Segullah » Heather O.

No good comes from blogging after midnight

Heather O. — Wed, 16 May 2012 22:04:49 +0000

Last night I read something on the interwebs that got my gander up. I won’t go into specifics, but generally speaking, somebody chose to describe her personal experiences using language that I found to be overly dramatic, and inappropriate to the level of hardship. I’ve heard her phrasology ascribed to other, more worthy hardships, including some of the trials I myself have faced. Certainly HER trial is not the level of hardship of MY trials, and she dared to use the same language!!!

The nerve.

I’m not usually defensive about language, because I think that people only have their own experience to describe things, and if something is genuinely hard for them, it’s not very polite or kind to say, “Hard? You think THAT’s hard? I’ll show you hard, lady!” And everybody learns by scale, after all, and everything looks easier after you’ve been through it and are looking back from the other side, i.e., the older woman who tells you to enjoy these years because they grow so gosh darned fast while your child is trying to simultaneously dump out all of the shampoo in the hair care products aisle and strip so he can run naked through the grocery store.

Yeah, that.

And I’ve known lots of people who make posts about “What not to say to a [adoptive parent/migraine sufferer/diabetic/new mom/cancer survivor/mom who miscarried/son of a pirate].” Everybody has a story where somebody treated them with grossly insensitive language, and they aren’t stories that fade easily with memory.

Bottom line—language is important.

It took me a long time last night to simmer down, and I thought a lot about why this particular language got under my skin. I think I felt a certain proprietary about it. Only people with THESE specific trials can use that phrase, dang it! I acknowledged to myself that such a position is prideful, exclusive, and narcissistic, and nothing about that feeling comes close to any kind of definition of charity.

I assume that if you are reading this, you’re a blogger, so you care about words. And if you are a regular at Segullah, you probably REALLLY care about words. So I ask you–why do we feel so stingy about language sometimes? Why do we feel we have to earn certain labels, certain phrases, certain points of conversation? Is it just pride, or is there something else going on? Have you ever felt like somebody used a phrase to describe themselves or their situation that they didn’t “deserve”?

If I don’t get back to this discussion for a while, I apologize. I’m on my way to my book club. Where we will be talking about our favorite poems. Yeah, we’re word nerds.

Chasing down the ice cream man

Heather O. — Wed, 18 Apr 2012 22:10:44 +0000

A few weeks ago my son (who is 10) exploded into the house after he’d been playing at a neighbor’s house. He was hot, sweaty, and angry. I braced myself for a report of some heinous act perpetuated by his friends, or an account of a tragic injury.

Instead, he just yelled, “The ice cream man left me!”

Apparently he had heard the magic tinkling of bells, and had done his best Tom Cruise/Mission Impossible impression to catch the van full of carcinogenically dyed goodies. He had run through other people’s yards, jumped fences, skirted ditches, all to watch the ice-cream man round the corner and disappear from our neighborhood for the day.

He threw himself into a chair, still angry that the ice-cream man hadn’t seen him, hadn’t stopped, that he had wasted all that effort getting to him for nothing. For NOTHING! Man, childhood is SUCH a rip off.

Today, *I* heard those magic tinkling of bells. I said to my daughter, who is 4, “Hey, do you hear that?” She shrugged, and said, “It’s just probably a flute.” I realized that she didn’t know what it was. At 4 going on 5, she had no idea what those sounds meant, the experience that awaited her. I debated for a second, knowing that if I never told her, my life as a parent would be easier. No running after the van, no scrambling for loose change or extra dollar bills (yeah, in case you were wondering, it doesn’t cost a quarter anymore), no angry tantrums when they inevitably miss the ice-cream man (or when spare change or dollar bills just aren’t to be found. I doubt the ice-cream man takes American Express.).

But I quickly made up my mind, leaned down so I was at eye level with my preschooler, and whispered, “That’s the ICE-CREAM man! Let’s go–we have to catch him!”

So I grabbed the pile of loose change that has been collecting in a random box on my bookshelf (please tell me you have one of those, too), and raced outside to see if I could eyeball the van. And glory be–YES! There he was, just a block down the road, stopped at a neighbor’s house with kids crowding around. My dog had followed us out of the house, and at the sight of all the kids, took off as fast as her fat legs could carry her. I started running too, and said to my daughter, “QUICK! We have to catch him!” as I ramped up to a sprint.

