The Safe Circle

Barbara: The other day, Deb and I were invited to join a small circle of women—there were 9 of us—spearheaded by Certified Therapist and Life Coach, Anne Pustil. Check out her website here and her blog here.  Anne is a charming and sincere listener/therapist, and she’d gathered us together because she hoped we might share some of the linchpin problems we face as women in midlife (yes, Deb did crack that the term “midlife” implies that we’re all going to live into our hundreds! Anyway…). Anne will be conducting several “hitting the wall in midlife” group sessions for women in her hometown of Vancouver, as well as over the phone for those who are interested but don’t live in the vicinity. 

As you guys know, Deb and I are all about the “let’s talk honestly about what we face every day.” That’s why we’re here, right? But what we both—what we ALL—found fascinating at this get-together (in a beautiful home, eating fabulous food!) is that despite our ongoing conversations and examinations, there is still and always a new question to ask, a new perspective to consider, and another, previously unconsidered, tool that might help resolve our issues. And while the 2½ hours flew by (several of us had to leave by a certain time), there were so many interesting tangents and thoughts, far beyond what I think even Anne expected (by that I mean, we often went “off topic”, but whoa, the off-topics were stimulating), that I think we could’ve easily chatted for hours more.

It got me to thinking that, as much as I think we need to keep chatting here (and other places like this), there is something to be said for the real-life get-together where your responses can be fluid and mutable, where you can talk much longer than your poor fingers can type, where you can speak without editing yourself (because, let’s face it, when you write you can tune and fine-tune what you say). Because sometimes the “messy”, non-edited words that you speak in real conversations can carry kernels of other resonant and important, maybe half-formed, ideas; the Freudian slips, as it were, that will lead to other extraordinary epiphanies or revelations.

Anne encouraged us to feel that we were in a safe zone at the get-together, and that our “secrets” wouldn’t go beyond the circle of discussion. Then she prompted us with a few succinct and loaded questions: “What do you love about this age?” “What do you regret?” “What do you wish you’d been told?” (etc.) I bet you can imagine, much like our Five Crazy Things post, or any question that makes you examine your own (at the moment) truth, each of Anne’s questions could evoke a whole evening’s discussion in and of themselves, with as many viewpoints and life-experiences as there are individuals.

I’m sure Deb and I will springboard off some of the more compelling subjects we touched on here in the blog, subjects that will hopefully prompt all of us to more discussion, but I would also like to propose something else to you: would you consider—no matter what your age or sex—having such an evening (or lunch, as ours was, or coffee or tea...) specifically dedicated to broad analysis? Getting together with a few people that you think might be open to it, and asking some basic trigger questions? After all, and even despite the fear that can come with being open, “knowledge is power”. And the knowledge we are all most equipped to search out, the knowledge that increases our life quality and sense of empowerment, the knowledge that can lead to some inner peace (even for a brief moment), the ultimate knowledge that we are singularly equipped to absolutely accept, is, of course, self-knowledge.

Deb: It was wonderful, and the reason it most resonated with me is the fact that it always shocks me to learn that the people who seem the most together and most confident share my fears and concerns too. I likened the afternoon to an emotional/psychological clothing swap: you bring something to the table (in this case a piece of knowledge or a coping skill) and that piece is useful to someone else and, by the same token, you take away some gem of information that the other person brings that she may no longer need. I wish when I was going through menopause I had had the wherewithal to bring my friends together to talk and share. Doing otherwise sometimes made me feel alone and isolated. The same applies to any life bump I think. It’s nice to know that other people are feeling the same way you are. And it actually can help! Ultimately what the get-together left me feeling again is that women are fantastic! That was my best takeaway.

                                                                                                                              

How I Learned To Love My Grey Hair (…but not in the way you think)

Barbara: I wish I loved my grey hair in that way: the way that means wearing it proudly and showing it off. I have a few friends who own their natural colour and I am in true admiration of it. They look beautiful—the grey compliments their complexion and plays up the sparkle in their eyes. But the truth is, I am not in that particular headspace. I actually find the whole idea of going full-on grey a bit hairy, or, without wanting to split hairs, maybe more hair-raising. In fact, I am in a bit of a follicle just thinking about it. (…sorry! okay, I’m done.)

