's birthstone, but it didn't feel or look right without the peridot by its side.

"Maybe it's a sign," my son said to me with a grin. He knew that his old mom had been working hard at letting go. He knew that I had been preparing myself for the empty nest, which will be here in three short weeks, when he goes away to college. He understood, at least in some vague way, that I have been reclaiming parts of myself, pieces that went underground during the intense mothering years. Years when I needed to focus most of my energies on raising him and his sister; years when I had to put aside some of my own creativity, ambitions, wants and needs. I guess its called sacrifice. It's what we do for our kids and it is good. It has meaning and it takes us out of our own small selves.

I was devastated by the loss of the ring. I tracked down the jewelers in Texas and asked them if they could make me another one. I even sent them a photo of the ring that I still have, my daughter's birthstone, so that they could match the two, just like they did when my kids were small.

But then, I discovered an old ring in the back of my jewelry drawer: a band of yellow gold with a beautiful diamond-shaped garnet in the setting. The garnet is the birthstone for January, the month that I was born. My mother gave it to me when I was in my 20s, before I had children, before I was a mother. I had forgotten about it. I had even just about forgotten that the garnet is my birthstone or that I even have a birthstone.

A few days after I found the garnet my husband asked, "So, did you get in touch with the jewelers in Texas?"

"Yeah," I sighed.

He waited for me to continue, and when I didn't, he probed further. "Well, are you gonna order the mothers ring?"

"Nah, I don't think so." I told him.

I let a few minutes pass, for dramatic effect. And then I said, "I'm really liking the look of this garnet on my hand." I held my right hand out for him to see. "I think I found it for a reason. I think it's here to remind me of something. I think it is reminding me of me."

My husband is used to me talking like this, so he kindly smiled and nodded his head in agreement.

I plan on wearing my garnet next week when we drop our son off at college. And I will raise my ring high into the air as I wave goodbye to him. And though I know that I will feel sad, I will also know that it is now time for me. It is now time to wear my own birthstone. It is now time to celebrate my own self and to cherish these years of freedom that I will have with my husband in our empty nest.

Until, of course, it is time for a grandmothers ring.

Shiny Happy People Everywhere

by Amy Ruhlin

I sat on the sands of a crowded South Carolina beach last weekend with an old R.E.M. song playing in my mind. I figured that everyone would assume I was listening to my iPod(don’t own one), as I bobbed my head to the beat, singing along with Michael Stipes: Shiny happy people laughing.Then I pretended I was Kate Pierson (of the B52s) as she joins in: shiny happy people holding haaaands. 

I don’t remember ever having so much fun people watching. The little kids were adorable, as little kids always are at the beach: baby girls in pink, tutu swimsuits; little dudes in swim trunks emblazoned with the eyes of Spiderman or with the “S” of Superman. Proud parents taking photos. A grown man running into the ocean like a 6-year-old boy, a beautiful fool: his legs like pumps, lifting his knees all the way up to his chest; his arms spread like wings on a plane; his smile covering most of his face. Meet me in the crowd. People, people. Throw your love around.

My daughter stretched out on her lounge chair to tan her 21-year-old body in a yellow bikini. I sat beside her on my beach chair in my black, one-piece swimsuit wondering why the hell I had stopped wearing a bikini in my mid-20s. I seem to remember that I thought my stomach was beginning to look old. Those words are as sad for me to write as they are for you to read.  

“Don’t stop wearing a bikini until you are at least 40!” I told her.

She grinned and turned herself over in her chair but I hope she heard me. I hope she wears a bikini until she is at least 65.

“Do you notice how happy everyone is?” I asked her.

“Everybody is always happy at the beach,” she said.

I knew that. But I noticed it now in a way that I never had before. It was a symphony laid out in front of me.  It was the sun and the sand and the waves turning us all into beautiful fools.

I heard laughter behind me. I knew before looking that it came from women my age. Five women who wore dark, one-piece swimsuits, their bikini days behind them. They played paddle ball like 12-year-old girls, arms flailing and mouths giggling. They ran into the ocean and I watched as they floated over the swells and hooted and hollered and waved their colorful, foam noodles in the air. They were stunning, all five of them. Everyone around, love them, love them. Put it in your hands. Take it, take it.

I’ve been happily going to the beach every summer since I was a child. But this time, here at the ripe old age of 51, with my bikini days behind me, and my eyes and heart wide open, was the happiest I’ve ever felt on a beach. I believe the saying that happiness increases as we age, is true.

I can’t wait to go to the beach again. I’ll be wearing my one-piece swimsuit and singing and looking like a beautiful fool. Happy, happy. Put it in your heart. Where tomorrow shines. Gold and silver shine.

Hey, here we go!

Why I Need A Good Cry

by Amy Ruhlin

When my son, our youngest, began kindergarten, I sat down every morning and cried for two weeks. I felt overwhelming sorrow. I looked like an idiot. I sat in puddles of my own tears.  