As I ran, I yelled and waved my hands, making as much noise as I could. Some people thought I was running after my dog, and they restrained her, but I shook my head and shouted, “No, STOP THE ICE-CREAM MAN!” They laughed, and told the guy to wait. I caught up to him, panting, and slumped over his window, out of breath but happy. I waved my daughter to catch up, and as soon as she saw the big ice-cream icons on the van, her eyes widened and she shouted, “It’s ICE-CREAM!” She picked out one of the biggest, most colorful ice-cream pops on the board, and was practically vibrating with excitement as the man handed it to her. I then told her we had to pick one for her brother (who was playing again at the afore-mentioned neighbor’s house), and she picked out one just as big and just as colorful for him. We went and picked him up at his friend’s house, and my daughter handed him the ice-cream. He grinned and said, “Where did you catch him?”
We told him the whole story as we strolled back home, the kids licking their ice-creams, the dog trotting along next to us.

And I thought as I listened to my children and walked with them that this was a perfect childhood moment, a snapshot that I could have never created or planned out, but felt blessed to be a part of. I love moments like that. I store them up, letting them fill my soul. And I hope and pray that when my kids think back on their childhoods, that these good moments will stand out in sharper relief than the bad ones where their mother was short with them, or mad, or sad, or just plain didn’t get it done.

And I know I’ll have to remember this moment in August, when chasing the ice-cream man has gotten really, really, REALLY old.

What moments in your childhood do you treasure?

How to be a mother when you are coughing up a lung

Heather O. — Thu, 22 Mar 2012 02:39:41 +0000

It’s been a rough couple of months over here at my house. At the end of January, I broke my foot, which was surprisingly traumatic, and definitely dramatic. The drama may have been a little overplayed on my part, but heLLO, my foot is on fire! I can’t walk! Maintaining even the smallest level of personal hygiene is a major effort! Have YOU ever tried to sit on a toilet without putting even the teeniest amount of weight on one foot? I had a boot on for 4 weeks, and then, horror of horrors, when the boot came off, my right leg was SMALLER than my LEFT! I’m like a lopsided polio patient! And my foot is still too weak to do calve raises, so who knows how long I’ll have to be asymmetrical. And I was scheduled to run a 10K at the end of this month, my first race in over a year! I had PAID THE FEE AND EVERYTHING! AAAAAARRGH!

And just when I was getting my mojo back, when I was into the groove of reclaiming my house and my garden from the forces of entropy, I got kicked in the chest by bronchitis. So just as I had stopped writhing in pain about my foot at night, I develop a cough. A cough that keeps me and everybody else in the house from sleeping. A cough so loud and so long that I pee just a little every time. (Childbirth==the gift that keeps on giving.)

I figured out what kind of toll this was taking on my kids when I trudged from my bed down to dinner the other night. My 10 year old sort of patted my hand, and said, “Is it just me, or have you been spending a LOT of time in bed lately?”

He’s not wrong.

So yesterday, I tried to power through it. Well, sort of. I slept in until around 10, allowing again for the forces of entropy (he’s 10) and chaos (she’s 4) to engulf my home. I’ll clean it up later, I told myself, and got up late to face the day. I got myself and my daughter breakfast, and then we snuggled watching some shows on Netflix. I still felt foggy, and decided a nice hot shower would do the trick, and then I should throw in a load of laundry, just for good measure. I did both of those things, and felt, if anything, even worse. I finally decided to take my temperature, and gave myself permission to lie down when the thermometer read 100.0.

I’m not a fighter. Even on a good day, I’m not particularly productive, and I’ve been known to stay in my pajamas well past noon without having a temperature, just because I can. I am also not a fan of powering through sickness, just because I think crazy people do that and you should just let your body rest already, crazy.

But I have spent so much time lying down the last two months, and I have seen the effects of atrophy on my body and on my family, that when I told myself to take a nap this afternoon, it was like my body said, “Really? REALLY? Dude, you keep this up, and in 2 days your 4 year old will be able to beat you in an arm wrestle.” It’s like I’m ready to get back in the swing of things, REALLY ready to get back in the swing of things, and the universe says, “Ha ha, nice try, SUCKA!”

So how do you be a mom when you are not exactly running at 100%? What do YOU do on mom’s sick day?

Something that I have never ever thought about

Heather O. — Wed, 15 Feb 2012 16:22:26 +0000

Discuss.

On not being boring

Heather O. — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 17:03:27 +0000

An old friend joined FB this week. I’m a little bit addicted to FB, and so when I saw his name pop up on another friend’s wall, I sent him a friend request. His response was polite but the message was clear–he was glad I was doing well, but we were not going to be FB friends.

