Follow-Up
Remember how I told you that we put a bid on a house and it was rejected? Well, the owner changed her mind and now – right now – as we head into the holidays and while I’m 7 months pregnant – we are selling our house and moving. I’ve already documented my delicate emotional state during this pregnancy and this additional stress has truly sent me to “crazy town”. So currently, David’s day looks something like this:
7:00 AM wakes up to me reminding him to not forget about Max’s lunch and don’t fall back to sleep
8:30 AM – 6:00 PM After an hour long commute that can only be compared to a slow death march he arrives at work where his schedule is usually non-stop meetings peppered with people complaining that he isn’t in enough places at the same time.
5:30 PM – 6:30 PM Receives approximately 20 phone calls/text messages from me asking if he’s left yet.
6:00 PM – 7:00 PM Death march commute in reverse
7:00 PM is greeted by me hysterical about who knows what and the kids simultaneously talking and poking him in the tummy. There is no dinner. I made mac-n-cheese for the kids. The leftovers are in the pot.
8:00 PM he puts the kids to bed which is probably the only time somebody is nice to him all day
9:00 PM he gets back on his computer and works for an hour or more. He catches up on emails or freelance work
10:30 PM He returns to the family room to find me asleep on the couch and he’s left to watch The Colbert Report by himself.
Why this man has not run from the house screaming I have no idea. Every pregnancy is unique and the emotional upheaval of this pregnancy is quite pronounced. David is worried that I’m going to go all crazy after the baby is born and will pull a “Dooce” and end up in a mental hospital. I’m hoping I will find my way to medication before I get to that point but yes, the emotional carnage of pregnancy is scary and I am as worried about it as he is. In the meantime I’m so, so, so grateful that I have an awesome husband who, for the most part, cheerfully puts up with my crazy.
Wiser? Or Just Plain Old?
It felt like it happened over night. I stood there staring into the mirror and there they were staring back at me. Wrinkles. Oh, they are small and some might call them “character lines” but no matter what flowery language you use they are still wrinkles and they are on MY forehead. I’m 39 and 40 is the next block over. Things are different as I look down the barrel of this milestone and not in the ways I expected.
From the moment David and I met I have always taken great pride in the fact that I’m not a jealous person. I have entertained and fed more than one of David’s ex-girlfriends. I have watched him attend bachelor parties, happy hours, and other events without me and have never thought twice about it. He has spent days at photo shoots with professional models, and his office is frequently filled with beautiful single women. It has never once bothered me. Why? Well, I’m pretty secure with myself and in my relationship. I figure if David was really bent on straying nothing I could ever say or do would stop him. And yet, without warning, things are starting to change.
Before you think that somehow my marriage has hit rocky ground it has not. David and I are as solid and in love as ever. What has changed, is me, and it has a great deal more to do with those suspicious wrinkles on my forehead than I’d like to admit. It all fell into place when I read this recent article by Mommy Track’d. I am more jealous of the women my husband works with and the time he spends away from the house. Why? Because I’m no longer the young, 20-something, career minded, sexy, independent super girl I was when we met. No, my body now wears the scars of two children and four pregnancies. I have stretch marks, and cellulite, and wrinkles. The circles around my eyes, that used to be easily gotten rid of with some ice cubes and good eye cream, no longer vanish over night – or sometimes at all. That high-power, high-paying career that I had forged for myself is now a victim on the sidelines of my life. I can no longer compete with the women that my husband interacts with on a daily basis and at 39 I’m all too aware of it.
David assures me that those things are no longer important to him. He laughs and scowls when I bring it up telling me that in place of those things I have provided him with a home, children, a foundation for him to build his life. That we always have been and always will be soul-mates fatefully locked together. I know he is telling me the truth. I know he means all the words coming from his mouth. But I can’t help but miss that 20-something young super girl and wonder if sometimes he misses her too? I’m not mourning the loss of my younger body (because lets face it, it was never GREAT), but I miss the confidence that the younger me had. I miss the seemingly bottomless pit of belief and passion I felt within myself.
Perhaps that is what getting older and wiser is all about. You lose your unshakable confidence because you more honestly recognize your faults and misgivings. You no longer need the shield of false bravado to get through life but instead gain the greater strength of seeing yourself more nakedly than you ever have before. And this honesty, this unfiltered vision, brings with it fear of who you REALLY are not who you were trying to pretend to be the first 30 years. And just perhaps that is true wisdom.
Do I At Least Get Cake?
Today is my birthday. I’m turning 39, which feels about as depressing as turning 17. Seventeen was only mildly better than 27. What all these ages have in common is being just shy of any major milestone. At 17 you’ve been able to drive for at least a year but still can’t vote or be considered an adult. At 27 you’re definitely out of your “wild” twenties but not old enough to be taken seriously by anybody worthwhile. At 39 you are just old enough to realize that you are no longer young but not old enough to embrace your age as a sign of progress and success. In other words, nobody throws a big bash for turning 39. I have no special plans, and don’t expect any big surprises. I suspect this day will pass as most days pass with me raising my children, preparing for class and picking up army men off of the floor for the 1, 261st time.
This week my thoughts are more preoccupied with why the world of advertising takes pride in the fact that it doesn’t even try to acknowledge work/life balance and instead is boastful about their employees working 24 hour shifts? Being raised by a management expert this was frequently referred to as poor resource and time management not “trying to do the best work possible” because after all don’t we all do our best work between the hours of 3-4 in the morning? I’m scouring recipe books trying to figure out what I can possibly send in Lucy’s lunchbox that doesn’t include peanut butter, look like a sandwich and isn’t just turkey. As of now she will be eating turkey rolls everyday until she branches out. I’m torn up about deciding to send my baby to preschool – a choice we did not make for Lucy. Is it the right thing to do? Is he ready? Am I taking the easy route? I’m sick with the fact that my school year starts on Monday where I will be using a new textbook. A textbook that I didn’t choose, I haven’t read and yet I’m expected to write a lesson plan for by Monday. In the meantime I’m behind on every household chore possible and I have chronic acid reflux which makes me feel like I’m on the verge of vomit during most of the day.
This is 39.
Happy Birthday me.
