Middle-Aged Motherhood

Liar

Posted on March 3, 2015 by Heather Scarbro Dobson

I’m really good at hiding things. For years, I hid my 145 pounds behind loose clothes and untucked shirts. I’ve always hid my pain behind false smiles and I make sure my tears only make an appearance when the house is empty and the shower is running. The Bloggess once wrote a blog post with the title, depression lies. She’s right. Depression is a lying bitch who waits until you’re at your most vulnerable and then She whispers in your ear, confirming all the bad things about you that you are convinced are true.

Depression has been gleefully whispering to me for many years, but She’s been particularly loud for the last 24 hours and it’s so damned easy to just listen to Her and allow Her to drown out all the other voices who disagree with Her. Why? Because it’s easier to believe that I’m a mediocre person with no personality, minimal talent, and below-average looks rather than to fight Her.

Because that voice of Depression is MY inner voice. And it’s hard to ignore yourself. Especially when She is adamant in Her beliefs.

There are numerous external voices belonging to family and friends, each reminding me of all the positive things about me. For the most part, they keep Depression at bay and I listen to them, hoping beyond hope that they’re true. And then, one external voice disagrees with all the others. For whatever reason, this external voice, or opinion, tells me something that agrees with my Depression. And then that Bitch is off and running and I can’t drown Her out, no matter what I do. It will take me days to push Her away, to quiet Her down, to finally ignore Her lies. But by then, the damage has been done. More cracks have appeared in my psyche, and Depression has a better foothold for the next time.

I didn’t write this for sympathy or for kind words. I didn’t write this because I’m at risk for harming myself or others. I write this, I’m sharing this, because at times, people seem genuinely surprised that I think so little of myself. But I do. All the time. I just wanted to let everyone know that even the strongest-seeming people are sometimes the weakest, that our internal battles are the hardest we will ever face. And that ultimately, we do it alone.

But, I want to remind you all that your voices help. I’ll drown Her out soon enough and listen to you again. Until then, keep talking. Please.

All You Need Is Love

Posted on February 7, 2015 by Heather Scarbro Dobson

All 8 pounds and 14 ounces of newborn me.

As birthdays go, yesterday’s 43rd birthday for me was quiet and uneventful. I remember in my youth being sorely upset if something special didn’t happen on my birthday. If I didn’t receive the present I wanted or if we didn’t go out to eat at the restaurant of my choice, then I was a very unhappy camper. I absolutely craved the attention. Even though I’ve never been one to call attention to myself (I’d rather die than let you know I want you to sing Happy Birthday to me.), I always did need it and was upset if it wasn’t forthcoming.

And so it was with great annoyance and little patience that I scoffed at those who wanted quiet birthdays, who were happy with just cards and hugs, who only wanted well-wishes rather than presents. Geez, I would think, what a codger. Everyone should get presents on their birthday. Insert extreme, youthful eyeroll here.

But, as I’ve found, with age comes contentment and with that contentment comes birthdays and holidays that are less about things and more about people and time. Yes, a gift is greatly appreciated and treasured, but what is even more special is your phone call, your email, your hug, your well-wish, and your love. I crave that time and conversation and connection more so than the physical gift.

Yesterday’s birthday was full of the things that make my life what it is. There was waking up kids for school, encouraging them to get dressed and eat breakfast on time, laundry, dishes, exercise, errands, blah, blah, blah. It was like any other Friday, except for the wonderful birthday greetings from friends around the world, the quiet hug and kiss from my wonderful husband, the amazing Greek dinner my mother cooked for me (dolmades, tiropita, spanakopita, and koulourakia – OH MY!) and the family who came to share that dinner with us.

And at the end of the night came the best gift of all. While the kids were getting ready for bed, Jarrod came over and gave me a big hug. “Happy birthday, Mama!” he said quietly.

“Thank you, Baby Bear. This hug is the best birthday gift ever.” I replied.

“Love is the best birthday gift, Mama. All you need is love.” he responded.

