"A Change Will Do You Good" - some man

I have heard tell that 50 is the new 30. Mostly I have heard myself telling it to others. And were it not for the fact that biology is telling me otherwise, I might even believe it.

Let me just say a few words about menopause. A very few. It sucks.

Yes, there are all the irregularities of being irregular. There are the hot flashes. There are the unwelcome surprises. There are the mood swings. There are the daily trips to WebMD to make sure that all your abnormalities are normal because your mother never told you it would be like this. And if any man experienced this, they would think they were dying.

But the most insidious aspect of this mid-life change is what it does to your brain. Periodically I am at a complete loss of clarity, thought process, even simple words fail me. I forget things. I lose things.

A Recent Conversation in My Home:

Bob: "Where's my phone".

Me: " You left it on the table by the... you know... that big thing... over there... YOU KNOW... oh God! WHY CAN'T I THINK OF THE WORD??? Bob! Oh c'mon - HELP ME OUT. You know what I mean - its right there - this is stupid - that big thing right there - across from the table - oh God! I am going to lose my mind - what is it???"

Bob: "You mean, the door?"

Me: (humiliated) "Yes. The door. Thank you".

A Recent Activity:

Me: (thinking) "I left my shoes in the family room. I'm going to get them so that I can put them away". Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk (13 steps to the family room). "What did I come in here for???"

A Recent Rant:

Me: (Yelling from my bathroom.) "Okay which one of you girls took my brush? I am so sick of looking for things that belong to me and finding they are GONE!" Oh don't even answer because I know all I am going to hear is that none of you took it, which will totally piss me off.Because none of you will ever fess up. Yes, the brush fairy came to re-claim it. Damn it! If you can't find your own brushes - GO BUY YOUR OWN and quit getting into MY stuff!!!!!!!!Someone bring me back my brush! GIRLS! Get up and start looking for my brush!!! (One of the girls walks into my bathroom and produces it from the drawer. The same one I already looked in. The one where it belongs.) "Oh. Well it wasn't there a second ago" (Did I actually just say that?)

A Recent Car Ride:

Girls: "Mom can we roll the window down?"

Me: "No. I have the air on."

Girls: "But mom, its hot in here."

Me: "No its not. Its very comfortable."

Girls: "Because all the vents are blowing directly at you."

A Recent Assessment:

Me: (Looking in the mirror) "Who is that?"

I think it is a real testament to our sex that we all go through this without doing damage to ourselves or the world at large.

But the very, very worst part about menopause is this: I never, ever, ever want to have another baby. Ever. I will never change my mind about that. But soon, it will no longer be my choice. It will simply be a fact. And that makes me want to cry.

(Did I mention that you cry all the time?)

Oh Puh-leeze

The "Beer Summit"? I mean, for real?

Anxiety - Why Is It My Middle Name?

This whole transition period of my life is really getting to me. I finally feel like I've come to some terms with it but I can tell I've reached my tolerance level because I am beginning to think I am dying. Again.

I am a practicing hypochondriac. If they gave degrees in this I would have my PhD. My specialty is cancer. I am forever giving myself cancer. I must say here that it isn't my intention to make fun of cancer. Or hypochondria, for that matter. Both are debilitating. I have had two cancer scares in my life and ongoing battles with the latter. Neither are funny.

What I do find somewhat humorous though is the predictability of it. Just as I feel I've gotten on top of whatever frightening "Goliath" I am facing, I start fretting over dying. Its like squeezing an old balloon in your hand - no matter how you try to squish the whole thing, a piece of it pops out through your fingers. Somehow, it survives. Such is the case with anxiety. Once you think you've got it nailed, it just shows up in a different place.

The funny thing about hypochondria (not so funny actually) is that it waits until you've gotten everything else in order to rear its ugly self. And then it laughs at you because you cannot, no matter how you try, control dying. Hypochondria is the ultimate disorder for control freaks. Those crazy nut jobs who feel that the world would stop turning if their own little plans don't pan out. And that would be me.

