Thank You, Jodie

by Amy Ruhlin

On the night of the Golden Globe Awards I watched the news as my husband cooked lemon garlic pork chops and mustard greens.  Our plan was a quiet dinner. We had no intention of watching the awards show; it’s really not our thing.  But during a commercial break from the news, I caught a glimpse of the red carpet interviews.
 
Over the hiss of sizzling pork I asked my husband if he wanted to watch the Golden Globes, just for fun.  He said sure, so I found our old bamboo TV dinner trays in the pantry and we parked ourselves in front of the television to take in all of the glamour and glitz.

I knew our college-aged daughter would be watching. I knew that this was something that we could really talk about; something that I could text and tweet to her that would get her attention.  Sometimes she ignores her old mom’s silly texts and tweets.  

I looked for her in my twitter stream. I tweeted about Anne Hathaway’s hair; my daughter adores her and we both think Anne’s short hairstyle is terrific. I sent her texts about Adele and Amy and Tina, three women whom I know she admires.

And then Jodie spoke. And I wondered if my daughter had seen any of her movies. My daughter is 20 after all, and Jodie is my age.  I wondered what she thought of Jodie’s speech so I sent her a text: “Did you see Jodie Foster’s speech?” I wasn’t expecting a reply but she surprised me and texted right back: “Yeah.  She’s so cool.”

Jodie made me glad that I ate my pork chops and mustard greens on a bamboo tray.  She made me proud to be fifty.  She bridged a 30 year age gap between my daughter and me with her simple yet powerful words of love and with her honesty in expressing the universal longing to be understood and to be seen.

Thank you Jodie. Thank you for being a model of vulnerability, authenticity and true strength. This fellow 50-year-old mom and her 20-year-old daughter both think that you are so very cool.

Did You Get A Text Today?

by Amy Ruhlin                                 

Today I decided to watch college football with my husband. I actually don’t much like football. I don’t even fully understand football. But my daughter is in college and my son soon will be too so watching it seems like the appropriate thing to do. My husband has a competitive spirit but I don’t. While he screams things like, “You idiot, you missed the pass!,” I select my favorite team based on who has the best color uniforms. 


We sit on the sofa in front of our flat screen TV with our cell phones and laptops nearby. I tell my husband that I have selected the team that I want to win and he tells me that he is pulling for the other team. This will at least make it interesting.

I find the game entertaining for about ten minutes so I decide to ask my husband a question that I have been asking him daily for the last two years since our daughter went away to college. It is a question that I never imagined I would be asking so frequently. In fact, when my daughter was in high school, she told me about a college friend who always made sure that if she texted one parent she would also text the other because if she did not, one parent would feel left out. I remember telling my daughter that I thought this was ridiculous. I would never indulge in such silly behavior.

“Did you get a text today?” I ask my husband.

He smiles and says, “I got two.”

“Two?" I haven’t gotten any in days!,” I tell him. I pick up my phone and check my messages just to make sure.

“And I’m Skyping at 4pm,” he says with a grin.
 

I look at the TV and I see that his team just scored a touchdown.

“Skyping ?”   “Who set that up?,” I ask.

“I did,” he says.

“Why’d you do that?” I ask.

“Well, it’s been a while since we’ve seen her,” he says.

“Hmpf”, I think. He could have consulted me first. Am I not included in their little Skype party? I am feeling left out.

“Well, I got a facebook message from her yesterday. And she sent me the opening paragraph of that big paper that she’s been working on,” I tell him.

“She did? I’ve been wanting to read that paper!” he says.
 

I glance at the football game and notice that my team just intercepted the ball.

"Well, I think she sends me the things that , you know, are  important to her personally, and she contacts you for the financial and technical stuff," I say.

I see that a football player is limping off the field with a hurt foot.

My husband says, “Nah, she texts me personal stuff too.”

“Well," I tell him, "I’m going to Skype with you.” I actually don’t like to Skype. I hate seeing myself on screen.
 

“That’d be great,” my husband says.

The games end at 4pm. I look at the TV and I see all of the players running onto the field, both teams, together. I look at my husband’s laptop and I see our daughter’s beautiful face filling the screen. And in the bottom corner of the screen I see myself, nestled into the crook of my husband’s arm, a middle aged mom and a middle aged dad , happily talking to their 20 year old daughter, 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."