I have never actually loved my hair in any way. It is too fine, too blah, disobedient, inglorious. I remember standing in front of the mirror when I was younger and bemoaning the lack of thick lusciousness that I admired and envied on the heads of—apparently—everyone else (especially, of course, on the heads of movie stars and super models; you know, ordinary people like that). Far from being my crowning glory, my hair felt like my naughty nemesis.

I can say that age does (or can) bring wisdom in this regard. Truly, all the stuff that made me feel so less-than, so lacking, so icky when I was younger begins to mean less and less. As you all know well from our blogging here, the best part of aging is caring less to measure yourself against others, and caring more about owning who you are, flat hair and all.

My hair turned grey well before its time. I mean, my dad had a whole head of grey hair in his 40s, so maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised, but my mother still doesn’t have much grey and she’s in her 70s (don’t tell her I told you!). It took me a while to notice because I’ve been a die-hard hair-colourer since way back. It was my hairdresser who finally pointed it out—not in a cruel way, but noting that she would need to keep the grey hairs in mind when she coloured. “Grey hairs?!!!” Arggghh. I watched my roots in horror as the random greys became the “skunk” became the “all over”. There it was—another unwelcome change I would have to make peace with.

And then my hair surprised me!

Those greying hairs that were winnowing their way under my artificial colour? They were also improving the texture of my fine hair, giving it more body and movement. Random—but once much coveted—flips and waves were suddenly animating the blah limpness. And if I brush it into a ‘do, it—finally, for the first time ever—staaaaaaaays!

So, while I’m not making any grand strides forward for the age-movement here, I did want to share the giddy news that not every change we’re predisposed to think of as “unfortunate” has a sigh-inducing outcome. No, some ends aren’t split at all. Some ends are smooth and silky and have a perky little bounce.

Deb: Barb, you are so very right, although as I write this I can’t help thinking of our blog tag-line which in part says “different opinions”, which I realize we rarely have. I think I’ll blog about that!

Annnnnnnnnnd back to this post––A hairdresser once told me that he found that his clients who take HRT (don’t you love the things we tell our hairdressers?) fared better in the hair department than woman who did their menopause naturally. My first thought was, “Why are you telling me this?” (given that I was not taking said drug), but as I got grey I experienced exactly what Barb has just said. My hair is bouncier than ever and I love it. I do dye my hair and plan on continuing to do so for some time. I highlight it too and it is really all about the highlights when it comes to hair body. Very recently a friend said that her hairdresser said it was time for her to go grey. She is 58 and her hairdresser said that we should let ourselves grey when we get a certain amount of grey, because as we age our faces take on a colour that supports the grey, and not the colour we are choosing. That may be true, but clearly I am not there yet as I like the way I look right now. I think there comes a day when every gal looks in the mirror and says, “It’s time.” And I will do it some day, but I can tell you for sure, it won’t be any time soon! 

Too Old To Be Sexy?

Barbara: I was gobsmacked the other day to read a Facebook-linked article about the fact that Harry’s Law—the TV show featuring Kathy Bates—was cancelled … not because there weren’t enough viewers, but because they were too old! Too. Old. How depressing is that?

I always knew that networks favoured the younger demographic, but I truly thought it was because they must watch more. Even if that didn’t actually jive with my reality (my daughters are NOT loyal TV watchers). But when the viewer-numbers totally support a show and then to find out that those great numbers still aren’t enough to secure a show’s future because it's geared to older viewers is soooo disheartening.

I hate to rant about this inequity because it’s kinda like ranting against bad officiating at an Olympic soccer game between Canada and the US ;) –if you can’t change a bad call, might as well accept it, right?

But do we have to accept it? According to the article, baby boomers spend—get this—400 BILLION DOLLARS MORE THAN ANY OTHER GENERATION. EVERY YEAR. Yeah. Every year!! See? I’m hoping that if I yell it loudly enough, advertisers will want to not just take my money, but maybe, maybe, tell my stories too.

