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."

I Thought We Were In This Together

by Amy Ruhlin

My husband has grown a beard. I've known him for 30 years and he has not once, not ever, tried to grow any type of facial hair at all.

Our 20-year-old daughter became concerned when she saw it. She said that surely he would shave soon; it is so unlike him to grow a beard.

And then she asked me if this could be his midlife crisis.

"Why, yes," I told her, trying to contain my excitement, "actually, I think it is."

"Well," she said, "if this is the extent of it, then that is good news."

I know that she said this with great relief, even though she said it by text, because she witnessed my own midlife adjustment. She was often in the room as the hormones shifted, the tears spilled and the mood changed.

I agreed with my daughter that her Dad's beard was benign midlife angst. But I was also secretly thrilled. For years, I had been hoping that he would exhibit some mild hysteria so that I didn't look so bad.

My husband is a rock. He is calm and patient and kind and level-headed. And although I love and appreciate these qualities, they made him seem like a saint as he sailed through midlife while I turned into Medusa.

He and I have been together for the majority of our adult lives.

We carved out our careers and moved into full adulthood together in our twenties.

We created a family and built a home together in our thirties.

We entered our forties together and after a few years, I fell apart. But he did not and it didn't seem fair. I thought we were in this together.

I began to toss and turn at night and wake up in sweat while he peacefully snored beside me.

I began to face the reality that I had to let go of my babies because somehow, they grew up.  It was not easy letting go and I struggled. And since my husband was just as involved in raising our children as I was, I assumed that he was struggling too.

"Aren't you sad that the kids aren't little anymore?" I would ask.

"Not all all," he would say. "Those were great times but now they are older and these are good times too."

I was sure he was in denial , so I found old photos of the kids when they were small and adorable and held them up close to his face.

"Look," I'd plead, "doesn't it just kill you that those days are gone?"  But he would only smile and say, "Nah, those were fun days but now we've just moved on to different days. You know, circle of life and all that stuff." He was taking it all in stride and it was maddening.

I began to count the number of grey hairs on my head and I noticed that my husband didn't have any. Not one. As I increased the number of highlights in my hair, he combed through the same thick, dark hair he's had since he was 21.

I didn't like this solo trip. But things are looking up now that we are in our fifties.

My husband has grown a beard.  A crazy, woolly, middle-aged , grey beard.

Thank you, honey. I'm so glad we are in this together.

Why Am I Still Driving A Mom Bus?

by Amy Ruhlin   


                                                           

It's a hot Monday morning in June and there is no breeze; the air is still and I can feel July approaching.  I've awoken late and I lie in bed thinking about metal and rubber, about machines that take us from point A to point B, about cars. My daughter has her own car and my son will soon have his own; why I am still driving a mom bus?

I think about my daughter's upcoming move into her first apartment. We need my car to carry a kitchen table and 4 chairs, a large mattress and a long desk. I think about other things I've carried in my car: car seats holding my babies, little giggly girls and small rowdy boys, sports equipment for hockey games, teenagers laughing and playing loud word games, and colorful beach chairs and packed coolers for family vacations. I stare at the ceiling and realize that I've become attached to driving inside of a large open space; a container for holding all of the things that I most dearly love but that is now most often empty.

I finally get up and go downstairs and walk into the kitchen. My kids sit at the table and stare at their laptops. I say good morning but they do not hear me; headphones cover their ears. I move closer to them but they do not see me; pixelated images fill their eyes. I stand there in my pajamas and I feel invisible. My role as a mother is shifting beneath my feet and I struggle with my balance. My kids are moving themselves from point A to point B and I need to figure out how to do the same.

I need some air so I get dressed and step out into the heat and take the dog for a walk. The day is hot and there is no movement; I find no relief and no solutions. The dog and I circle the neighborhood and we come back home. I check my phone and my husband has sent me a lifeline in the form of a text:

"Wanna go look at cars tonight?"

He has encouraged me for months to follow through with my idea of downsizing my car. I question my audacity of considering the possibility of not having a car that meets everyone’s needs.

I smile and text back, "Sure let’s eat dinner out too."

We test drive three cars. The first two are only different versions of what I have been driving for the past 20 years: a practical family car with plenty of cargo space. They are at least smaller , but they are not really what I need; they are not really what I am looking for.

"So, how do you feel when you drive them?" my husband asks.

"Bored", I reply.

We circle the car lot one last time and I see a model that I had not seen before. It is a smaller car with a hatchback:  enough room for a family of four but with a simple style and a European flair; it is no mom bus.

                                 

We take it out for a drive.  It's roomy and smooth and hugs the road.  It's fun.

We decide to go home and think about it. On the way, we stop at a restaurant and eat ribs and drink martinis.

"You looked so happy driving that car, just like I remember you when we were young. You looked like Amy,” my husband says.

Before I had children, I drove small cars with stick shifts. I wasn't afraid to take risks and I swore I would never live in the suburbs or drive a minivan.  Motherhood  makes liars of us all.

I'm afraid my new car will scream “midlife crisis” so I text my son,

"Do you think this car looks too young for me?"

"No.  How could something look too young? Looks awesome to me," he texts back.

It seems so silly; scraps of metal and rubber wheels have made me smile and given me hope. But here at the age of fify, it somehow seems fitting and like a step in the right direction.  It is a declaration of my independence.  It is a way back to myself, to the girl I used to be before I took on the role of mother, to the girl who has no problem navigating her way from point A to point B.

It's Tuesday morning and I'm out of bed early. I step outside and feel a cool breeze. For the first time in weeks, I think about my writing and the second half of my life awaiting me. I've gained some balance and  the tilt has shifted towards me.

 My children walk into my office and sit down on the sofa.  They are interested in what I am writing and they are excited about my new car. As I've moved back towards my own self, I have become more visible;  there is more of me for them to hear; there is more of me for them to see. There is more of me to give.

 We talk and laugh easily together for a good while and finally my daughter asks,

"So, your new car won't have room to carry all of my stuff to my new apartment?"

"Nope" I say. "We'll have to rent a U-Haul."