I shot a message to a mutual friend about it, basically shrugging and saying, ‘I tried’, and this friend said something along the lines of, “That’s okay. He’s boring. We’re more fun anyways”.

And I wondered. Am I? Fun, I mean? Or am I just a cliche?

I mean, let’s take what I did yesterday. I’m a stay at home mom with one child at home, and she’s 4. Which means that she’s old enough to get her own breakfast, but young enough to spill it. Old enough to play by herself, but young enough to want me to play with her. Old enough to go potty, but young enough that she might not flush all the time, or she might do something creative with her toilet paper. In short, she’s old enough to not really need me every minute of the day, but young enough to still need me paying a modicum of attention to her.

To fill the days she’s not at preschool, we used to do soccer twice a week. That didn’t work out, so we now have our Tuesdays and Thursdays utterly open and free. You’d think that would the time I would be able to make up creative and exciting things to stimulate her mind and mine, but I confess, yesterday I mostly spent way too much time catching up on Downton Abby while she built towers out of playdough containers and poured cold cereal from one container to the next.

Not exactly exciting, or fun. Actually, the day was kind of… boring. (shhhhhhhhhh, don’t say it out loud)

And the idea of a stay at home mom sitting in her unmade bed watching what is essentially a high brow soap opera (at least I think it’s highbrow–I mean, they have those cool accents and everything) is SUCH a cliche, it makes me cringe. I did take my daughter to a play area in the afternoon to blow off steam, and we had a busy evening when my son got home from school and the after school schedule kicked into gear, but the truth is, right now my days with my daughter are slow. And I know that this is a good time, and I’m certainly not complaining, because I do know how short-lived these days will be.

I’m just worried that in the process of becoming a home-maker (something I’m not really very good at anyways. Just ask the pile of clean laundry stacked on my bedroom floor) I’ve become…boring.

And while boring isn’t the worst thing in the world (right? Or is it?), it still isn’t exactly something I ever aspired to be. And I’m not even complaining that my life is boring, because it isn’t. My life is rich and full. I just wonder if I, as a person, would be recognizable from the girl who once sang on stage with an East Germany grunge band in an old burned out weapons factory.

That was an interesting day.

Are you a fun person? And how do you keep it that way?

Unholy combinations

Heather O. — Wed, 16 Nov 2011 19:01:21 +0000

Mormons eat weird food.

I’m surprised this hasn’t come out in all the media hype about us. I mean, we worship Satan as the brother of Jesus Christ, we wear magic underwear, and we think we’re all going to have our own planets some day, but with all of that, not a single news outlet has exposed the worst part of Mormonism.

Our traditional cuisine. It’s atrocious.

My mother is not a great cook. She dutifully strived to cook us decent meals growing up, and she has some good recipes up her sleeve, but by and large, she’d rather be doing a thousand other things than cook. She has neither the patience or interest for it.

But she would (and still does) make a grand effort for Sunday dinners. That’s when she would pull out the wedding china, which included salad plates. She would hand one of us kids a head of lettuce, and we would peel the lettuce and put a leaf on each plate.

That was for the jello.

Yes, my mother would make jello (which I actually like, but we’ll get to that later), and put a beautiful red square on a lettuce leaf.

Does this make ANY sense?

Most of the time the jello was pretty harmless–strawberry or raspberry with frozen berries, pineapple, and bananas in it. Also, my mom is actually pretty good at making jello, and most of the time it came out nice and jiggly, rather than sloppy and melty, like mine tends to. But then sometimes she would pull out all the stops and make her green jello with pineapple and cottage cheese.

Cottage cheese. With the jello. INSIDE the jello.

Again, it’s not bad, if you’re grown up eating jello with things in it, like I have. (It wasn’t until I went to college that I learned that the only kind of jello most people ate is either in a funny shape or made with vodka.) But still, it begs the question: Cottage cheese + jello—who thought that up?

(For the record, jello shots made with vodka taste way worse than jello with cottage cheese. I didn’t figure out that people weren’t eating them for the taste until after I had a couple. I mean, hello, somebody could have at least WARNED the Mormon that they were trying to get drunk on the jello. I was totally unprepared, coming from a world where EVERYBODY brings jello to a party.)

Once, I was at a Mormon home where the salad was shredded carrots, pineapple juice (no pineapple, just the juice from the can), and raisins. Healthy, cheap, and colorful. All good things. And it wasn’t terrible-I mean, I like carrots, and I like raisins, so it wasn’t hard to eat, or anything. But isn’t there something better to do with raisins than douse them with pineapple juice?

