The Dream

I had a dream the other night that I was talking to an ex-boyfriend.  I told him that I was lost in my twenties (the decade during which we dated), my thirties were a haze of sleep deprivation and anxiety and in my forties I had finally grown into myself.  I hadn't spoken to or even thought about this person in ages, yet he showed up in my dream - a symbol of my past.  Waking up, I had the oddest sensation of an epiphany.  Shaking the sleep off, I suddenly remembered the dream and wondered if my slumbering self was trying to tell me something.  Had I discovered a nugget of truth during my sleep?  Was I really more content at 42 years old, than I was at 25 years old? 

Turning forty had filled me with an awful foreboding – if my life were a movie, somber music would play and dark clouds would roll across the screen every time I thought about it.  But, even though two years past that milestone birthday I am not even close to where I thought I would be at this point (which you know, if you read an earlier post – The Dinosaur), maybe I am more content .  I was sure that I would be a published novelist, or at least have a regular column in a magazine by 40 years old.  I was sure I would be living in a big, neat house, perhaps with a cleaning woman to tidy up after the kids.  I am not quite at the coasting stage yet, though.  I am still at the establishing myself stage.  Whether that’s necessarily a bad thing – well, I haven’t quite figured that out.

Obviously, I would love to be a success at this point in my life, instead of still struggling, but maybe the struggle itself keeps you young – keeps you on your toes.  Plus, the older you are when you succeed, the sweeter it is.  My first writing teacher penned a message in my notebook at the end of the semester.  I memorized it almost before her pen left the paper, it resonated so: “To be a writer is a truly honorable thing.  You will be ostracized and rejected, but when success comes – and it will – it will be sweet.”  When I read that (over and over again), I felt sure that success was maybe ten years away, not over twenty and counting.  But, the message still stands all these years later – success, whenever it comes, will always be sweet.  But, what if it doesn’t – how do you reinvent yourself then? 

These questions that we ask ourselves are part of the beauty of growing older.  When you’re young, the questions don’t revolve around the big picture.  At least they didn’t for me.  In my teens, they revolved around school, friends, teenage love.  In my twenties, they revolved around college and then work, yes, but mostly the questions revolved around love still – my brain was consumed with my relationships.  I took writing classes, I worked as a journalist, but mostly I mourned the end of one relationship, obsessed over the beginning and progress of another, with a few relationships sprinkled in between.  I planned my wedding and got pregnant right before saying, "goodbye" to my twenties. Married at 28 years old, pregnant at 29 years old.

My thirties obsession was motherhood.  New motherhood, especially.  I had my first baby at 30 years old and pretty much spent the entire decade either pregnant, nursing or chasing a toddler.  My youngest child exited the toddler years the same year I exited my thirties.  At times I feel that decade is a blur of diapers, vomit and spit out peas.  And sometimes, I’ll see a young mother with a toddler and a baby and think, Did I appreciate it when I was there?  Did I stare at that rosebud mouth? Did I gaze in wonder at the impossibly long eyelashes fringing over porcelain skin?  I don’t really know the answer and it kills me.  Yes, I do remember moments of pure baby bliss, of simply realizing how lucky I was.  But, just as often I can only recall running on fumes, completely frazzled and sleep deprived.  I saw one such young mother at the pediatrician’s office yesterday.  Her daughters were about the same age difference as my two oldest boys.  I told her to enjoy her 2 ½ year old and 5 month old.  “Enjoy them before they talk back to you,” I advised her.  And this is where I believe becoming a parent in your late thirties or early forties trumps younger entry into the ranks of motherhood – just like success, it’s sweeter.  Waiting for anything makes one appreciate it more and with age, comes wisdom and the ability to truly feel blessed, rather than overwhelmed. 

Of course, ruminating over the past isn’t going to do anything to help me appreciate the present.  Soon enough, I’ll be looking at parents of twelve year olds and saying, “Appreciate them before they are driving, before they leave your home.”  I realized this morning that I am exactly the same distance from my last pregnancy as I am from my first child leaving for college – six years.  Quite frankly, I’m a bit scared of the teenage years.  My oldest son, D, and I were walking home from a street fair behind a group of teenagers – two boys and two girls.  Their conversation was peppered with “f*%k this” and “f*%#in’ that.”  One of the girls actually joked about being raped.  “Oh, I only liked to be raped on Tuesdays!” she squealed.  I wanted to grab her by the shoulders, shake her and say “Do you even realize how horrible it is to be raped?  Do you even realize that your life is destroyed?”  Instead I whispered to D, “The dumbing down of our youth.  The Snookification of America.  It’s sad.”  Mercifully, though he is a voracious consumer of pop culture, he did not know who Snooki is.  He simply said, “Mom, can we walk around the corner, please?”  I asked if he was worried that they’d hear me talking about them.  He answered simply, “I just really don’t want to hear them talking anymore.  Who knows what they’ll say next.”  I was incredibly relieved.  I was horrified that he had to listen to them, but when I voiced my concern at that first f-bomb, he told me he’d heard worse. Yikes.

We took the long way home, glancing into houses lit up in the soft summer night.  D. tried to cup a firefly in his hands, jumping up to reach it – a glimpse of the small child he used to be.  I put my arm around his shoulder, which is the same height as my shoulder now, and told him that I know he will move into his teenage years as a thoughtful, articulate young man.  Did I breathe in everything about that moment – the balmy August night, the firefly dancing above us, just the two of us on a walk?  Of course I did.  Being on the other side of forty has taught me something, you know.  And, that is the nugget of truth my slumbering self was trying to tell me. 

