Aging certainly has its perks, and I'm beginning to enjoy some of them.

One of my best, long time friends emailed the following piece to me the other day, one of those "forwards" we like to share from time to time, and because it came to me without the actual author's name, I am sorry that I can not give credit to the source. But I'm sure it was written by a wise, thoughtful, fun-loving woman!  I would like to re-post it here:

I would never trade my amazing friends, wonderful life, my loving family for less gray hair or a flatter belly.  As I've aged, I've become kinder to myself, and less critical of  myself. I've become my own friend. I don't chide myself for eating  that extra cookie, or for not making my bed, or for buying that silly cement gecko that I didn't need, but  looks so avante garde on my patio.  I am entitled to a treat, to be messy, to be extravagant.

I have seen too many dear friends leave this world too soon--before  they understood the great freedom that comes with aging.  Whose business is it if I choose to read or play on the computer until 4 a.m. and sleep until noon?  I will dance with myself to those wonderful tunes of the 60 & 70's, and if I, at the same time, wish to weep over a lost love, I will.  I will walk the beach in a swim suit that is stretched over a bulging body, and will dive into the waves with abandon if I choose to, despite the pitying glances from the jet set. They, too, will get old.
 
I know I am sometimes forgetful.  But there again, some of life is just as well forgotten. And I  eventually remember the important things. Sure, over the years my heart has been broken. How can your heart not  break when you lose a loved one, or when a child suffers, or even when somebody's beloved pet gets hit by a car? But broken hearts are what give us strength and understanding and compassion. A heart never broken is pristine and sterile and will  never know the joy of being imperfect.
 
I am so blessed to have lived long enough to have my hair turning gray, and to have my youthful laughs be forever etched into deep grooves on my face. So many have never laughed, and so many have died before their hair could turn silver. As you get older, it is easier to be positive. You care less about  what other people think. I don't question myself anymore. I've even earned the right to be wrong.
 
So, to answer your question, I like being old. It has set me free. I  like the person I have become. I am not going to live forever, but while I am still here, I will not waste time lamenting what could  have been, or worrying about what will be. And I shall eat dessert  every single day (if I feel like it).

Thank you, Patsy, my dear friend, for sharing this with me. 

A Birthday Poem for Shannon
 

Most Especially Yours

Forty-two years ago today, you waited, impatiently,
in final preparation.
You grew stronger, swaddled in love and anticipation,
getting ready.
The day dawned sunny and warm overnight,
full of early spring in the coastal air,
with its ancient, yet brand new, promise of life--
Most especially yours.

Birth came in a rush, urgently, intensely, punctually.
No time for looking back, then.
And memories blur, but for that one defining moment.
Punctuated,
in exclamation, it remains always
embedded in my heart like a jewel:
that first breath-giving, breathtaking, awesome cry--
Most especially yours.

Infancy was fleeting, the most hasty segment of life,
marked by a few sleepless nights.
Quietly, you grew, swaddled in love and anticipation,
getting ready.
Seems as though I blinked, and you were a little boy
finding your own rhythm,  your space, your course:
how stunningly  quickly childhood vanishes,
Most especially yours.

The years went by, the days, the weeks, the months,
marked by social events, ballgames.
Friendships, school days, first love, life’s dreams ebbed and flowed in procession.
And I waited.
You left me unprepared, surprisingly shocked
by your empty closet,  quiet room,  my empty nest:
Every  exodus left its own kind of void,
Most especially yours.

The years go by, the days, the weeks, the months,
marked by living, death, work, play.
Families growing, everyone changing, aging in succession,
getting ready.
The next generation comes, and goes, the same as before,
everything changing, nothing changing, all adjusting.
But I'll never get  use to the absences,
Most especially yours.

I love you, Shannon. 
Happy Birthday!
March 16, 2010

At times, I find myself alone and in the dark, perched somewhere high out on a limb, so to speak, of the proverbial family tree. I feel like some old night bird curiously fixated upon those scurrying and hurrying about within my range of vision.   In an attempt to make some kind of sense from all of life’s conjunctions intersecting my path, I ponder the complexity of family ties.

Instincts cannot be trusted, and logic gets twisted inside the web of newly formed kinships, especially when the relationships involve a mother, her children and their spouses.  I know that I am a natural-born mother, no doubt about that.  On the other hand, to say with the same certainty that I am a natural born mother-in-law, would be disingenuous, and oxymoronic.  Granted mothers-in-law are products of the marriage process, but they are never born. 

Traditionally, there are two brands of mothers-in-law:  the son-in-law variety, and the more intricate daughter-in-law kind.  I happen to be each.   Comparatively, the mother-in-law/son-in-law relationship is not one of personal concern, for it is not, in my opinion, as complicated a relationship as the other.  Certainly, there are volumes of jokes and witticisms to the contrary bashing the wife’s mother, the old battle-axe.   However, for the most part these are harmless jibes poked in fun, to entertain the son-in-law’s buddies, the same caliber of humor as those ridiculous blonde quips,  the “little woman” jokes, and “you know you are a red neck if” anecdotes.

