Introducing Middle Life Madness

In the middle of trying to compose this inaugural post that will launch Middle Life Madness, my mind is everywhere but in the middle of writing. After 22 years of waiting for the light at the end of the parenting tunnel to shine a bit brighter, I still struggle with prioritizing the pursuit of my creative passions. Not to mention, in less than 12 hours, my husband and I begin the process of moving our daughter out of our house.

Because life wouldn’t be exciting if things always worked well, my laptop is in the trashcan, and I am now tethered to the wall in the kitchen corner to what once was my son’s desktop computer. Being diligent years earlier and refusing to allow computers anywhere but in public areas of our home, the risk of inappropriate teenaged boy internet surfing was minimized but now has backfired on this mom, struggling to get a few welcoming thoughts onto paper.

This out-dated, second-hand Mac refuses to copy and paste and no one else seems to see it as the problem that I do. Its past owner, my 19-year-old son, Drew, repeatedly instructs, “Mom, just play with the keys until you figure it out.”

“Fine,” I think, as I wonder how well that would have worked out for him had I used a similar philosophy and teaching method when he tried to master potty training. “Just play with it until you figure it out,” this super busy mom of two would have chirped. Hmm…not sure that would have worked out really well for any of the parties involved.

Continuing to play with the computer keys, hoping that something might somehow start to work, in the background I hear his older sister, Ashlee, who by the way is at least a month and a half past her New York City launch date due to the unrealistic apartment co-op application process, complaining loudly enough to be heard all the way to Manhattan that my kitchen—yes my kitchen, not our kitchen—is a wreck and how can I be such a slob at this point in my life? Seems to me it was just a few years ago that upon her departure to pursue her undergrad degree I found everything but the kitchen sink upstairs, underneath her bed. Guess we now know which tree that apple fell from.

Still playing with unsuccessful computer keys, the phone rings. Before I can get the last syllable of hello out, my 83-year-old mother inquires as to whether I saw Manny Machado hit his fourth homerun of the game just now. Mind you, she knows that I haven’t had the pleasure of catching a local Oriole’s game since before my sports hero, Cal Ripken, Jr., retired. The odds are also pretty slim that I have sat down in front of the TV to watch anything before midnight when I turn on reruns of Friends to soothe my soul to sleep.

So no, I tell her, I haven’t seen anything resembling a homerun lately and her son-in-law who is comfortably reclining in the living room in front of the same game that she is watching will concur about the lack of homeruns witnessed around here both on and off the screen.

Undeterred, my mother switches her prattle to the subject of her hedge needing a trim because it is encroaching on the neighbor’s yard but ends up trailing off instead about this same neighbor’s son who has just become engaged. A neighbor’s kid I wouldn’t recognize today if he knocked on my front door with a set of hedge clippers.

I’m running low on time, patience and energy but this idle conversation is actually a respite from the nonfunctioning computer keys and quite honestly, preferable to the nonexistent conversations that my children’s other grandmother has had with them over the last 14 months. But that’s a whole other maddening subject for another time.

Between the malfunctioning technology in my midst, the messy house I have evidently left in my daily wake, and the constant reminders to lower my voice coming from my husband who is now ascending the steps for bed, I realize that once again I am yelling at everyone and everything.

Drew casually tosses a “good night” over his shoulder as he climbs the stairs behind his dad. “Drew, no good-night kiss for Mom?” I call after him. He blows a kiss from the second floor landing.

My yelling is quickly silenced by one of those pangs that creeps up and surprises me, making me long for that sweet little boy of years ago who used to come running into my lap, ringing my neck in a tight embrace and planting a wet and enthusiastic kiss squarely on my check, usually getting slobber in my eye in the process.

Ashlee who has finally ceased berating my housekeeping skills has now worked nothing short of magic by reorganizing the walk-in pantry into what can only be described as an advertisement for a professional kitchen design firm. Seeing my defeated expression after just eavesdropping on the exchange between her brother and me, she offers a little bit of unsolicited wisdom. “He’s a teenager. And a boy, Mom.”

At the end of this day, after numerous power struggles and estrogen battles, in this household, it’s nice to have someone who gets me even when I’m at my worst. But I can feel my grip slipping a little bit every hour as I try and stay involved in both of my children’s achievements and struggles as they grow up and leave my nest a little emptier. I am reminded of how much I love them, which is more than life itself. And while they most definitely are slowly driving me crazy, I am also reminded of the words of my own mother who raised and launched two kids of her own, “this too shall pass.”

Ashlee has now retreated upstairs, leaving me behind to check that doors are locked and light switches are off. Calling to me from her room, I wearily climb the stairs and open her door a crack to see her sweet, fresh faced smile and Olivia, her childhood cat curled up next to her. She is all grown up but still waits for my nightly ritual of a bedside kiss.

She tells this running-on-empty momma, “I love you.” And with the same mischievous twinkle I recognize from days long gone, as I quietly shut her door behind me, she adds, “You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone.”

Yes. Yes, I am. And only hours away from the launch of Middle Life Madness, my long put off creative pursuits, and my 22 year old, I am certain of this. Two decades deep into parenting, I am still in the middle of the most wonderful madness of my life.