I am not inclined toward another walk with Celexa, not that there is anything wrong with it, its just that I have to find another doctor and blah, blah, blah, endless blah...

So what's a girl to do? I decide upon that age old standby. I pray.* And this is what I hear:

"I am in your midst. It is not about cancer or jobs. It is about Me. Seek Me where you are. Seek Me in this moment...I have plans to prosper you and not to harm you; plans to give you hope and a future... Why do you fret about your health? What stops you from going to a doctor? If there IS something, catch it in time! But remember I am The Healer. Let Me heal your mind... Worry = immobility. Concern = action... Worry is not of My nature. I worry for nothing. But I often have concern and there I take action. Let this be your model."

And there you have it. A reassurance that worrying is not only a monumental waste of time, God Himself doesn't want you to engage in it. Sometimes I have clarity about what its all about.

In 2005, my family went on a mission trip to South Africa with our church. We stayed at a orphanage in an AIDS ravaged community in the Kwazulu Natal region of the country. Upon arrival, I saw children, without birth parents, running around on parched earth, playing with each other in old shoes, tattered (but functional) clothing and with what looked to be beat-up, second-hand toys and equipment. These children enjoyed a much better life any other resident in the community. Because of the support from outside organizations, they had small houses to live in, three meals a day, medical attention, and a "house mom" who nurtured and cared for them. Yet all I could see was what they didn't have and my initial thought was - if only we could take them all back to America.

What I learned was that these children, children who live with the possibility that death could take a friend or even themselves - every day - had far exceeded the level of contentment I had in my own life. They had been raised with unwavering faith in God and had watched as God provided. Assisting each other as they saw a need was as natural to them as breathing. It was absolutely amazing to me to see a 12-year-old, "rough and tumble" boy pick up a crying baby and bounce it on his knee without blinking an eye. Or a girl, in the midst of playing a game of soccer, stop the ball to run and lift a child who had fallen off her crutches some 30 yards away. Without being asked. Without looking to see if someone else would do it first.

The very last thing these children needed was to come to America where they would be exposed to a culture that worries, a culture that has blurred the the very distinct line between want and need, a culture that is mired in the belief that worth is tied to your ability to keep up with or exceed the lifestyle of your neighbor. A culture that says me first, and then, if there's time, you.

The children of the Lily of the Valley orphanage never showed worry (although, arguably they had much to worry about). They were not immobilized by fear or depression. They did demonstrate concern. And upon that, they acted.

Can you imagine if we all stopped worrying? Stopped worrying about whether or not we own a home or have more than enough in the bank? Stop worrying about the price of gas or what the stock market is doing? Imagine if we could carry with us the contentment and confidence that God would, as He promises, supply our needs, and that we ourselves would not think to stop what we were doing to pick up a neighbor when he fell off his crutches.

Perspective. Perspective = peace.

* Let me be clear. I am a firm believer that Celexa and prayer can walk hand in hand. Celexa has been known to be a gift from God.

Heigh Ho, Heigh Ho, Its Back to Work I Go. Maybe.

Prolonged unemployment is an extremely dangerous thing. Like any other "job" you might have, it doesn't take long at all until you've found yourself in a comfortable "routine". I can't tell you what I am doing all day, but I can tell you that I feel fairly busy. And while I was depressed a while ago, I am no longer because I've been working on that "dream thing" a lot. Plus, I have never been a morning person so I'm not getting up before 8:00 on any morning. Actually, closer to 9:00 if I tell the truth. I've turned back to "teenage time" and I don't go to bed before I have heard Craig Fergenson's monologue. So anything new will be a jarring interruption. And I feel I've had enough change in my life this year, don't you?

But alas, my cobra will run out. And I need to be responsible. And the neighbors may start complaining directly to me if I don't find a way to hire a gardener again. So I may have to say yes if I get the call I think I might get this week.

The job interview I tried so desperately to get to recently, the same one I had to write a follow up letter about myself for - that one - they called me in for a second interview last week and apparently it went well. (In spite of relaying a far-too-personal-for-second-interview story about myself.) We are in salary and benefit negotiations right now. If they find the budget to afford me, I guess I'll be working again.