Out of the mouths of babes. It seems that wisdom is present in the young and in the old, and somewhere in-between, when we’re too caught up in life’s drama and minutiae, we sometimes forget that the best gift we can ever give or receive is each other’s love. I’m so lucky to have received such gifts of love yesterday and every day.

Thank you all who made my 43rd birthday so very special. I will cherish you all in the year to come and beyond!

An Open Letter to Jim Rome

Posted on January 3, 2015 by Heather Scarbro Dobson

Dear Jim,

I feel like I can call you “Jim” rather than “Mr. Rome” since you did, after all, call me and many others “dorks” on New Year’s Day. So, “Jim” it is. I have a few other choice words I can call you, but we’ll just leave those to your imagination. Shall we?

I was an extremely awkward 7th grader when I joined my junior high marching band, not to mention a mediocre clarinetist. I won’t share those first year’s pictures with you or anyone else because like most 12 and 13 year olds, my legs were too long, my feet were too big, my hair was huge, my braces were awful, and my face was too pimply.

But 8th grade was awesome. That’s when I found my niche. For a year, I had watched the drum major do her thing (up in West “By, God!” Virginia, we called them “Field Commanders.” Quite a ridiculous title.) and decided that’s what I wanted to do. And by gosh, I did it. And did it really well.

WayneCo85

There I am, in 1986, at the tender age of 14, at the Wayne County Band Festival. It was the beginning of 9th grade and the Spring Hill Junior High Rebel marching band was in full band festival mode. I had done the drum major gig for a year and I was on it. I loved it. Marching band made me feel like somebody. For a quiet, introverted nerd whose favorite pastime was reading, being out in front of the band made me feel special. I could shine.

But, really, I was just a dork, right?

Whoops! Here I am being a dork. Again. Same afternoon. I had just won a 1st place trophy for being the best danged drum major in Wayne County that afternoon. That year. These band festivals were a way for some junior high and high school bands to raise money. They would pay a few dollars for shiny, engraved trophies and the parents would work concessions, serving out donated food to other parents who came to watch their kids perform, kids wearing band uniforms those parents paid for, riding on buses paid for by those parents because the county didn’t have the money for weekend trips, performing in a band festival paid for by those parents because of the entry fee. I can’t even tell you how many Indian River oranges, tangerines, and grapefruits I sold each winter and how many candy bars I sold each spring to raise money. This picture was probably taken in September or October but us kids had been hard at it since the last week of July, giving up five weeks of our summer vacation for camp and practice just so we could be in the band.

Oh, wait, I was mistaken. We did all that just so we could be dorks.

After three years of junior high, off to high school I went. The South Charleston High School Black Eagles marching band was pretty awesome and I spent 10th grade paying my dues in the back and, yet again, did the drum major thing for two years after that.

And let me tell you. I killed it. There I am, in the yearbook, giving a bad-ass fist salute because we nailed it at the Greenbrier County band festival that year. That night? I was supposed to be a bridesmaid at a friend’s wedding. But instead, I was at that band festival. That lady to my right? Mrs. Kennedy. She was a hard-ass, told me if I missed that festival, I would flunk the semester. So I went. I poured my heart and soul into my performance that night. The rest of the band knew I was upset. It was our last festival of the year and I didn’t want to be there. I wanted to be standing with Dee Dee at her wedding. So we all made our steps crisper, our notes louder, and our smiles bigger.

I scored a 98 out of a possible 100. The band rolled away with tons of trophies.

But this isn’t about trophies and glory. This is about all us “dorks” who sacrifice our Friday nights to sit on the sidelines and play the fight song for every touchdown, whether it be rain, sleet, or clear skies. We sweat in our full-on polyester band uniforms, sopping wet, sometimes freezing, our hands so numb we could barely play, carrying instruments that are probably upwards of 40 pounds (TUBAS! BASS DRUMS!) and perform to keep the crowds excited and happy, even when our football teams are sucking. Did you know, Jim? My first parade as drum major? I marched in the pouring rain with a 103-degree fever? Yep. Dorkish dedication right there. Those marching band dorks do it not for the glory or the accolades. We do it because we love it, despite what people like you may say.