One of the things that is exciting about becoming a world wide church is that there are things at our potluck that are not unholy combinations. A family from Mexico moved into our ward, and she made some awesome homemade enchiladas for our last ward potluck. They were gone before you could say pass the salsa.

What is your favorite unholy food combination?

Mock me, please

Heather O. — Wed, 19 Oct 2011 17:02:18 +0000

I have a friend named Rick. Rick suffers from severe cerebral palsy, which means he can’t walk, talk, or control most of his limbs most of the time. When you first see him, he’s odd-looking. Like, really odd-looking. He can’t really sit up, having a body that resembles mushy applesauce, so by necessity he is strapped into his wheelchair. He grinds his teeth involuntarily, which means that most of his teeth have been ground to nothing, leaving his smile wide and toothless. His body is small and thin, and looks a little out of proportion to itself. He can’t control his fingers at all, so they are constantly flexing and contracting. And I haven’t even gotten to the involuntary sounds he makes (although he can laugh on command), or the way he sneezes.

I worked for Rick for 2 years. I was his Personal Care Attendant, or PCA. When I walked into his apartment for my initial interview, I was taken aback at what I saw. The job description I had read said, “Adult male seeking assistance with dressing, bathing, and light housework”. Nowhere did it say that the adult male couldn’t walk or talk, or made funny noises. I was unsure of how to proceed. It didn’t help, either, that the woman who was interviewing me was insulting Rick left and right.

“Yeah, this RETARD needs a lot of help, you know?” she said, patting Rick’s leg. He laughed.

“He’s so STUPID, he can’t even feed himself!” she went on, giving him a fake punch in the arm. He laughed harder.

I was stunned. HOW could she make fun of somebody who was so obviously impaired? It blew my mind.

She wasn’t the only one who would do this to Rick. Often, when I was working and I would meet Rick’s friends, they would refer to him as the retard, or the idiot. He always thought it was hilarious. I couldn’t figure it out. Finally, though, I got my answer.

Rick is always getting interviewed by some person or another, and in one interview, he talked about growing up as a disabled child in a mainstream world. Rick’s body may be impaired, but there is nothing wrong whatsoever with his brain, and his parents saw that. They fought and fought to have Rick enrolled in public school, all this at a time when doctors thought Rick was better off being put in an institution and forgotten about. Rick said that when people finally got to the point where they could joke about his disability to his face, he knew they were his friend. He decided joking about it was better than people ignoring him, or, worse, being scared of him.

All of this is a really long winded way of coming to the point of my post (or the Mormon point, at least). There are a lot of reasons why Mormonism is taking center stage lately. The Book of Mormon musical and Mitt Romney being an actually viable candidate for president are the two biggest, obviously, but there is no denying that we are getting a lot of press. Some of it is good,some of it is wretched . But some of it is, to be honest, kinda funny.

The kinda funny are the ones I’m most hopeful about. If people feel comfortable enough to laugh at us, to include us in the joke, maybe it means they are getting more comfortable about Mormons. It reminds me of Rick. If people are including us, does that mean they are less scared of us? I don’t know. But I hope so. And while I kinda hate the stuff I’ve heard about The Book of Mormon musical, it can’t be denied that it has given us a good reason to stay in everybody’s face.

And I did read somewhere that somebody asked the writers of The Book of Mormon musical if they feared a huge backlash from the Church, if we would rally and protest and throw rotten eggs at the actors. They said, “Nah, the Mormons are too classy for that.” Yes. Yes we are. Instead, we will just bombard you with messages to show you exactly HOW classy. We are that cool.

How do you feel about the uptick in news stories about Mormonism?

P.S. Here’s a video about Rick, if you want to see what he looks like. This is probably going to derail the whole discussion, because Rick is that awesome, but I still want to talk about Mormonism. Rick probably would too, as he was baptized in Sept, 1997.

Please read this after I’m dead

Heather O. — Fri, 22 Jul 2011 21:15:57 +0000

This isn’t my regular day for posting here on Segullah. That was yesterday. Er, I mean, Wednesday (I think). But on Wednesday, I was running all day that I didn’t even say hello to my husband until 10pm, and even then, it was a quick hello said as I flopped on the bed and flicked on “Cheers” on Netflix (which, incidentally, is much funnier now that I’ve spent a large amount of my life in Boston, and much dirtier now that I’m an adult and can understand the constant sexual references. The fact that all 11 seasons are available on Netflix instant streaming gives me no small amount of pleasure.) So here I am, late, as usual, and more than a dollar short. (I’ve been spending all those dollars on cold treats for my kids because, for whatever reason, God has decided to send us weather reminiscent of hell. Perhaps our part of the world is being prepared for something great, a temple, maybe, and He felt we needed humbling. Nothing makes a soul repent faster than 99 degrees farenheit, 90% humidity, and a heat index of 116 degrees.)