The time of spending my days sitting with my son on a curbside watching trucks go by, or standing in a sunny park pushing him on a swing, was over. He was moving on: to yellow school buses, to new friends, to teachers who would touch his life. I was happy for him. But, I was sad for me, and I felt a great loss.

I did not analyze or rationalize my feelings away. And for once, I did not judge myself. I did not run from my sadness, nor did I "get busy." I did not berate myself with statements like, “He’s only going to Kindergarten!" or, "What’s wrong with you?"  Instead, I sat on my couch and allowed myself to cry. 

It felt good. And somehow, I knew that if I did not cry, I would live my life as a big, fat, fake. I would be busy. I would be productive. But, I wouldn't be real. And I didn't want that. Instead, I wanted to keep what I had been with my son: a woman who feels fully alive and excited at the sight of a truck passing by; a woman who feels joy at the sight of a child swinging up to the sky. I also wanted to be a woman who lets her son go. I could not figure out how to do any of these things intellectually, but I did know that the only way out is through. So, I sat down, felt my sadness, and cried.

Our society isn't big on grief. Instead, we prefer to say things like, "Get over it!" or, "Put your big girl panties on and deal with it!"  Don't get me wrong: I know that we do indeed need to get over it and move on. But I can't even begin to find my big girl pants, much less get them on, if I don't first have a good cry. Otherwise, those tears get stuffed down into my bones and they become dead weight. 

From those weeks of sitting alone on my sofa, I developed a parenting strategy that has worked well in helping me to let go and to move on.  When I feel silly grief over silly things, I do not discount it. Instead, I allow myself to look like a blubbering fool.   When I finally removed my son's preschool artwork from the refrigerator, I cried for three days. When I rode in a plastic boat with my kids through the simple, painted beauty of "It’s A Small World" at Disney World, I wept behind my dark sunglasses for a full 15 minutes, because I knew that such innocence was fleeting. When I looked out at my backyard one day and saw an empty swing being pushed by the wind, I wailed. When I watched our old home movies of my children in their first school plays, I lost it for days on end. 

But after each cry, I felt great. My grief disappeared and I could see the gorgeousness and rightness of whatever was in front of me. I no longer yearned for it to be as it once was. I loved it for whatever it had changed into.

 My son will graduate from high school next week. The time of spending my days looking forward to him walking through our front door every afternoon is almost over  He is moving on: to college, to independence, to a life without me.  I am happy for him. And I can honestly say that I am ready. I do feel sad at times, and I will probably have a good cry on graduation day. But most days, I feel fully alive. Most days, I feel joy at the sight of so much change happening right before my eyes.  And most days, I know that I am a woman who can let her son go. Because on most days, I have allowed myself to cry.

The Best Thing I Learned From My Mother

by Amy Ruhlin

When I was a young girl my mother would open the front door of our home in the evenings, tilt her head to look at the sky and say, "Look at the moon!" Instead, I would look at her face. And I would see pure joy. At the time, I wasn't aware of what I was seeing; I was a distracted teenager and for the life of me, I could not figure out why the sight of the moon made my mother so happy. I would tilt my head to look at the sky too, and though I saw the same moon, I knew that I was not feeling what she was feeling. I also knew that it was important, this mysterious connection that my mother had that I could not quite yet grasp. I knew that whatever my mother was feeling when she looked at the moon, I wanted to feel it, too.

She loved trees. My aunt once helped her look for a house to rent, and years later, after I was grown, my aunt said to me, "Your mother was going through so much turmoil when I helped her find that rental, but all she cared about was making sure that she found a property that had plenty of trees!”

When I was 12 years old, my mother decided to have a small house built on an acre of land that had once been her father's garden. It was an acre without any trees. Once the house was completed, she spent the next ten years planting and growing trees: crepe myrtles lined the driveway, pin oaks stood in the front yard and cedars edged the sides of the house. She turned the backyard into a field of fruit trees. And she did it all while working full-time and being a single mother.

We spent many days and nights sitting together on her screened porch, surrounded by the beauty of her trees. And I knew that the sight of them brought her comfort.

My mother had a great sense of humor and one of her favorite expressions was: "The world is going to hell in a hand basket!" Whenever she said it, I’d roll my eyes and laugh, thinking she was just overreacting or being funny. But I now know it was her quirky, southern way of expressing concern for the environment – her grief over trees being bulldozed for “progress” and the moon becoming obscured by pollution.  In fact, she once gave me the book, “The Sense of Wonder,” by the noted environmental writer, Rachel Carson. It still sits on my bookshelf today.

I currently live in a house with a lot of windows. And through every window, I can see towering trees with thick, green leaves in the summer and beautiful, bare branches in the winter.  Each evening, when the moon shines through the highest window in my family room, I tilt my head to look at the sky and I say to my family, "Look at the moon!” As my chest expands, I feel as if the glow of the moon is coming from inside of me.

My mother showed me that in the midst of life’s pain and turmoil, grief and loss, I can find great comfort in the beauty of a tree, deep joy at the sight of the moon and a sense of wonder by simply noticing the world around me.