But the worst part of what you said? Is that you didn’t just say it to those members of the Oregon, FSU, Alabama, and Ohio State marching bands. You also said it to the 12-year-old trumpet player who is struggling to learn how to play his instrument and march at the same time. You said it to the insecure 14-year-old majorette who constantly hits herself on the head with her baton because she’s still learning how to catch it. You said it to the 17-year-old snare drummer who is going to ROCK a DCI drum line in a few years’ time.

You said it to me. The awkward, bushy-haired, 13-year-old field commander who made her debut performance sick as a dog in the rain beside the Kanawha River. And you also said it to me, the 42-year-old mother of three who hopes one day to be a band parent.

Think before you speak, Jim. Think before you make fun of those kids trying to find their niche, their tribe, their place in this big, bad world. Think before you ridicule the kids whose parents have sacrificed money and time and mileage to get their kids to away football games in a clean uniform with functional instruments. Think before you call children hurtful names. You’re a 50-year-old man who should know better. You didn’t just call those college-age adult students “dorks.” You also labeled every. single. minor. child. who proudly participate in marching bands around the country.

I’m glad you apologized. And I hope you’ve learned your lesson. #MarchonRome isn’t just about correcting your poor judgement. It’s also about us being damned proud of who we are and standing up for that. We are marching bands. We love our football teams, our parades, our festivals, our uniforms, our band families. And mostly, we love our music.

Respectfully,

Heather Dobson (née Scarbro)
Field Commander, Spring Hill Junior High, 1985-1987
Field Commander, South Charleston High School, 1988-1990
Field Commander, Spirit of America Marching Band, 1990

The Elephant in the Inbox

Posted on November 5, 2014 by Heather Scarbro Dobson

Heath: Mama, Camden was mean to me in class today.
Me: Oh, really? How was he mean?
Heath: He said something mean to me.
Me: What did he say?
Heath: He said that boys shouldn’t like My Little Pony, that only girls like those toys, and that I’m a boy and I shouldn’t like it. He made fun of me.
Me: Well, first of all, it doesn’t matter if you’re a girl or boy when it comes to liking something like My Little Pony. If you like it, then great! If you don’t like it, that’s fine. It doesn’t matter whether you’re a girl or boy. You like what you like and ignore the haters.
Heath: Yeah, that’s what I tried to tell him.
Me: Heath, you have to understand that a person like Camden said that for one of many reasons. Maybe he’s in a bad mood because he didn’t get enough sleep, or he’s not feeling well, or maybe his mother or father or sibling was mean or upset with him and that has put him in a bad mood. Maybe he liked My Little Pony and someone made fun of him and that embarrassed him. Or, maybe, he’s just a nasty person. I don’t know the reason why he said what he said to you. What I do know is that you’re a great kid and I love that you like My Little Pony and we should all be encouraged to love what we love, not made to feel less because of it.

I have had numerous conversations, like the above, with my children as they have aged and come into contact with other children. As we get older, we all feel the need to drift away from our parents and to find our tribe. This is a natural survival instinct. Our parents are someday going to die and leave us alone and we need those friends to lean on as we get older. But, in finding our tribe, we have to wade through the bullies, the haters, and the negativity. In confronting those negative people, we learn, hopefully, how to stay away from others of their kind, how to deal with them, and how to cope. I would love to shelter my children forever so that they never know the sting of rejection or hate, but in never knowing how those moments feel, they’ll never learn how to cope when I’m gone. I will do them a disservice if I keep them isolated from the negativity. It’s my responsibility to kiss the “owies,” both mental and physical, and help them to learn from them.

Lately, having the above discussions with my children has been difficult because I have so very poorly dealt with recent negativity in my own life these past 60 days. As many of you know, I was hurt very badly by a couple of family members two months ago and although I’ve been mostly mum about it since my one blog post, my mind has raced and run around in circles ever since. I have pretty much cut myself off from most forms of social media and have had a very hard time responding to emails unless they involve my children’s school.