I had a dream the other night that I was talking to an ex-boyfriend.  I told him that I was lost in my twenties (the decade during which we dated), my thirties were a haze of sleep deprivation and anxiety and in my forties I had finally grown into myself.  I hadn't spoken to or even thought about this person in ages, yet he showed up in my dream - a symbol of my past.  Waking up, I had the oddest sensation of an epiphany.  Shaking the sleep off, I suddenly remembered the dream and wondered if my slumbering self was trying to tell me something.  Had I discovered a nugget of truth during my sleep?  Was I really more content at 42 years old, than I was at 25 years old? 

Turning forty had filled me with an awful foreboding – if my life were a movie, somber music would play and dark clouds would roll across the screen every time I thought about it.  But, even though two years past that milestone birthday I am not even close to where I thought I would be at this point (which you know, if you read an earlier post – The Dinosaur), maybe I am more content .  I was sure that I would be a published novelist, or at least have a regular column in a magazine by 40 years old.  I was sure I would be living in a big, neat house, perhaps with a cleaning woman to tidy up after the kids.  I am not quite at the coasting stage yet, though.  I am still at the establishing myself stage.  Whether that’s necessarily a bad thing – well, I haven’t quite figured that out.

Obviously, I would love to be a success at this point in my life, instead of still struggling, but maybe the struggle itself keeps you young – keeps you on your toes.  Plus, the older you are when you succeed, the sweeter it is.  My first writing teacher penned a message in my notebook at the end of the semester.  I memorized it almost before her pen left the paper, it resonated so: “To be a writer is a truly honorable thing.  You will be ostracized and rejected, but when success comes – and it will – it will be sweet.”  When I read that (over and over again), I felt sure that success was maybe ten years away, not over twenty and counting.  But, the message still stands all these years later – success, whenever it comes, will always be sweet.  But, what if it doesn’t – how do you reinvent yourself then? 

These questions that we ask ourselves are part of the beauty of growing older.  When you’re young, the questions don’t revolve around the big picture.  At least they didn’t for me.  In my teens, they revolved around school, friends, teenage love.  In my twenties, they revolved around college and then work, yes, but mostly the questions revolved around love still – my brain was consumed with my relationships.  I took writing classes, I worked as a journalist, but mostly I mourned the end of one relationship, obsessed over the beginning and progress of another, with a few relationships sprinkled in between.  I planned my wedding and got pregnant right before saying, "goodbye" to my twenties. Married at 28 years old, pregnant at 29 years old.

My thirties obsession was motherhood.  New motherhood, especially.  I had my first baby at 30 years old and pretty much spent the entire decade either pregnant, nursing or chasing a toddler.  My youngest child exited the toddler years the same year I exited my thirties.  At times I feel that decade is a blur of diapers, vomit and spit out peas.  And sometimes, I’ll see a young mother with a toddler and a baby and think, Did I appreciate it when I was there?  Did I stare at that rosebud mouth? Did I gaze in wonder at the impossibly long eyelashes fringing over porcelain skin?  I don’t really know the answer and it kills me.  Yes, I do remember moments of pure baby bliss, of simply realizing how lucky I was.  But, just as often I can only recall running on fumes, completely frazzled and sleep deprived.  I saw one such young mother at the pediatrician’s office yesterday.  Her daughters were about the same age difference as my two oldest boys.  I told her to enjoy her 2 ½ year old and 5 month old.  “Enjoy them before they talk back to you,” I advised her.  And this is where I believe becoming a parent in your late thirties or early forties trumps younger entry into the ranks of motherhood – just like success, it’s sweeter.  Waiting for anything makes one appreciate it more and with age, comes wisdom and the ability to truly feel blessed, rather than overwhelmed. 

Of course, ruminating over the past isn’t going to do anything to help me appreciate the present.  Soon enough, I’ll be looking at parents of twelve year olds and saying, “Appreciate them before they are driving, before they leave your home.”  I realized this morning that I am exactly the same distance from my last pregnancy as I am from my first child leaving for college – six years.  Quite frankly, I’m a bit scared of the teenage years.  My oldest son, D, and I were walking home from a street fair behind a group of teenagers – two boys and two girls.  Their conversation was peppered with “f*%k this” and “f*%#in’ that.”  One of the girls actually joked about being raped.  “Oh, I only liked to be raped on Tuesdays!” she squealed.  I wanted to grab her by the shoulders, shake her and say “Do you even realize how horrible it is to be raped?  Do you even realize that your life is destroyed?”  Instead I whispered to D, “The dumbing down of our youth.  The Snookification of America.  It’s sad.”  Mercifully, though he is a voracious consumer of pop culture, he did not know who Snooki is.  He simply said, “Mom, can we walk around the corner, please?”  I asked if he was worried that they’d hear me talking about them.  He answered simply, “I just really don’t want to hear them talking anymore.  Who knows what they’ll say next.”  I was incredibly relieved.  I was horrified that he had to listen to them, but when I voiced my concern at that first f-bomb, he told me he’d heard worse. Yikes.

We took the long way home, glancing into houses lit up in the soft summer night.  D. tried to cup a firefly in his hands, jumping up to reach it – a glimpse of the small child he used to be.  I put my arm around his shoulder, which is the same height as my shoulder now, and told him that I know he will move into his teenage years as a thoughtful, articulate young man.  Did I breathe in everything about that moment – the balmy August night, the firefly dancing above us, just the two of us on a walk?  Of course I did.  Being on the other side of forty has taught me something, you know.  And, that is the nugget of truth my slumbering self was trying to tell me.