All of this means that today and yesterday (when I could have blogged, but didn’t) we have (all) spent a large amount of time indoors. Which means that last night, my husband and I were reading as our kids played around after dinner. And while perusing potential reading material, my husband came across my old journals.

It was like the man struck gold.

He read for HOURS. At one point, I tried to physically pry the book from his fingers, but darn if the man isn’t stronger than I am. He claims that he was enjoying them, and not in the “Oh my GOSH this is hilarious! You actually DID that? You are SUCH A DORK!” kind of way, but in a “I’m catching a glimpse of the inside of the soul I fell in love with more than a decade ago” kind of way. And I believe him. (Sort of. Kinda. Almost. Well, at least the “I was in love with you more than a decade ago” part.)

But the journals make me cringe, for a lot of reasons. One, because the stuff I wrote that I thought was incredibly insightful at the time now sounds, well, lame. Two, it is so full of unnecessary stress it makes me want to reach back to the hysterical 21 year old and smack some sense into her and say, “My heavens girl, CHILL OUT!” Three, it makes me secretly fear that in fact, I haven’t changed much from that ranting woman who sometimes can’t see the forest from the trees, and I’d be lying if I said I haven’t needed a good “CHILL OUT!” pep talk recently. That’s the main reason I don’t read my journals much. Because I fear that I’d recognize the woman in them, and wish she was somebody else.

My husband disagrees with me on all counts. He says he CAN see a progression, changes in my life, my attitudes, my happiness. Fortunately, he particularly noted a change in tone when we started dating (“Wow, babe, you were REALLY gaga for me! Awesome.”) and (again, fortunately) a particular brand of dopey-ness when we got engaged (“Yeah, you were totally in love bubble mode. Majorly twitterpated.”) So maybe I should trust him and hope that for all of her angst-filled tortuous nights, somehow that 21 year old girl pulled herself together. Sometimes it’s hard for me to see it, though.

Do you go back and read your old journals? Do you try to find patterns of growth, or do you see patterns of stagnation? Or have you requested, as my MIL has, to have all writings burned at your death?

Dying on hills

Heather O. — Thu, 21 Apr 2011 02:40:44 +0000

My MIL and I were talking about parenting once. She mentioned, as she has before, how grateful she is that her grandchildren have such good mothers. She said it’s not a given, and that she is impressed with how we manage our charges, who range in ages and difficulty.

That said, I’m not her daughter, I didn’t grow up in her home, which means that her daughters and I sometimes parent differently. Not anything drastic, but there are battles that my SILs pick that I don’t. I mentioned that to my MIL, that there are some hills I’m just not willing to die on.

Then she asked me a question that I’m still thinking about, years later.

“What hills ARE you willing to die on?”

I had to sit and think about it. What are the things that are most important to me? What are the things I’m willing to fight with my kids about?

“Going to church”, I said. That was all I could come up with, mostly because at the time, it was the biggest battle I was having with my kids–they don’t want to go, they don’t want to bathe, they don’t want to put on church clothes, they don’t want to sit still in Sacrament meeting. And yet I push it, we battle, sometimes with tears on our way to the chapel (which, you know, makes for a SUPER spiritual Sabbath).

Now, we battle homework and piano practicing and bedtime and washing your hands after you pee and not spoiling your appetite with 2 dozen Oreos before dinner. But other than the normal routine nagging of parenting, I don’t know that I pick a lot of battles. My other MIL (yes, I have two–that’s another post entirely) has a favorite saying about parenting: Be careful which battles you pick with your children, because if you pick a battle, you have to win.

My kids are still young. Ages 9 and 3, so we’re not battling cell phones, dating, modesty, or serious academic issues. We’re not battling drugs, pornography, friends with bad influence, drinking.

Not yet, anyway. But I’m fully aware that someday in the future, probably much sooner than I’m comfortable with, these battles will land on my front door. How do I know which ones to pick?