I had absolutely no clue that four emails, two Facebook messages, and one unwelcome Halloween card, all from two women, would have such a profound effect on my psyche. But it has. And I haven’t been able to regain my footing. Since 2007, I’ve considered myself to be an “on line wizard” in my corner of the universe. I was on Twitter before it was cool. I jumped on Facebook not too long after. I had a family web site, then a blog, I coded in HTML and even dabbled in CSS. Hell, if you really want to get me going and not shut up, just bring up SEO and I will go on for hours. I love it. All of it. Having an on line presence is perfect for an introvert like me where the work is behind-the-scenes and I don’t have to talk to people face-to-face. All communication is type-written and I can think on it, edit it, and take my time before I say what’s on my mind. I’m not good with snappy comebacks. I typically embarrass myself during IRL conversations and I’m much better with a keyboard and monitor. I’m also a stickler when it comes to on line security, presence, and words. I’ve had a few missteps, sure, but I’m more careful than not. To have two people be so utterly wrong about me and my on line presence and abilities, in such a nasty way, and then to have it break me down to the point where I want to hide from the very things I love, has taken its toll.

I can’t figure out if I’m more angry with them or with me.

It’s hard, as a mother, to try to teach your children how to face the hate when you’re curling up into a ball and hiding from it. How can I even be effective as a parent when I am so clearly hiding? Do as I say, not as I do has never been an adequate slice of parenting advice and I know, if my children ever find out how poorly I handled this, then they may follow suit. These two months have really tested me as a parent and, unfortunately, I have been failing. Miserably. I need to turn that F into an A. Or maybe a solid B+.

So, this is me, picking myself up, dusting myself off, and starting all over again.

Hello, my name is Heather. I am a wife and mother, a daughter and a friend. I am an introvert. I love the Internet. I blog, I frequently share a bit too much on Facebook, I like to take pictures of my kids and pretty things, I keep it to 140 characters on Twitter, and I hunt ghosts. I am a Social Media Specialist. I curse but I also care, deeply. I love my family and my friends. And I will not allow the heartless, thoughtless actions of two people to bring me down.

Watch out, world. Mama is back.

Back Off My Breast Friends

Posted on October 16, 2014 by Heather Scarbro Dobson

There’s a dairy food theme here, isn’t there?

I remember the day well. It was March 18, 2006. For six months, I had made a vow to myself, and that vow was, If I can breastfeed these kids, day in and day out, for six months, I will declare victory in the Milk Wars and wean these little hoodlums. Six months, I decided, was my hard limit. I was done being the Dairy Queen. In real time, I had done this gig for six months. In twin years, that’s one whole year. (Note: This is called “Twin Math.” In “Twin Math,” you double everything. Two kids on two breasts for six months is equivalent to one kid on one breast for one whole year. And even if it isn’t logical, shut up. You did not push two babies out of your body on the same day. The only thing that trumps “Twin Math” is “Triplet Math.” Those women are goddesses and can say and do whatever they damn well please.) I was done. I started weaning the twins the month before, cutting off a feeding here, two feedings there, and replacing said feedings with bottles of formula until, on March 16th, on their six-month birthday, they were on straight formula. Two days later, a Saturday, I left the house around 7AM, waved to Tyler and my mother as they held the twins, and spent the entire day shopping with my sorority sister.

I. Was. Ecstatic.

More dairy references, you say?

For me, breastfeeding wasn’t a bonding experience. It was a chore. I was absolutely determined to breastfeed because I was convinced that if I didn’t pass on my immunities to my preemie twins, they would become gravely ill. And if I fed the first two that way, then the third needed it as well. It was a chore I did, without complaint, for one whole actual year. (I lasted six months with Jarrod. That’s an actual six months. No freaky singleton math going on there. But, technically, with Twin Math in place, I like to think I lactated for a whole 18 months. Don’t judge me. It was hard, ya’ll!) I don’t want to go into too many details, but let’s just say that my mammary glands aren’t the most… functional in the lactation department, and without help (read: nipple shields) I was in a lot of pain. A lot.