In fact, you don’t have to look farther than Deb and I to hear tales of authentic and charming film and television ideas (if I do say so myself) that have been embraced by producers for these qualities … and then rejected by networks for their target demographic.

I know young people are sexy for their youthful glow and hot bods, but surely our money and spending potential should be waaaay sexier. I mean, you can sell us houses and cars and vacations and insurance and investment opportunities and expensive creams and, well, I could go on and on, right? My girls? The supposed ideal demographic for advertisers? They struggle to pay for their inexpensive goodies, and then have loyalty to exactly none of them afterward.

Every time I hear another story about how no one wants to tell our stories because we’re not sexy enough, the more I want to go all “cougar” on the networks and prove them otherwise. Except, of course, Harry’s Law, with its 8.8million loyal viewers (for NBC, second only to Smash in popularity) should have paved the way for us and still couldn’t do it. And if they can’t do it, how can any of us older viewers/creators hope to stake our place in storytelling?

I mean, I love the “young people” shows and movies. I’ll go to Batman and I’ve watched and loved Girls. But I can also say that 21-year-old Stefanie is very excited to see the new Meryl Streep film, Hope Springs. And why? Because she “loves watching middle-aged people navigate life”. I swear to god, direct quote. I think lots of young people like to watch older people do their thing. It’s about knowing what to expect down the road. It’s about relating to each other, learning from each other, speaking to each other from all different vantage points. It’s about accepting each other, age spots and all.

Life is interesting in every shape and size. Please open the door to this reality and don’t dismiss us because … I don’t know, because we aren’t as sexy as our kids.

Deb: My blood boils as I read this. Barb is too classy to refer to an exact recent incident because in fact she was my co-writer, but the project was rejected not because of the writing, but because it was felt that Colin and I are too old to be the “leads” in a series. Our middle-aged plot lines are not interesting to the general population apparently.  GENERAL POPULATION???? See above for Barb’s rant regarding just who is doing the spending!!!! But, nonetheless, a few months ago after peddling our pilot around, we were told in various subtle and not so subtle ways that we were, well ... past our TV prime. Now I am pretty darned good at moving on with stuff like this, but I told Barbara that I was frankly daunted by this for a few days. It is the first time in my life, next to the day I found out I was menopausal and could no longer have children, that I felt redundant. So I hope that some other middle-aged couple comes along and does it for us, and for the considerable audience that is waiting to see their stories represented.

Deb In Someone Else’s Autobiography

Barbara: I didn’t know what little tidbit I would share with you for today’s post, but then it occurred to me that in real life lately I keep talking about this book I’m reading, and then it occurred to me that the book is what I ought to deem worthy for today’s chat (*says in a haughty voice*).

The book is Too Close to the Falls and is an autobiography by a now-Canadian writer/psychologist, Catherine Gildiner, depicting her childhood years in Lewiston, NY. I’m reading it for my amazing Book Club—and I won’t lie: I wasn’t terribly excited to read another this-is-my-real-life-in-chapter-form (with all-the-chapters-taking-place-between-years-4-and-10, no less!!). But it was Book Club, so I waded gamely into the fray.

And, lo, I met this charming, irascible, feisty little kid who had any number of unusual encounters in early 50’s America. She stood up for herself and for every other decent human being in her life. And I just couldn’t shake the impression that I was meeting young Deb in full regalia.

Now I know this isn’t Deb’s story, but one of the things I’ve most loved about this blog is meeting that child of Deb’s yore—the one in the stories she shares with us sometimes. I’ve been surprised and delighted by insights into Deb’s young life—those childhood experiences that full-grown friends often don’t share with each other (we have so many other things to talk about, right?). And so I’ve been even more delighted and excited to read this adorable book.

And as I am reading, I’m also getting that certain feeling that, by odd osmosis, I’m getting to know and love our darling Deb even more. This is what they mean when they call someone “spirited”. It’s the best of all things human and humane. Thanks, Catherine Gildiner. And, of course, thanks my dear Deb.

