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.

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

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.