But, here’s the thing. I did it. It is possible to breastfeed even if you don’t want to or aren’t really built properly for the job. And even though I did it, I didn’t have to. I mean, I was raised on formula and I turned out just fine. I have a pretty bitchin’ IQ, no behavioral problems, and my weight is OK. Tyler was raised on formula and has, to my knowledge, never gone off the bend. My mother breastfed me for six weeks before the same dysfunctional mammary gland design that plagued me stopped her cold in her tracks. Shit happens, people. And it happens a lot when you’re trying to feed those feisty little ones.

But here’s the other thing. If I had put my foot down and said, “NO! I will NOT be breastfeeding my children!” should I have been made to feel guilty? As this mother was made to feel? Absolutely not.

I hate that we, as women, feel it necessary to judge other women on how they are feeding/clothing/bathing/teaching/disciplining/raising their children. Get off the Judgy Train, headed for Fort Judgerson, with a stop at Judgjunction. You take care of your kids as you see fit and I’ll take care of mine as I see fit and stop thinking that your way is better for everyone. Your way is just better for you and yours. And that’s just fine and dandy as long as you don’t shove your way in my face. Then, we might have a problem.

Now, here’s where I’m going to make… a suggestion. Any time I see a pregnant lady, I just want to hug her and ask, “First time?” and if she says, “Yes!” then this is pretty much the soapbox from which I want to stand and share my incredible wisdom of moderation, ease, and frequent breaks.

Just one more. I can’t help myself.

There are lots of people out there who talk about “nipple confusion” and “breast is best” and “formula will make your kids fat and stupid” and blah, blah, blah. But, here was my reality. I had premature twins who NEEDED the calories that formula could provide. They spent their first 20 days in the NICU and since I couldn’t be there all the time, I pumped my breast milk and carted it over there every day. Since my babies needed to gain weight, the nurses and doctors at Northside Hospital supplemented my breast milk with preemie formula and bottle fed them. And they had pacifiers. When they came home, I continued with the one-bottle-a-day routine so that I could get extra sleep, they could get extra calories, and Tyler, Nana, Grandmama, et. al. could get extra baby cuddles. It was a win-win. I continued the tradition with Jarrod. Tyler got the late evening, “Let’s bond over Enfamil and Magnum, P.I!” feeding. So, this is my Easy-Peasy-Lemon-Squeezy You Are Gonna Kiss Me When This Is All Over Feeding Guide For New Mothers. Use it or not, it’s up to you. But, it seems to me a common-sense approach to feeding your babies and keeping your sanity.

You have absolutely decided that you don’t want to breastfeed. It turns you off, the thought of it makes you sick to your stomach, and you’re done before the baby is even born. That’s fine! You stick to your guns, give that precious baby some formula, and don’t let those Lactation Nazis make you feel guilty for your choice. And if they harass you, kick them out of your hospital room.
You decide to try breastfeeding and it doesn’t work out. No worries! As long as baby isn’t starving, you’re good. Get out the Enfamil and have a party! And tell those Lactation Nazis to take a long walk off a short pier.
If you are successfully able to breastfeed your baby, give your baby one bottle of formula a day. Wait… hear me out.
One bottle of formula a day gives you a break and allows you extra sleep and allows your significant other/relatives to also bond with the baby.
Having that bottle of formula allows the baby to get used to the taste of formula so that if something happens and you have to unexpectedly wean them, it’s not a battle getting them used to formula. (I can tell you that after watching a friend try to force her baby through an emergency weaning onto formula, it’s not pretty. Your precious wee one will reject that bottle and put you through a couple of days of heck. Trust me on this one.)
Also, having a bottle of formula a day gives you a chance to get out of the house. Guess what? It means you could actually have a date night/night out in those first six/eight/whatever months! You’re not so tied down that you can’t leave your child! Go out and have a great time! And realize that your baby is fine because they’re used to a bottle nipple and acclimated to the taste of formula and you are your own person and can take a break if necessary.
And finally, give your child a pacifier. There is nothing wrong with pacifiers. They soothe your baby and, again, get them used to sucking on something other than you. It gives you a break and a rest. You can start to wean them from the pacifier any time you like, but definitely keep it around for the first year. Trust me, it’s a life saver. If your breast is the only thing soothing them, then you’re probably going to have a lot of sleepless nights.

