Hello sweet friend.
Today, I’m writing to you with my office windows open. That means I’m attracting cats like an open can of tuna.
I currently have three in here.
That would be the limit - we have “just” three cats now, but I am also babysitting my grandcat.
Should I say that?
“Grandcat?”
We’re just watching my son’s cat while he is on Spring Break.
He’s camping, so I don’t think he’s going to end up passed out behind a Carlos ‘N Charlie’s dumpster, but I guess the only proof I have that he is at a cabin in the woods is the photo he sent me of a deer gang …
Maybe let’s not think about it too much.
Oh Boy. Here We Go.
When I sat down to write this note to you, I wanted to talk about my ✨ new and improved website,✨ and some ideas I have for what to do next, and now this is turning into a thing about identity as a midlife lady.
That IS something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately, though, so maybe let’s see where this goes.
First - I just referenced my “grandcat,” and I don’t know how I feel about that.
Is calling your child’s pet a “grandhamster” or “grandllama” a slippery slope?
Does this mean I will soon have a window cling on my car, shouting about being a person whose child has a Weimaraner?
Do I want my identity to become ‘Grandma’ and then just wait?
Mother-In-Law
It only occurred to me recently that I may be in the initial stages of being a mother-in-law.
I met my husband when I was 19, and my son is now 20. My daughter is 17, and so it’s an actual possibility that the people they date could someday spend every other Thanksgiving in my home, eating my sad, bland turkey.
But all of that makes a lot of assumptions, doesn’t it?
First, that my children will get married at all.
Second, that they will live close enough to me or have enough frequent flyer miles to come visit me for holidays, and that they will WANT TO.
And finally, that their potential future spouses won’t find me abhorrent in some way.
I could list all the ways I can think of, but I have other stuff that I have get done today.
‘Yikes.’
And so, that reminds me that I need to have an identity that is not dependent on my kids or my potential future grandchildren, should any arrive.
The last thing I heard from my daughter on the topic of pregnancy was: “Yikes.”
This was immediately after seeing a very distended, tight, pregnant belly with an aggressive outie on television, but still.
Even if I had a child who couldn’t stop talking about having babies someday, I still think it’s probably healthiest to keep my eyes on my own work here.
Glamma Poor Vicki
I was pulling into my chiropractor’s parking lot when I saw a snazzy convertible with the license plate “GLAMMA.”
In case I missed the license plate, there was also a bumpersticker. It was pink and although 2-dimensional, it appeared to have rhinestones.
It said: “Glamma. Like a grandma, but way more fabulous.”
The thing about my chiropractor is that I have to go to her for sleeping wrong is that she makes small talk with you with her door open.
So as you sit in the waiting room, you know that when it’s your turn, anything you say will be heard by her office manager and any clients waiting for their turn.
No one acknowledges this.
Most people just look at their phones and pretend Vicki is not sharing the graphic details of her IBS, while the chiropractor is twisting her body and popping her spine, and that Vicki didn't just disclose how last week, she was coming home from a craft fair out of town and had to pull over and poop in a ditch.
Then no one looks at Vicki when she emerges and makes a follow-up appointment.
Let’s all pause to send Vicki our best.
Glamma
But back to Glamma, who recently had the appointment slot right before me, which means I got to hear her talk about her recent travels.
Glamma had gone to Phoenix to watch her granddaughter’s martial arts test and then the next day, flew to Minnesota so that her daughter and son-in-law could have a date night.
She babysat her infant grandchild, because it was her daughter and son-in-law’s anniversary.
So she spent the night at their house, with a 6-week-old, while they spent the night at a Hilton, probably ordering room service and then falling asleep while watching HGTV.
(Let’s be honest - they have a 6-week-old.)
The impression I got from Glamma is that she does this a lot, flying around/being amazing/having energy.
And so, I maybe started to hate her just a little because I don’t remember what that feels like right now - to have energy.