In reality, that same jesting son-in-law more often than not accepts his wife’s mother for exactly the person she is—the mother of his wife, no more or no less.  His relationship with her normally follows the wife’s lead.  This seems to me the most logical and rational of all male behavior.

Of course, there is nothing absolute.  When new bloodlines bring new beliefs, new attitudes, different manners, and modes into the family, the routine interactions of the original unit become more intricate.   More likely than not, this is most evident in the mother-in-law/daughter-in-law kinship as it develops, co-exists, and mingles with the other interactions at work in the family.  This unusual association intrigues me. 

An unseen ceremony takes place in the marriage room, paralleling the union of husband and wife, a separate joining unnoticed by the guests.  The mother of the groom must undergo her personality split in silence, graciously assuming the new obligatory identity thrusts upon her.  From that day forward, she becomes a mother-in-law, for better or worse.

From being a devoted, hands-on parent, her role must change instantly and curiously, into a hands-off one.   In that life-changing moment, when the pronouncement of man and wife is made, the mother-son bond adjusts accordingly.  Another dimension of mysterious regulations and codes has been added to the mother-son relationship, mandated the moment that final "I do" is uttered.  The new husband remains his mother’s son, of course, but in a less maternal way.  It is a strange occurrence and takes getting used to by all parties involved.  I had no choice but to let go.

As a new mother-in-law, I decided to pull myself back, out of the minefield of uncertain expectations and emotional upheaval, to evaluate the situation as a writer as objectively as possible.  During extensive research of the mother and daughter-in-law phenomenon in general, I was surprised to find that in most cases, the daughter-in-law tries harder to bond with the mother-in-law rather than the opposite as I had assumed.   The new bride, I discovered, feels the greater desire to earn the love and respect of her husband’s mother.  Nevertheless, more often than not, according to my findings, the daughter-in-law feels that she fails miserably, and must accept the stereotypically interfering, judging, demanding, or rejecting mother of her husband.  

How could I avoid having my daughter-in-law view me as meddlesome and overbearing, or worse?  I had been living under the assumption that because my son had always loved me unconditionally, his wife would too. But, what if my daughter-in-law had absolutely no interest in forming any kind of meaningful bond with me?  What if everything I did or said was misunderstood and taken the wrong way?   I realized that the dream of my family continuing in unified harmony, as it extended, was not a given. 

After interviewing a wide range of mothers and daughters-in-law, I came to the following conclusion:  When the mother and daughter-in-law enter the playing field, and both women will know when the game has begun, the advantage must always go to the daughter-in-law.  Otherwise, the mother-in-law will appear manipulative, demanding, and jealous.  The daughter-in-law serves the game ball. That is the rule.   It is a wise woman who, upon encountering her son’s wife, realizes when the ball has been served into her court. The way she handles that first serve can very well determine the outcome of the entire game.

I noted reoccurring indicators, red flags, throughout my research that guarantee a failed mother and daughter-in-law relationship.  Common mother-in-law missteps include the slightest show of superiority, the mere hint of verbal criticism, the scantiest look of disapproval, and the sheerest suggestion of judgmental body language.  Any, heaven forbid all, of these can kill the relationship before it ever takes its first breath.   Harmony, much less genuine affection, has a difficult time developing between the two women after the mother-in-law bungles that all-important first serve.

As a result, the relationship becomes one of tolerance.  Usually the daughter-in-law endures the mother-in-law, hopefully discreetly.   In this case, with some luck as the years pass, and the two mature, a common respect will develop.

Decades have passed since I first became a mother-in-law.  Through the years, I have learned enough about adjusting, accepting, respecting, and loving every new addition to the family to consider myself a mother-in-law/daughter-in-law relationship expert.  It is with qualified experience that I declare this link the most delicate and easily tarnished of all kinships existing inside one family.  It can also be the strongest, most enjoyable, and most unique form of friendship any two women can share. 

Grateful for the mercy that my daughters-in-law (I have two now) have shown me, I trust they continue not to judge me too harshly.  They know my primary mistakes were never mean-spirited, only thoughtless and uneducated.  Perhaps my absolution is found in the knowledge they have learned from me before they become mothers-in-law themselves.  I freely offer my shortcomings to them, all my bumbling, blurting statements, even a few outright crass remarks.  All my foolish blunders I hold out to them as post-it notes for things not to do.

To my only daughter, to my enduring daughters-in-law, and to future mothers-in-law everywhere, I bid you bon voyage, smooth passage.  Go softly and vigilantly into that unfamiliar place when your time comes, understanding that your actions will affect generations to come.  I leave you now with this warning: Watch out for that first serve.  It comes out of nowhere and packs a wallop.