I sat in an Institute class once where we were discussing the virtues of modesty. The predictable points were made, how you should establish modest dressing habits early, how girls need to know how boys are affected by the way they dress, and how they need to shun the styles of today, etc, etc, etc.

I appreciated it when a mother of a teenage girl spoke up and said, “You know what? Our girls are really trying hard. It’s not easy to stay modest with today’s fashion. And my daughter came to me and asked if she could wear skinny jeans. I told her no, that they were too tight. And she started to cry. She said she was just trying to fit in, that she didn’t wear the immodest tank tops and the halter tops and the low jeans and whatever else girls wear today, that all she was asking was for cute jeans that still covered her backside so she could look like a 16 year old instead of a 40 year old mom. And you know what? I let her wear those jeans. It’s not like she was asking to wear those new JEGGINGS or anything!”

I silently applauded this mother for recognizing her daughter’s need, and for picking her battles: slutty top that shows cleavage, nay. Skinny jeans that everybody else is wearing that covers her butt, yay.

And I did neglect to reveal the fact that I have a pair of jeggings in my own closet, and that I think they make my legs look smokin’, thank you very much.

But I’m sure that other mothers in the room disagreed with her, that skinny jeans shouldn’t be a part of a modest girl’s wardrobe. These are mothers that are willing to die on that hill.

What hills are you willing to die on? How do you decide which battles to pick and which ones to let go? Do you find you are more willing to pick battles with certain members of your family, and have you picked battles with older children that you’ve decided aren’t worth it with the others?

I heard Julie Beck say once that we as mothers are “Lionesses at the Gate.” Tell me which battles you fight to protect the fortress of your home.

Old and creaky

Heather O. — Wed, 16 Mar 2011 14:11:12 +0000

I have tendonitis in my hamstring. Or that’s what the doctor thinks. I have an appointment with a physical therapist this week for a full evaluation. I’m not looking forward to it. I try to avoid medical things as much as possible, not because I distrust doctors, but because my life is full of them. When it’s a life requirement to see a doctor every 6 months, it makes it a lot harder to voluntarily make an appointment for other stuff.

The result of my procrastination is that I’m in a fair amount of pain, and can’t really do much running. This is too bad, not only because the weather is finally getting to the point where running outside doesn’t feel like a punishment, but because I have recently discovered that when it comes to maintaining the shape of me, I have to do more. It takes more effort to keep the same results. I work harder, and often, I accomplish less.

I think that means I’m old.

Last night, I was moaning about my leg, and my husband was moaning about HIS legs. He was recently diagnosed with bursitis, a painful inflammation in his hips, and he had his own round of physical therapy a few months ago. So there we were, moaning about our aches and pains, and we laughed, because 10 years ago, such a conversation would have never taken place.

A good friend of ours, who is just over 50 and is active and energetic, is getting TWO new hips next month. TWO! He’ll have to use a walker for a few weeks after the surgery, and then spend his life explaining to the TSA that his concealed weapon is actually in his hips.

Yup, old and creaky. That’s us. I always think of myself as a young woman, but I’m realizing that, um, no, I’m not really as young as I once was.

I suppose there are some good things about getting older. I dress better than I did in high school. My hair is cuter, and my make-up is better. I see things a little clearer, and have a better understanding about the way the world works, and more compassion for the people in it. When my 3rd grader comes home despondent about how kids at school weren’t playing fair at kick-ball, I say a silent prayer of gratitude that I don’t have to worry about who to play with at recess anymore. And my husband points out that if for any reason he ever has to navigate the dating scene again, somebody should just shoot him to put him out of his misery.

I was in the changing room at the Y last week, getting ready to swim with my daughter, and a woman there was lamenting her posterior. Her own 4 year daughter old had told her that her butt was flappy. “I have a flappy butt!” she cried, turning to me, half laughing, half despairing. Well, I couldn’t help but check out her backside, and indeed, it could be described as flappy. But she pointed out that she was 42, had given birth to 4 children, and could still run a 5k in 26 minutes. We agreed that she should be grateful that her body worked as well as it did, and that she was as strong as she was (And she did look strong. I mean, can YOU run a 5k in 26 minutes? I can’t). In essence, she understood that while she was getting older and her body didn’t look like the way she wanted it to, she was still a vibrant, strong, beautiful woman.

But as we walked to the pool together, she said to her teenage daughter, “Hey, will you watch the little ones? I need to swim some laps, to work on my flappy butt.”

How do you feel about getting older? Is it difficult, or liberating, or both? What things do you miss about being young, and what things are you looking forward to?