I often wonder if I will ever have energy again, or if I’m just a dead calculator from the junk drawer leaking battery acid and destined to be rejected by Goodwill.
Que Sera, Sera
I guess this is where I am:
I don’t have grandkids.
I don’t have kids who are married or planning on getting married any time soon.
I just have a cat who used to live here, and now is visiting until my son gets back from either Daytona Beach or Michigan.
And still, I am worried.
I’m worried about the kind of mother-in-law I will be. I’m worried that I won’t be a high energy glamma, who is up for watching a newborn overnight and who never gets jet lag.
And then I wonder if I will somehow bounce back.
My own mother is in her early 70s, and far more active and adventurous than me, her exhausted spawn.
This past weekend, my mom made a little road trip with my kids and me, and she arrived at our house at 7:45 a.m., high on a pot of coffee.
From there, she ran around a Japanese mall with us, ate sushi, and continually crunched herself into the back seat of our teensy Kia like a hermit crab in leggings and Converse tennis shoes.
My mom is cute.
She’s daring.
She did not get food poisoning like her daughter.
My mom has always loved Doris Day, and now more than ever, she is embracing the unknown - Que Sera, Sera - whatever will be, will be.
Maybe that’s the answer?
Perhaps It Isn’t Too Late
So then, perhaps it isn’t too late for me to be the kind of grandmother I want to be for my grandchildren who do not actually exist yet and may never exist?
Maybe it’s borrowing trouble to think about cross-country flights and license plate rims?
I do know this:
In the past year, my mother has shown me that change is entirely possible. Even for someone in their 70s.
I know she couldn’t do what she is doing now for a long time.
That was hard.
But I’m healing from that. I can feel it.
I Do What I Want
At that Japanese mall, I spotted a sticker, and I knew I really needed it, even though it was $4.95.
I didn’t stop to think about better ways to spend that money (that’s more than a watermelon juice!) - I just grabbed it.
The problem is, I’m not sure where to stick it.
I’ve debated on my forehead, because it’s kind of my new mantra:
“I Do What I Want.”
I had brought up this topic to my therapist two weeks ago.
“I just want to do what I want,” I said - not like a petulant teen, but like a weary 46-year-old.
“OK. So what DO you want?” she asked.
I said I wanted naps and to wait for my chipmunk friends from last year to appear on my porch again.
I know.
Thrilling.
But then it hit me:
It’s not what I want to do right now - it’s just having the freedom to do what I feel like doing.
Keeping It Real
So if that’s the case - if I’ve decided I do what I want, how can I really get things wrong?
(To clarify: I don’t want to become rude or angry or rigid or bossy or manipulative or cruel.)
I think that what our adult kids and their partners and possible future spouses and pretend still imaginary kids need most of all is for us to show up as the truest versions of ourselves.
Maybe that’s tired.
Maybe that’s a bit anxious.
Maybe that’s glamorous.
I think it just needs to be real.
Let’s Try Allowing …
I’ve tried the other way of showing up for a really long time.
I’ve tried to be universally likable and focused on keeping everyone happy.
I’ve tried really hard to get things “right.”
So I think I’m working on a new thing:
Allowing.
Letting myself become who I am meant to be.
I know it’s a different way to move forward - just choosing the next stepping stone without thinking everything to death.
But the idea is very freeing, isn’t it?
So glad to find you writing again! I loved your blog - so much I went back every so often to old posts. 🥰 and that’s how I found out you revamped and came over the Substack. Signed: a tired, not quite 40-year-old homeschool mom.
If I was a betting lady, I'd put my money on you being a lovely gramma. I mean, are friends with chipmunks. How freaking cool is THAT?
PS. Vicki reminds me of the time I took an older gentleman with me for a kid's orthodontist appointment and he proceeded to circle the waiting room repeatedly while tooting long and loud and repeatedly. Everyone tried not to notice, while I tried my best to not pee my pants.