I will say that I truly do like the people I interviewed with. It is a small company and I think the job would be interesting. I'd travel a bit and I would like that again, I think. The negatives: it is far, far away from home. And because my territory would be the east coast, the hours begin early. I mean E-A-R-L-Y. The kind of early that "wakes you up 6 different times every night for fear you've slept through the alarm" early.

I know this potential job offer is a really good thing. It would be a time for rejoicing for millions of Californians who are currently out of work and living on the edge so I feel tremendously guilty about not being on my knees praying for it to happen. But you see, I've got this dream thing going on and I'm not certain how that and a full time job will co-exist.

At this moment, I am sitting on my unmade bed in the middle of the day, my windows open, staring at the view of my tree and the valley below. There is a very comfortable breeze blowing through; peaceful. I am blogging and making plans. I have some exciting things to ponder and pursue. And I am barefoot. I could be on the phone, or across the desk with a client, trying desperately to close business and make my quota. I could be filling out endless forms, useless reports, and working hard to act like someone I cannot abide is someone I have the utmost respect and admiration for because that's business politics. Let me see, which should I choose? (Hint: this is a math question.)

Well, the very comfortable breeze pays me nothing. So you know the answer. And so do I.

TWINS!

Today is Christine and Jennifer's birthday. They are 19. This is impossible.

I remember the day they were born. I talked a bit about it in a previous posting about Anne, my friend and their birth mother. They were born at 3 p.m.-ish - I'd need to check the birth certificates. Christine beat Jennifer by only a couple of minutes.

I'd come to the house the night before to be with Amanda while Bob took Anne to the hospital. In the morning, Bob came home to get Amanda; Anne had been admitted because she was only 7 months into pregnancy and they were going to try to keep them "in" for as long as they could. I stopped by to visit her when she found out they were going to do another cesarean. Anne was very upset but I had to go to a rehearsal. I left rehearsal just in time to be there as Bob was suiting up. He looked so nervous in his disposable white gown and cap. He had booties over his shoes and he sat in a chair, staring at the floor and tapping his foot - just like a million movies you've watched where the dad is waiting for delivery news. I did feel sorry for him though. When the doctors finally called him in, he was gray. I didn't fully understand - he'd been through this before, but he told me later that a cesarean can be a little unnerving. But then, so can a natural birth. Let's face it - the whole birth process, no matter how its done, looks like it shouldn't be happening. Actually it feels like that too.

In very short order, they were finally born and I was there when they wheeled Anne out of the delivery room on the gurney. She looked exhausted but relieved. She looked up at me and said: "I feel so much better!" No kidding. With two growing babies in her tiny tummy (she was barely over 5 feet) she had started looking like she might explode. Bob took a photo of me at just about that moment. Its a weird picture. Its just of my face. But I kept it because it reminds me of exactly where I was and what was going on.

I was there the day Anne learned it was twins. I was living in a little guest house on their property. They had rented out their home for a year because Bob was on tour with Debbie Reynolds in a production of "The Unsinkable Molly Brown". They had a short break so they came home for a couple of days and we all crammed into my little space. Anne called me at work to ask if I could come home. She was crying because she had just returned from the doctor and the news of twins scared her. I stopped at the store and bought two roses to give her but by the time I got there, she was fine. She said she was ashamed of herself for feeling scared. She decided this was a blessing from God and was now thrilled. Bob seemed absolutely fine as well. Butter wouldn't have melted in his mouth. I remember saying that I thought he would have been nervous or overwhelmed or panicked even about the news. He looked at me and said: "No! We'll be fine. This is great!" That night, Bob and Anne took my bed, I slept on a sleeping bag on the floor and Amanda was in a little port-a-crib. Like camping. We'd all gone to sleep but I was abruptly awaken to the sound of Bob's voice saying: "I'll be ready for this. I've got to get ready for this. OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!!!!!!" I sat up in the dark, jolted and disoriented, and asked with urgency: "Are you alright?!?!?" No answer. He was asleep. Then quietly, in a sleepy voice I heard Anne say: "Yeah. I know. He does this all the time."