Deb: I am going to use my Chapters Christmas gift cards and go get this book ASAP. In the meantime I am going to love you for thinking of my life when you read this book. Sweet sweet sweetness. I can’t wait. Remind me to blog about the time I thought my childhood life was in a Penguin book. I have been searching for that book ever since. It is fascinating! 

Mourning Living Losses

Deb: Peaks and valleys are the best way to describe what my family has been going through lately. We are at that stage of life’s path where we are faced with the fork in the road. There are no signs pointing the way, no Lonely Planet guide giving us tips. We are hunting and gathering information and hoping to God that the right decision is arrived at.

My Mom’s foot has steadily improved and she is ready to be discharged from the hospital to further recover. But recover where?

The month-long stay in the hospital—between the trauma, drugs and the prone position—has produced both a pressure ulcer (bed sore) and a total loss of strength. She is now what they call “a two person transfer”. She can no longer transfer herself from bed to chair or chair to toilet. So of course the inevitable phrase “nursing home” reared its head. A blow to all of us and the specter of it has caused sleepless nights, tears, and endless circles of discussion. Add to that the sickening exposés on nursing homes on the front pages every day. The timing could not be worse.

My particular pain, which has itself developed like an internal pressure ulcer, has been in the unwanted job of holding Mom and Dad’s future in my hands. Honestly, I can deal with anything, but the agony of knowing I might make the wrong choice has been more than I can bear. I have spent endless hours researching and talking to our stellar team of support at St. Mike’s hospital who are working tirelessly to make this transition an easy and correct one. St. Michael's hospital is called Toronto’s Urban Angel and I could not agree more.

A few days ago I took my Dad home after a hospital visit. We had a particularly frank and painful discussion in the car and when I left him he said with tears in his eyes, “Debra, we trust you implicitly.” Any daughter would love to hear that but, while I was struck by the sentiment, I could not help wanting to run from this responsibility of trust. I spent the night thinking about this and how it was overwhelming me, and suddenly it hit me. I do not have the responsibility. I have chosen wrongly to own the responsibility. The only responsibility I have is to share with my savvy, very with-it parents, every single thought, every single option, every single fear. They deserve nothing less.

I realized, somewhat stunned, that this was just occurring to me. The simple fact is, we are all in this together. I was trying to do what I always do, trying to “handle it all”. I was putting this on myself.

The good/bad news in this scenario is that Mom and Dad’s bodies have betrayed them. Their minds have not. They can take all my information and offer good solid opinions. My job is to gather, shape, and offer it up. They do tend towards not wanting to cause me grief and stress, so I must keep it on track or they would just take the path of least resistance. I had this honest talk with them and Mom said, “Whatever happens, Deb, it will be because it is the best for us. This is a decision we will make together and it is not solely on your shoulders.” And a team was born.

It is still painful as we try to jump hurdles and dodge medical bullets. But I no longer feel I am falling down the rabbit hole. This past Friday we turned a corner. As soon as I identified the source of the pain, I think we all gained strength from the knowledge. The fact is, knowledge is power crept up on me again for the fiftieth time, bringing with it peace and purpose. How could I have missed that the agony was coming from mourning? We are mourning. And we have done it many times before. So why doesn’t it present itself to me each time with, “Hi, it’s me again, mourning.” But, like Dorothy, I seem to just have to learn it for myself over and over.  We have mourned before. We mourned Mom’s loss of independence when she had the stroke and we rose above it, turning her lack of independence into freedom. We have mourned these last few years as Dad has lost his independence and we continue to work towards good healthy solutions. And I look at them as my Dad takes Mom’s hand in the hospital as they say goodbye for the night. They are going strong, forging ahead. This generation continues to astound me with their strength and fortitude.