I guess mainly what I’m trying to impart here is don’t be so hard on yourself. Pictures and media and ads make breastfeeding look very easy. I mean, it should come naturally, right? Not really. It’s a learning process for both you and the baby and if neither of you is enjoying it, you don’t need the stress. Do what’s best for both of you while at the same time giving yourself some elbow-room. Trust me when I say you’re going to need it.

Stepping down off my soapbox. Tune in next time for “Pampers versus Huggies versus Luvs: Is it really all about the diaper or is it more about penis position?” where we discuss leakage and little boys. Or not. Cheerio!

Sick and Twisted

Posted on October 13, 2014 by Heather Scarbro Dobson

“Looks like a Bataan death march.” -Brad Finn

No one gives you instructions on how to be a mother when you’re sick. Oh, sure. You receive tons of advice about feeding them and changing their diapers. Everyone scrambles to help you snap up those onsies and cuddle the cute, wittle, sweet, BABEHS! You give birth and there’s a multitude of opinions about sleepless nights, growth spurts, and the sometimes endless crying. “Sleep when they sleep!” they all chant to you. And then those sages of advice eventually went home and I was left with one twin who slept like the dead and another who was so colicky that sleep was only something I read about in magazines. And when the third one came along? Sleep became an extremely rare commodity. They all had competing schedules and I, somehow, kept three children and myself alive and fed for six months with just a few hours of sleep each night.

In retrospect, that’s nothing. What’s really hard is being a mom while you’re sick. Nobody tells you how difficult that is. It’s like this huge secret, a motherhood initiation. When I finally experienced it for the first time, I imagined all the other mothers giggling and snorting behind my back, whispering, “IT’S HAPPENING! Let’s watch the carnage and see if she makes it!” As I imagined them pulling up their chairs and digging into buckets of buttered popcorn, I bitterly dove head-first into my first-ever “sick with kids” episode.

The twins were three months old and still latching on to me at all hours of the day and night. Not only was I exhausted, but my throat started feeling scratchy, and then I couldn’t talk, and then I was using up every tissue within a six-mile radius of the house, and then I was hacking up both lungs.

There’s nothing more miserable than breastfeeding twins while surviving a nasty upper-respiratory something-or-other. And the worst part? I was on my own. Tyler had to work and none of the grandparents wanted to catch what I had. So, there I sat, at home, alone, and wondering why in the world I decided to have kids and wanting nothing more than for my mommy to tuck me into bed and bring me warm soup and Sunkist.

The above picture was taken last Wednesday, during the kids’ “Walk To School Day.” It was an official event, full of county deputies directing traffic and hordes of kids and their parents, converging (on foot) onto the school. Heck, the Chick-fil-A cow was even there! (Do we Southerners know how to do up an event, or what?) The kids had been looking forward to this morning for a week. And I started experiencing my tell-tale scratchy throat and low-grade fever the night before. When I woke up the next morning, I looked and felt like death warmed-over and knew I had nothing but misery ahead of me. That quote? Up there on the picture? Actually kind of apropos considering how awful I felt. It was 1.7 miles of speeding up, slowing down, stopping, chit-chat, and trying not to trip over those new-fangled rolling backpacks.

Yeah, I was miserable, but I was also surprisingly content. I had 45 uninterrupted minutes of my children’s time. We talked about school and friends and the cars passing us. We paused to smell late-blooming gardenias and observed a golden orb weaver spider on its web. I sipped my coffee, more for the soothing effect of the warm liquid than for any caffeine rush. And we made it. Tyler picked me up at the end and I collapsed into his car happy, yet thankful to the stars above that it was over.