They are exactly the same people they were the day they came home from the hospital. Jennifer is impatient and demanding (although she does not agree with this assessment) and Christine is quiet and retiring. And both are beautiful and incredible girls.

Did I mention that they went to Italy this year?? Oh, I was livid. They got on Travelzoo one morning in June and saw a spectacular deal on an 8-day trip to Italy. Never mind that they had never been there. Never mind that they didn't speak a word of any language other than English. Never mind that they needed to buy a car. Never mind that they didn't have 2 nickels to rub together. Never mind that they hadn't done one iota of research. They booked the trip without saying a word and left 4 days later. I couldn't speak, I was so mad. I was mad because I haven't been to Italy yet and it the one place I've always wanted to go. I was mad because I haven't been there yet because I couldn't afford to take all six of us. I was really mad because they had the courage to do what I didn't do at their age - because I was afraid. They are going to do just fine.

It took me several years before I stopped thinking of myself as the "second mom". Now, 19 years later, it doesn't occur to me. Anne had once told me: "You know Valri, you should never have children." Then one night she saw me taking care of Amanda and the next morning she said: "Well, maybe you could have one." Pretty funny. I had a dream not too long ago that Anne showed up from nowhere and wanted her family back. I was so happy to see her but I was not about to turn anyone over to her. They are mine - completely. And I know they feel the same way about me. I know this because they roll their eyes at everything I say to them - just as if I had been the one being wheeled out on the gurney that day in July - only 19 years ago.

A Prayer Request

One of the people I have re-connected with on Facebook is Margie. She's Margaret now, but she's Margie to me. Outside of my family, I have known Margie and her sister Kathie, and their parents, Mr. and Mrs. Braham longer than anyone else in my life. There was about a 35 year gap between the last time I saw them and when we found each other again but it feels like there wasn't any time lost.

Margie left me a message today that her mom has been battling a particularly difficult form of cancer for a long while. Her doctors have decided they are going to move forward with a more aggressive surgery - and Margie asked me for my prayers.

In the summer of 1963, my parents bought their first home in the then orchard-filled town of Fremont, California. It was a three bedroom house in a new development called "StarliteHills". One night, before move-in date, my dad took my sister Linda and me to the house to have a "look-see". When we got there, the electricity had not been turned

on yet and it was dark, but there was a house across the street with the lights on. My dad thought he would see if he could borrow a flashlight so we went over and knocked on the door. Mr. Braham opened it, my dad introduced us and we were invited in while Mr. Braham looked to find one we could use. We met Margie that night, she was about to turn 7 and she and my sister Linda (already 7) went off to see Margie's bedroom while I stayed with my dad and held his hand. And there, on the floor was Mrs. Braham, changing Kathie's diaper. (So strong is this memory, I even remember the diaper pins!) Kathy had just turned 4 but seeing that she was not a baby, like my sister Lisa, I thought she was old to have a diaper and I made a remark along those lines. Immediately, I felt my dad squeeze my hand to let me know I was out of line. Mrs. Braham just smiled and said "yeeeeeeas" , drawing out the word in a kind, understanding, motherly way. I remember clearly being embarrassed that I had said something rude, but Mrs. Braham, with her demeanor, let me know I was off the hook. I was 6 years old.

The Brahams were devout Christians and because of that, my parents didn't get too close. Neither my mom, nor my dad were inclined toward church. The Brahams went every Sunday. Sometimes, my sister and I would go with them. It was fun, I thought. I liked Sunday school. It was nice putting on a Sunday dress and going to church with the Brahams.

