Confessions of a Serial Swooper

Wednesday night.  Kids are in bed.  Husband and I settle in to watch a TiVo’d episode of Parenthood.  Are you watching this show, by the way?  We love it.

Well, I guess it’s fair to say that I love it.  Husband likes it but, truth be told, he may just continue watching with me in hopes that Minka Kelly (ie Lyla Garrity or the future Mrs. Derek Jeter) will assume a larger role in the show soon.

He looooves himself some Minka.

Anyway, the show rocks.  I really think they hit the nail on the head on parental emotions.  The comic and not-so-comic emotions as we make our way — dealing with marriage, jobs, raising kids and all the mish-mash of day-to-day life as a family.

Last night’s episode had Mother and Father struggling with Teenage Daughter’s demand for independence, the troubling arrival of a new boyfriend on the scene and the even more troubling arrival of a black, silky, little number in a Victoria’s Secret package.

Good Lord.  It was almost painful to watch as the Mother went away for the weekend, leaving the Father to bumble his way through it all.   Daughters.  Boyfriends.  Bras.

Commercial Break.  TiVo fast forward.   Me to Husband…

The best move you ever made?

Husband:   What?

Me:  Dropping all those Y chromosomes.  Way to go, champ.

Husband nods knowingly.    Yup. Thanks.

I’ve been going through a little something lately.  Struggling, in fact.  Feeling a deep sense of…of what? A sense of “Now what?”  A sense of “What’s next?”

But, understand that I’m not rushing anything.  Not trying to fast forward my beautiful, thriving boys through their childhood.  Not pushing my loving, hard-working husband towards the next step in our lives together.  But instead wondering…

What’s next for me?

Driving home together a few weeks back, Husband and I passed by Boston’s North End.  Where I lived for a number of years on my own.  Just me.   Commuter.  Event Planner.   Best Friend.   All labels I accepted and wore like badges.  And, while they were certainly each woven into the fabric that was Me at that time, I never felt those labels defined me.  Or confined me.  They were undoubtedly labels of the PRE-Me.  The Pre-that-person-I-will-become.   Someday.    Someday when I would wear new labels.  Today’s labels.

Wife.  Mother.

Back then, living in the North End, I worked.  And played.  And anticipated the time that I would meet my Husband.  And we would marry.   Get a dog.  We would start a family.   And, if all worked out really well then maybe we could move to a small town near the ocean.  And, when I really dreamed big, I secretly hoped I could quit my job.  And stay at home to raise our kids.

So imagine my surprise when what came out of my mouth that day in the car with my husband was:

“You know what I just realized?  Any future happy milestones of my life will be the achievements of someone else.  Big Brother’s graduation, Little Brother’s marriage, Your promotion.   There’s nothing left that will be my accomplishment.   Nothing left to do and say, ‘Look!  I did it!’   Because they’re done, right?  The career.  The wedding.  The birth of our kids.  My big stuff is just…done.   Isn’t that sort of sad?”

Of course, Husband didn’t like hearing that any more than I liked saying it.  He went on about how that’s a terrible way to look at things.  That there’s plenty more for me to achieve.  Write a book.   Go back to work someday.  Run a marathon.   If you choose to be done, you will be.  Don’t choose that.

He was right.  And, I knew he was right.  But still…something nagged at me.

Unrest.

A few days later, I was on the phone with a girlfriend of mine.  She has been my friend since we worked together stopped working together in Boston. (As an aside, the truth is we were actually not friends when we worked together in Boston.  We actually drove each other crazy more times than not and it took NOT working together for us to form the friendship we hold today.)

ANYWAY.

This friend is easily my most successfully introspective friend.  She can analyze a situation six ways from Sunday with me until we reach that agreeable point at which we both say “Yes, yes.  That’s it.  Now we have it.  Aren’t we clever?” When our conversation that day turned to my recent internal struggle around any future personal achievements, she was thoughtful.  She listened.  She heard me.

She knows me well.

She knows who I was back then.

She knows who I have become today.

She also knows we’ve moved four times in the last five years.  She knows I struggled with my first newborn and then was terrified I’d never have the chance for a second.  She knows the inside outs of my relationships with and within Vermont, with and within Connecticut and most importantly with and within Marblehead.   She knows my educational background, my socio-economic background and the goals I may never speak aloud but set high for my children’s futures.   She knows I love my husband.

She knows I’m happy.

So she listens.  And lets me finish.  And then she says…

You know what your problem is, don’t you?  You’ve spent 38 years of your life in search of this.   This today.  What you have.   You’ve found that life you sought for so long.  Seven years ago, you lived in the town but you weren’t yet married.  Then you were married but didn’t have the baby.  Then you had the baby but still had to work.  Then you didn’t work, had another baby but moved away from the town.  And now, here you are.  Happily married.  With the babies.  In the seaside town.  Raising your children.

Honey.  What’s wrong with you?  Enjoy it.

And, she’s right.  Maybe it’s time, finally time, to take a deep breath.  And look around.   And be proud.  And grateful.

And content, damn it.

My boys have a lot of growing to do.  My responsibility in raising them and the pride I feel in watching the people they become is far greater than any measure of my education, my employment or the geographic location of my home.

So, maybe it’s not that my journey is over.  Maybe it’s just that I got over that first really damn big mountain and now, approaching 40, I get to pedal just a little slower.  Breathe the wind in my face.  Prepare to push hard to rise over the next hill (for there will certainly be many more hills) but then make sure to allow myself a minute to enjoy the spectacular views from its crest.

“It is good to have an end to journey towards; but it is the journey that matters in the end.”  – Ursula LeGuin