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.

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.