In the nine years I’ve been a mother, there’s only been a handful of mornings I’ve woken up and said to Tyler, “I can’t do this. I’m too sick. You’re going to have to take over today.” No, being sick and being a parent is no fun. In the beginning, the kids don’t care. They will still expect meals and answers and activities and your undivided attention. I learned early on how to just lie on the floor as they played. They would treat me as a wall for them to climb and tumble over. I felt useless, but they would giggle and have the greatest of times. I would get up from time to time to feed them and change diapers, but I adapted. I realized that when I was sick, I was allowed to be less than myself. When the twins started first grade, I spent two bronchitis-filled weeks on the couch, with Jarrod, watching the London Olympics. And that was OK.

Now that my children are older, they are able to empathize and take care of themselves. When I say I don’t feel well, they back off, they let me have that rest, and they demand less of me. They are able to pick up the slack. All that stuff we’ve been teaching them? It’s finally paying off and it’s an amazing thing to see happen after so many years of dependence.

I decided, quite a long time ago, that if any of my children have children of their own, and they find themselves on the receiving end of a cold or the flu or some other nasty illness, I will be there for them. I will fix them soup and Sunkist and fluff their pillows, stroke their foreheads, and wish them rest and wellness.

And then I’ll tiptoe downstairs to my grandkids and take them out for ice cream, water gun battles, and Legos. Because I’m thinking that’s what all the cool, hip grandmothers will do sometime around 2030.

New Digs

Posted on October 7, 2014 by Heather Scarbro Dobson

Dork.

I’m the curious cat who is always reading, wondering, solving, and exploring. If there’s a bit of information I don’t understand, I look it up. If I want to know something, I seek out the answer. Thus did I find myself at the Social Security Administration’s Life Expectancy Calendar where I entered my gender and my birthdate, and sonuvagun, wouldn’t you know, as a 42 years-and-8-months-old, I have 42 years and 4 months left.

Look at how neatly that turned out. I am nearly exactly middle-aged. I am in the middle of everything, sandwiched between the beginning and the end, tucked neatly between the birth and death certificates. I loves me some symmetry, so rather than upsetting me, this knowledge has made me quite content. Barring any unforseen diseases or accidents, I will probably slip off this mortal coil sometime around 2056. Unless, of course, the technological singularity is achieved, then I’ll just become this site. WordPress has not, as of yet, listed an annual price for uploading one’s consciousness. I’ll keep you posted.

Anyway, I digress. My old digs just don’t feel like me any longer and social media has become more of a stain on my life than I’m willing to admit. Posting on Facebook each and every day had sucked up my will to write (and, honestly, live). Why write when I can just spew out two or three sentences and be done? So, I’m giving it up, piece by piece, and coming back to my on-line roots.

A part of me will always be a Coal Miner’s Granddaughter, that I can never deny, but I’m a little bit different, now. I entered the on-line world as a way to make myself relevant during the late-night breast feedings and the all-day toddler-play-a-thons. I needed, craved, that interaction with other adults. I still need that, to an extent, but I can’t deny that the presence of children in my life has irrevocably changed me. As I’ve entered the “chauffeur” phase of motherhood, I have less time for mediocrity. Heck, I have less time in general. I want my children to have a legacy to read and from which to learn, not something they may be ashamed of. I’m standing here with tons of advice and mistakes made and successes celebrated and… I haven’t written about any of it for them to use. I want to think of this as a motherhood manual that they can use and laugh over and learn from. And for them to realize that my experiences in motherhood are many cautionary tales from which to learn, as are they all for anyone thinking about betting at the parenthood casino. I’m a middle-aged mother and I’m quite proud of that.

My two oldest just turned nine. They are halfway to independence. I’m halfway to the end of everything. I think it’s time to move from one phase to another and share what I’ve learned along the way. Feel free to grab our hands and come with. There’s always room for several more!