Driven

Musings on Motherhood, Middle Age, and the Mess of it All

I meant to write this Substack earlier in the week. I did. But somehow it’s 5 am, pitch black outside, and my lab Nya is curled up at my feet on the couch after waking me to race outside in the morning dew.

And here I am. Scrambling — as I seem to be doing across the board recently, chasing deadlines like the copy edits for my upcoming novel Blank, cramming for podcast interviews on Moms Don’t Have Time to Read Books, frantically packing camp lunches for my son, logging on a little late to Zooms, and then darting outside to welcome the camp bus home in the afternoons.

I’m hovering on the edge of what’s possible, toeing the line constantly, and pulling some of it off. It doesn’t look pretty behind-the-scenes. It’s a lot of making the kids breakfast with a book open-faced on the counter beside me, telling my husband Kyle to “hold that thought,” because I’m about to interview someone, running to my desk just in time. And when I get stressed, I can get… irritable. I can snap. Sigh. The pressure gets to me and my warm facade cracks like the kitchen countertop which I also need to get fixed, but when? Then, after: remorse.

There were so many moments this week when I thought “I should write an essay about this.” For example, when I found myself on a crowded playground pushing my not-so-little-guys (now ages 8 and 10) on the swings, having an age-related sweating episode, and feeling like older parenting is sometimes just humiliating.

I wasn’t always an older mom. When my 16-year-old-twins were born, I was one of the first of my girlfriends to have kids. I remember going out to my regular girls dinner with five close Yale friends at a corner cafe on Second Avenue and, over Chardonnay and salads with dressing on the side, swearing to them that “nothing would change! Promise!” I wouldn’t be one of those moms whose kids took over their lives. Not me. I would be out and about, fully accessible!

And then my twins were born.

For the next eleven years, I “stayed home.” Of course, not usually at home — the kids and I were typically on-the-go to various classes, playgroups and activities — and I was always engaged in many endeavors, but I was there.

I still am.

My twins are sleeping upstairs now, their freshly laminated learners’ permits tucked away in their wallets. My son drove me to Starbucks yesterday to pick up after-camp goodies for the little guys, his arm slung over my seat as he backed out of the driveway. I had to hold back tears; how had all this time gone by?

Kyle reminded me that next summer, my son would be driving himself with a full license and we wouldn’t have those special times in the car with him. I refuse to believe that. I cherish episodes in the car with the kids, grabbing elusive one-on-one time with all of them whether they’re driving the car or sitting in a booster seat. I run the full gamut over here, from timing handstands in the pool to dropping teenagers at beach get-togethers.

And then there’s me. As soon as my kids were born, I apparently stopped looking in the mirror, my eyes trained down on the next danger-zone, my attention diverted to doing what was best for them, whether it was finding the right doctor or doing baths and bedtime, all of it.

Time spun.

Now, suddenly, my hair is turning grey, my eyes are wrinkled, and it took me 37 minutes to run/walk a 5K on July 4th. In the ultimate aging indignity, I developed rheumatoid arthritis so bits of my body are regularly aching, one place alighting only to let the next place flame when the prior fire dies down. It’s really not bad — extremely mild. But still. Does my Achilles really need my attention today? Doesn’t it know how many other things I need to focus on?

My parents are also, obviously, aging. Last night I had a two-month-early family birthday celebration for my mother’s 75th birthday. My mom looks younger than I do and is more fit to boot, running, golfing, walking, working out, and moving constantly. But how did she get to be almost 75? Even my “little” brother is turning gray. How?!

All that running around has worn down my proverbial sneakers. Time has chased me into a corner. When? When did this happen? My dad says he’s regularly surprised to see the old-looking guy in the mirror; he still feels about thirty.

Now it’s pouring rain. Nya will refuse to go outside today. The kids will have to race onto the camp bus, backpacks held over their heads. And I’ll be at my desk, Zooming, podcasting (author Lisa See today!), meeting with my team, interviewing candidates, and more. Until yet another day has quietly slipped off the side of the sand dune before I can catch it.

But before my favorite season sputters to a stop, I want even more car rides with my big kids. I want to push the swings a bit higher for the littles, jump on the trampoline cocooned by giggles. I want to rate a few more dives, roast a few more s’mores. And cling, cling, cling to the joy of these ages, eight to sixteen, from carseats to the driver’s seat, my own place in the car — and their lives — constantly shifting.

Until, one day, god willing, they’ll all be out in the world, and I’ll be beside Kyle traversing the terrain of middle age together, the car emptier. The backseats, perhaps, inconceivably, spotless. The echoes of today’s four-kid laughter and fighting and singing and dancing and chatting and all of it just a dim murmur in my memory.

For now, I’m recommitting to be in it, paying attention, trying not to let the demands of day usurp my focus on my family, clinging to what’s important as I navigate what’s urgent. Trying, like all of us, to enjoy the drive itself, my seatbelt on, headed into the unknown.

Join me.

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I’d love to hear your reactions. Let’s talk. You comment. I’ll respond.

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