I guess the bitterest pill for all of us to swallow, is that we hold the secret of who they were. The care team, despite their best care and attention, see two old people at the end of their lives. The other day as an O.T. was giving me the results of my Mom’s cognitive test, I started to ball like a baby. The O.T. said, “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Do you want me to stop?” I said through sobs, “NO, I need this information! It’s just that, I wish you knew them, really knew who they were. You don’t and it’s breaking my heart.” My parents were the ones! They were the hosts, the entertainers! They were the centre of their circle. My Dad would cook like a pro and my Mom would dance the night away. They were the last to leave every single party! And it’s killing my soul that no one knows this. I wanted to scream, “Please, see this!” 

But I didn’t. It’s not their job. But I know it, and everyone who knows them knows it, and I guess that has to be enough.

The other day as we sat in Mom’s hospital room, my Mom said, “Jimmy, did you ever think we would end up this way”? To which Dad said, “No I didn’t, Anne”. I said, “Would you prefer the alternative? You have lost all your friends and you are still here.” As sobering as that comment was to digest, they sat for a moment and then smiled, knowing that despite all they are facing, they are happy as hell to be here. My parents love life in a way I wish every human creature did. They deeply mourn their lost family and friends but are in no hurry to join them, even at almost 85 years of age.

One of the Care Team experts, in an effort to assess how well I was doing as caregiver, asked me three questions. She said:

1. Are you feeling any resentment around taking all this on?

2. Are you feeling guilty?

3. Are you stressed?

And I answered.

1. I am not feeling resentment. I am so grateful that I have Mom and Dad and it is my great honour to care for them and about them.

2. I do not have any guilt. I have no reason for guilt and it is a waste of my time.

3. Hell, yeah, I’m stressed!

This week I would answer, “Hell, yeah, I’m stressed, but one tiny epiphany is melting it away, one crisis at a time.”

We will move forward together to make the rest of their life a party. Because as fate would have it, they are still the last to leave.

Barbara: Deb, I just want to thank you so much and from the bottom of my heart. I can’t tell you how, on the one hand, it’s hard to see you go through this and, of course, even harder to see your parents go through it, but on the other hand, your experience has also taught me an incredibly important thing or two.

My parents are all—knock on wood—healthy right now. But I know that can change in a flash. I find it interesting and important to remember that people—even those in medical crisis—are often capable of making, or being part of making, those critical decisions that will affect them the most. Of course, I also get that a lot of people can't––or won't––make good or useful decisions for themselves. But let's assume this is a case by case. If at all possible, they should not be outside that discussion. And we can't take on all the guilt and pressure that comes from making these hard choices. How brave and forthright of your mom to say it in so many words, that she takes responsibility for choosing whatever fork in the road you all travel down. And how lucky your parents are to have such a loving, faith-full Dorothy to hold their hands along the way.

Liver to Brain

Deb: Yesterday I was at a dermatologist who was checking out my litany of new moles, bumps, calcium accumulations, and other markings of that ilk.

Upon examination of the offending marks, she proclaimed them safe and removable, music to my ears.

So I asked her to identify the marks for me so I would know what they were and how to gage their normality if they started to increase in size, colour, or shape.

She responded by saying they are “wisdom marks.”

“What what????!!!”

I looked at her. She was dead serious. She was selling me on the “wisdom marks”. She was working me on the “new age, age”.

Her intentions were good, granted, but as I looked at this young, modern, educated doctor, I thought, “Wow. You are being trained to say shit like this TO ME! You are being told that this is what I need to hear.”

Does this mean that the onset of wisdomy warts and clever, devious moles brings with it an ability to go back in time and pass Grade 11 Math????????

Me thinkith notith.

So here is what you need to know, doctor. I reached my Holy Shit Trinity years ago and I have grown with the vernacular of liver spots to age spots to wisdom spots. And just so we understand each other, referring to my brown tea-stained facial spots as wisdom does nothing to conceal the fact that I am fine with it, thank you very much.

Liver spots should be my only worry.

ARE we really that fragile?  I don't think so. I'm not.