But let me tell you what made Mrs. Braham most special to us. She was a Beatles fanatic! She had the "Meet the Beatles" album and every other subsequent one and she was responsible for turning us into life long Beatles fans. She would beam when Linda, Margie, Kathie and I would pretend to be the Beatles in her living room, playing air guitar (and air drums) and singing along with the albums. For hours. The Beatles became the primary theme for our play and Mrs.Braham often led us in self made Beatles parties and crafts. When the Beatles came to San Francisco for the first time, we had planned to be at the airport to greet them. Mrs. Braham later thought better of it and instead, we made lots of "We Love You Beatles" signs and we stood on top of the picnic table in their backyard waving and screaming at the plane we thought was theirs as it flew over the house. We saw "A Hard Day's Night" and "Help" with Mrs.Braham. And when John Lennon made the infamous "we are more popular than Jesus" comment, she put the albums away, but as soon as he apologized, Mrs. Braham was quick to forgive and the records made their way out again.

Mrs. Braham also had a little nervous (?) habit and she would hum the same two notes repeatedly throughout the day. She hummed in a low register but the interval was the same as the first two notes in the song "People". I liked this little habit and began to mimic it and take it for my own - until my mom made me stop.

Mrs. Braham redecorated their spare room a lot. Also known as "the music room" (Mr. Braham was a music teacher), I mostly remember when she made it into a sea scape. Along with many maritime artifacts that were placed around the room, she hung fish netting on the wall, with starfish and abalone shells caught in it. I thought it was the coolest thing ever.

One night, when Mr. Braham took Margie and Kathie for an overnight trip somewhere, Mrs.Braham dropped by late in the afternoon and said she was very lonely for her girls and asked my mom if she could borrow Linda and me for the night. My mom agreed and we were off to an adventure of staying at our friends house - while they weren't there. I was excited to see what our friends' lives were like after dark when we were all in our own homes winding down for the evening. I don't remember much from that night except that when we were in bed, Mrs. Braham bent down and kissed us both good-night. I couldn't remember her having done that before so it was strange and wonderful all at once. This pretending to be Mrs. Braham's daughters was so much fun that we made pests of ourselves all day the next day and she was patient with us but I know she was relieved when her real family returned and she could send us home.

It had been several years since I had seen the Brahams, but when I was 18, I made a decision to become a Christian and I went to be baptized at a local church. Because my family wasn't religious, I did this on my own, without anyone there to take note of the event. After I had been "dunked" and changed clothes, I saw Mr. and Mrs. Braham. They happened to have been there and she was thrilled! I remember her telling me that they were both sitting in church and feeling a little "bored" until they heard my name and she was just so happy for me. And I thought it made complete sense that of all the people of my childhood, if not my own family, the Brahams would be there to mark the day with me.

Helen Braham had a round, pleasant kind face and sweet smile. That's her in the photo with her daughter Kathie, circa 1960's Beatles days. I just saw a recent photo of her and Mr. Braham (Larry) on Margie's Facebook. She looks exactly the same - only older.

We can all look back on our lives and point to a few people who, for whatever reason, have been special and memorable to us. Mrs. Braham is one of mine. I cannot hear an old Beatles song without remembering happy, wonderful memories of my childhood. Mrs. Braham is responsible for many of those. Understandably, she is fearful of what lies ahead of her. She has my prayers before, during, and after her surgery. And may I ask, if you pray, will you be kind enough to remember her too.

Hannah Montana Should Not Live Here

Grace is watching reruns of Hannah Montana and the Suite Life of Zach and Cody. She has watched these episodes so many times in rerun that she actually knows the lines by heart. Please take that literally, because it is true. She also watches something called The Wizards of Waverly Place and The Jonas Brothers show - basically anything that runs on the Disney Channel - no matter how insipid (with all due respect to my former employer). Now all these shows are great and appropriate for my 10-year-old but I have come to hate the Disney Channel. In trying to fool myself into believing that I am "spending time" with my daughter, I sit in the room with her while she watches for eternity - and I read or do what ever I want to do. And so, I hear and see the programs again and again with her. Until I have to leave the room. Letting her continue to watch -over and over and over and over - infinity.

I am a horrible mom.

