In the "olden days" as we used to say when I was a kid, I would be far beyond the middle of my life. Forty or even twenty years ago, not that many people lived into their 90s. So, at 51, my expiration date would be fast approaching. At best I might have 25 or 30 years left. And I think about that all the time now, as I struggle with the changes that menopause throws me, much as my children both struggle with puberty. I think: if Annie doesn't get married until she's 30, like I did, and she doesn't have a baby until she's 35, then I will be a grandmother at 73.
That's not so old, right? I come from hearty German stock on both sides. My paternal grandparents died within a year of one another, my grandmother still so in love with my grandfather that she literally wasted away from grief after he was felled by heart disease; they were both in their early 90s. And my mother's mother outlived my mom who died at 71 from emphysema brought about by years and years of smoking. Grandmother died at 96, sharp, as they say, as a tack, at the end. So, by all rights if I'm a grandma at 73, I might get to see that grandchild graduate from high school at least, if not college.
If I'm going to live into my 90s, then 51 is more than halfway through, but not by much. And most of the time I don't feel "middle aged." I work and work out and take care of my family, and laugh with my husband, and yeah, I forget why I went to the garage and come back up with Kleenex when I meant to get a can of nuts, but it doesn't matter much. It's when I look in the mirror at this nice older lady with boobs down to their and a big, puffy tummy despite my daily sweat that I realize that yes, I am too middle aged, maybe even pushing the edge of old, chronologically at least, and you know what? Since I don't consider plastic surgery an option, and I'm too much of a pleasure hog to forgo wine and brownies forever, there's not a whole hell of a lot I can do. So, I'm working on acceptance. I think it's a valid lesson for anyone to learn. I tell my kids that when they complain about their hair or their inability to do a headstand or why they aren't taller. We are who we are, and we all have to love ourselves, at least some of the time.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Monday, September 1, 2008
My Son, the Football Player
The thing I dreaded, prayed wouldn't happen, tried to deny its reality, is here.
My 15-year-old son, the high school freshman, is playing football. Actually, he hasn't played yet, but he has been to practice every day save one since school started last week, and today, Labor Day, while the rest of his classmates are hanging out and chilling, Matt is spending five (!) hours at the practice field because today not only will he run and do drills and sweat like a pig, but he will get his practice pads and jersey. Let the games begin.
I guess you may have figured out I'm not the biggest football fan. In truth, I'd be hard put to say I really liked any sport Well, maybe the girly ones like ice skating and gymnastics. But since I've had a son I've been to t-ball, baseball, soccer, basketball, and lacrosse games over the past ten years, and I've learned if not to exactly enjoy but endure. And I find watching both basketball and lacrosse, probably because they're fast, to be quite exhilarating. Not that I really understand anything about staying too long in the key or offsides or anything else technical about the games, but watching Matt run down a court or up a field with possession of the ball, cheering gleefully when he scores, watching his self confidence soar, now that I can get excited about. I've stood on the sidelines of chilled, foggy fields early on Saturday mornings and rested my butt on hard-as-rock bleachers in remote, stinky gyms on weeknights to watch my boy play, and I wouldn't have missed a minute.
But football. In high school I pretty much avoided going to football games as not only was I a nerd, but I was a theater nerd, and my various chorus, dance, and musical rehearsals seemed to coincide with the games so I was spared. My father watched the occasional game on TV, but I could tell it was more background noise than something he cared about. My parents were baseball fans, but not me. I stayed within my arty boundaries and let others be the cheerleaders.
In college, football games were the big social events on the weekends, and I took them for what they were. The tailgate parties beforehand were spectacular, and if I spent the game watching the crowd not the field, scoping out the boys, well, who knew? Downs and rushes, linebackers versus fullbacks—it was all Greek to me. I knew enough to cheer when our team made a touchdown, and the band played the winning song (at Stanford it was and is "All Right Now"), and I had a great time. Beer helped.
Then I married a jock who played high school and college football, and football was on the television or the radio all fall until Super Bowl parties where I hung out in the kitchen and chatted with the other wives. But now I will have to actually go to football games. I will have to listen to my husband and my son endlessly dissect plays and players afterwards, and I will pray that my poor boy (my muscled, stocky football guy) doesn't get trampled or broken or concussed or worse.
It's only freshman football. Maybe he won't go out for JV next year. Or maybe he'll love it, and by then, maybe I'll understand the game. Here's hoping.
My 15-year-old son, the high school freshman, is playing football. Actually, he hasn't played yet, but he has been to practice every day save one since school started last week, and today, Labor Day, while the rest of his classmates are hanging out and chilling, Matt is spending five (!) hours at the practice field because today not only will he run and do drills and sweat like a pig, but he will get his practice pads and jersey. Let the games begin.
I guess you may have figured out I'm not the biggest football fan. In truth, I'd be hard put to say I really liked any sport Well, maybe the girly ones like ice skating and gymnastics. But since I've had a son I've been to t-ball, baseball, soccer, basketball, and lacrosse games over the past ten years, and I've learned if not to exactly enjoy but endure. And I find watching both basketball and lacrosse, probably because they're fast, to be quite exhilarating. Not that I really understand anything about staying too long in the key or offsides or anything else technical about the games, but watching Matt run down a court or up a field with possession of the ball, cheering gleefully when he scores, watching his self confidence soar, now that I can get excited about. I've stood on the sidelines of chilled, foggy fields early on Saturday mornings and rested my butt on hard-as-rock bleachers in remote, stinky gyms on weeknights to watch my boy play, and I wouldn't have missed a minute.
But football. In high school I pretty much avoided going to football games as not only was I a nerd, but I was a theater nerd, and my various chorus, dance, and musical rehearsals seemed to coincide with the games so I was spared. My father watched the occasional game on TV, but I could tell it was more background noise than something he cared about. My parents were baseball fans, but not me. I stayed within my arty boundaries and let others be the cheerleaders.
In college, football games were the big social events on the weekends, and I took them for what they were. The tailgate parties beforehand were spectacular, and if I spent the game watching the crowd not the field, scoping out the boys, well, who knew? Downs and rushes, linebackers versus fullbacks—it was all Greek to me. I knew enough to cheer when our team made a touchdown, and the band played the winning song (at Stanford it was and is "All Right Now"), and I had a great time. Beer helped.
Then I married a jock who played high school and college football, and football was on the television or the radio all fall until Super Bowl parties where I hung out in the kitchen and chatted with the other wives. But now I will have to actually go to football games. I will have to listen to my husband and my son endlessly dissect plays and players afterwards, and I will pray that my poor boy (my muscled, stocky football guy) doesn't get trampled or broken or concussed or worse.
It's only freshman football. Maybe he won't go out for JV next year. Or maybe he'll love it, and by then, maybe I'll understand the game. Here's hoping.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)