Recently, I spent a Saturday afternoon at my daughter’s house, helping her paint one of her bedrooms. I’m one of those rare people who actually likes to paint, so I didn’t mind spending a beautiful weekend afternoon up on a ladder, doing the edging. Even better, my mother stopped by and offered to pitch in as well by painting some of the trim. So there we were, three generations of family working together to give a room in my daughter’s house a much-needed sprucing up. For me, it felt like one of those family bonding moments when the older members of the family get to pass along some of their knowledge and experience to the younger members. (Which is an increasingly rare thing in theses days of ever-changing technology where the young are usually the ones who teach the old.)
I remember when my husband and I bought our first house and how hard we struggled to turn a very run down “fixer-upper” into a livable home. We couldn’t have done it without the help of friends and family who loaned us tools (and showed us how to use them), and helped clean up years worth of dirt and grime. We had a good friend who showed my husband how to build walls, while others helped him assemble our own kitchen cabinets. I remember clearly how my mother helped me in our overgrown yard, pointing out that the “weeds” I was about to pull were actually just flowers that needed some pruning. My aunt gave us money to buy kitchen curtains, and my brother-in-law even offered to install a wood-burning stove for us to help with heating costs. All that support made the process seem so much less overwhelming.
And now that my own son and daughter have bought houses of their own, both of which were fixer-uppers (we never buy anything else in our family), it’s our turn to help. I paint, do yard work and clean, my husband brings over his tools and shows them how to use them while he’s working on a project, and in the process, we help teach our kids what they need to know to fix up and properly maintain their houses. Frankly, it feels good to pass along some of the skills, support and knowledge that was given to us.
It’s not that our kids (and their husband and fiancé) couldn’t do it themselves, they most certainly could. They’re young, hard-working and smart, and what they don’t already know, they’ll figure out. But I know our help means that they are learning much more quickly, and I believe that they appreciate the support of their family with this important milestone in their lives. These are the acts that solidify our family bonds, that remind us that we don’t actually have to face every challenge on our own, and that demonstrate the importance of working together to help the people we love.
Sometimes fixing up houses is about so much more than just creating a nice place to live. Sometimes its also about building memories, strengthening family connections and passing on the best of who we are to the next generation. It’s amazing what you can accomplish with a paintbrush and a power drill.
When I was young and wore a new dress to school, my mother would almost always ask me when I came home, “And what did the other kids think of your outfit?” Money was a bit tight in our household, so new clothes were a special treat. And sometimes my mother had sewn my new dress herself, so her question made sense in many ways. Even so, I always had the distinct impression that what I thought of my new outfit wasn’t all that counted, and that it was important that other people liked it as well. And I understood that, because like most children, I wanted the approval of my peers, my family, my teachers, and almost everyone else I came into contact with. The problem is, there’s a part of me that still does.
First of all, I’ve learned that words are very important. If the candidate you like says something untrue, then he or she “misspoke.” But if the candidate you don’t like says something untrue, then he or she “lied.” Similarly, the candidate you like has “friends,” while the candidate you don’t like has only “cronies.” The one word that is never uttered is “hypocrite,” for obvious reasons.
Like most people, I have lots of opinions on just about everything, and I’m only too happy to share them, usually in much more detail than anyone cares to hear. I grew up in the sixties and seventies, when we were encouraged to “let it all hang out” in “rap sessions” (remember when “rap” didn’t refer to a musical genre?) and I guess I took that lesson to heart a little bit too much. So believe me, I really do understand why so many people feel the need to constantly express themselves in almost any situation they happen to be in. It’s just that I’ve come to realize that there are times when it’s much, much better not to communicate just exactly what we are thinking and feeling.
Since Valentine’s Day falls on a Sunday this year, my husband and I decided to go out for a nice dinner on Saturday night instead. Sadly, it seemed as if everyone else had the same idea, because when we arrived at our favorite restaurant for our seven o’clock reservation, the place was packed. The host asked if we minded waiting in the bar for a few minutes until our table was ready, which was fine with us. But after a while, it became apparent that the “few minutes” was a very optimistic prediction, and as the hunger pangs set in, we started surveying the restaurant to see if we could spot an open table that the staff might have missed.
All I can say in my defense was that I had the best of intentions. I didn’t want my kids to be the smartest, most popular and most athletic kids in the class, but I did want them to be happy and well adjusted, and spared from the kind of pain I remembered all too well from my own childhood. And so I stayed too close, was overly protective, was too quick to try to right a wrong, and too often took their pain and disappointments as personal affronts to my parenting skills. I might not have over-scheduled my children, but I was over-involved in details of their lives that would have best been handled all by themselves.
Sanibel Island is, hands down, my favorite place to vacation. It’s a beautiful little island which has no high-rise buildings or traffic lights, with stunning tropical vegetation and tons of small-town charm. I can always count on seeing lots of natural wildlife, possibly due to the nature preserve that takes up about a quarter of the island. My husband and I first visited the island almost thirty years ago, when I was six months pregnant with my daughter, and despite having to wear a maternity swim suit that looked like a circus tent, I fell in love with Sanibel.
Even though our kids are grown up, my husband and I still enjoy Sanibel, and we just returned from a week-long visit there. We had a wonderful time, right up to the very last day, when we noticed what looked like a thin brown line on the eastern horizon, right where the ocean meets the sky. As we watched, the line of dark, murky water grew larger and larger, spreading across the bay toward the Sanibel beaches.
I know that this has been a problem for many years, and that environmentalists and the government agencies who authorize the massive release of the lake water into the rivers and ocean are at odds with each other. As a rule, I try not to take sides in a dispute when I don’t know all the facts, and I definitely do not know all the facts about this issue. I am not a Florida resident and I know almost nothing about marine biology or water resource management.
At age fifty-seven, I have finally figured out that I am no longer young. I have accepted the sags and wrinkles; I own (and use) at least six pairs of reading glasses, and I am no longer surprised when I wake up in the morning and there’s always something, somewhere on my body, that hurts. I am fully aware that tucking in my shirts is no longer a good look for me, and the only thing I’m looking for when I buy a new swimming suit is maximum coverage and strong elastic. On the upside, I’ve got a much stronger sense of self than I ever had before, and I care less about what others think of me with each passing day. In short, I have embraced the fact that I have moved from “young” into “middle aged” and have actually learned to appreciate this phase of my life. I’m just not ready to be “old.”
Muddling Through My Middle Age 