THERE IS NO EXCUSE. But here's my excuse. There's only so much time you can spend in the world of a non-adult - whatever the age - before you need to slit your wrists. No matter HOW much you desperately love that person. BECAUSE, as an adult, your attention span is different, your energy level is different, your time schedule is different, and your interests are different. There are some grown women who do love to play endlessly with kids (my mother was one of those, my daughter Amanda is another) but I think they are a rare breed. I know lots of moms who claim to love to play with their kids but its a fake because while they may do a lot of stuff with their kids, they usually bring one of their friends along for the ride too. And that friend invariably brings her kids. Even I could do that.

However, when you are at home during the day, and all your friends are at work and you live on top of a hill where the nearest other child is a car ride away, Hannah and crew start to look pretty good. To her credit, she is safe and wholesome so I approve of her as a friend, so to speak. But it cannot go unnoticed that Hannah and all her cronies completely ignore my little girl sitting on the other side of the flat screen. And when my daughter starts speaking their lines - from memory - before she hears the characters saying them, I know she is in desperate need for a little human interaction.

So, I need to put my daughter first for a while. "Hey Grace, why don't you turn off the TV and let's do something." She turns to face me and with sarcasm beyond her years she tilts her head downward, raises one eyebrow and looks at me with a "you're kidding, of course" look. I raise both my eyebrows and win the staring contest. "What do you want to do?", I ask. "I dunno. " Sudden enthusiasm overtakes her. "What about Twister!" (I'm wondering what Hannah is up to already). "Uh, not Twister, okay? Wait a minute! Is your room clean yet?" "No." "Okay go clean your room and then we'll go do something". She drags herself down the hall. I have just bought myself 40 minutes. The room should only take 10 but my kids don't like to clean (see previous post). So I take a moment to consider what we could do together that would not bore me senseless within 15 minutes and not make a bigger mess than the one I'm looking at right now. Clearly, we have to leave the house. Did I mention it is 110 degrees outside?

"Hey Grace, do you wanna go to the mall?"

"Can we buy anything?"

"No."

"Then no." Okay she's just like me.

I try again. "What about a movie?"

"What movie?"

"I dunno, what about Ice Age 113, or whatever sequel it is?"

"Nah."

"What about Harry Potter 109? Is he a grandpa yet?"

"Nope I'm going to see that with Jennifer. I'd go see 500 Days of Summer with you."

Who is this child??????

I rack my brain trying to think of something both of us are interested in doing. She's not a baby anymore so I can't just take her to the park and let her climb stuff. But she's not a teenager so I'm not taking her to her movie of choice either.

She comes up with an idea. "Why don't we go to the pool!"

We happen to be the only house in the neighborhood that doesn't have a pool in the backyard so we belong to the Conejo Family Country Club, not to be confused with North Ranch Country Club or Sherwood Country Club where the Mercedes in the parking lot is the lowest present on the auto hierarchy chain. Our club has no golf course or tennis court or well appointed locker rooms, restaurants or staff dressed in white. We have soccer mom vehicles in our parking lot. BUT we have something they do not! A glorious pool! And normally, I would say that Grace had come up with a marvelous idea. Except! This summer it appears that the economy has hit everyone and no one has gone away - they are all at the club. Which means that I must either wear a towel around me all afternoon or wear a paper bag over my head. Because walking around in a bathing suit is just out of the question!

I scramble. "Hey, what if instead, we pack a picnic dinner and take it to the pool and go swimming with daddy tonight!" Jackpot! "Yeah! That'll be cool. We'll go swimming when its dark?" "Yes!", I respond with a wave of relief.

So we've got it figured out. I finally know what we're going to do. But we have about 5 hours till dark.

"So can I watch TV for a while, mom?"

I realize I have been running in place. What am I going to do? "Okay, but can you watch something other than the Disney Channel" (at least I take a stand).

"Sure", she says. Then she changes the channel to Nickelodeon and throws me a quick "gotcha" smile.

I am a horrible mom.

But tonight we went to the pool and swam alone in the dark. And it was divine!