Barbara: Weird, huh? I mean, I’d rather they didn’t use euphemisms at all, but called them, I don’t know, the official Latin term, or something equally medically official sounding. I’d rather offer a resounding “huh?” than be pandered to (egotistically-speaking). And with the endless shifts and changes to the aging skin/body, it’s nice to believe our vocabulary could actually develop exponentially. Might make up a bit for the wisdom spots ... er, liver spots ... er, lentigos (???). 

The Happy Accident

Barbara: Okay, the title is a bit of a writer’s conceit—it wasn’t a “happy” accident per se, but it did remind me of some our favourite Middle Ages-ian themes, the ones which bring us around to, yes, savouring happiness despite our foibles. Foibles like how we hate HATE to feel helpless, and how we sometimes need to be reminded that accepting help can be a great gift we give unto others.

So my dad is a hale and hearty guy, the kind whose actions and energy defy his age. Then late last week, he breaks his foot. It was, in his words, a stupid accident. He was mowing the lawn down an uneven slope and his foot twisted into a cranny. He was in pain, but mostly he just knew. After “rice”-ing (rest, ice, compress, and elevate), he knew an emergency room visit was in order. When the doctor told him he had suffered a hairline fracture, he wasn’t surprised. Pissed, frustrated, disappointed, yes. Shocked, no. But here’s the extra rub: his lovely wife, my step-mother, was in a remote far-away village on a holiday with her daughter. My dad was alone, far from his three daughters, with no immediate source of help. As luck would have it, two of his daughters (myself included) were already scheduled to arrive at his place a mere two days later. But two days later … a timeline that couldn’t be shifted. And Dad would be alone.

So my dad convinces the doctor to postpone putting the cast on until we arrive so he can take care of his urgent needs with some independence, like driving home and WATERING THE PLANTS (caps are meant to indicate daughterly sarcasm). It took at least 6 separate phone conversations to finally convince him that he could NOT drive the one hour each way to pick up my sister and her kids from the train station. It took another several convos to convince him that his very dear friend would go out of his way to do the pick-up. Not only did my father want to carry on as if nothing had happened (let me remind you that if a fracture in the foot doesn’t heal properly, then he might have issues the rest of his life), the very thought of imposing on others was anathema. But even he saw the logic of accepting the helping hands being offered all around him.

On Monday, we made sure he was properly casted up and off his foot and forbidden from any but the most mundane SEATED tasks. He was forced to allow his daughters, son-in-law, and grandchildren to wait on him hand and foot (ar, ar). And he was witness to everyone’s absolute joy in being able to pay back this most generous but independent of people.

The unhappy side of the story? Okay, he can’t walk on his foot for 6 weeks at least, is being delivered a new highly-anticipated car tomorrow and can’t drive at all, has a household that requires much care-taking, and was looking forward to frolicking in the pool with his grandkids (we did make sure his cast was water-proof, but it might be a sinking stone, right?). And thank GOD my step-mom was away—she is an unbelievably competent maven and would have been all over taking care of Dad to perfection, but certainly at the risk of her own health. Imagine this tiny 5’4” woman trying to push and pull my not-so-tiny 6’2” father on his wheelchair while casts dried and crutches were on order.

But it has been a watershed moment for my father: he learned the hard way that he is not immune to bodily malfunctions (to quote him, that he “is not a god after all” ;) ), he learned that sometimes taking is also giving, and he learned to sit back and accept heartfelt service. Frankly, it was a watershed moment for all of us. Nothing like watching your, yes, god-like father come down to earth for a brief sojourn to be reminded of these important life lessons.

As I said, a happy accident.

Deb: Just Beautiful, Barb; this moved me so much. I know all too well what it’s like to see your parents struggle with their independence. I am so glad that this was simply an accident and not an immobility life sentence. It kills me every day to watch Dad struggle more and more to be in charge of his life and to get out and live life. I watched Mum struggle for years after her stroke with it and then watched her slowly make her peace. Your Dad fought for his independence and that is fantastic.  And it seems your Dad is enjoying his stroll among the mortals. This moment will stay with him as he ages, in a very good way I think. 

Birthday Adventures

Barbara: Birthdays can be a conundrum of shopping anxiety. First there’s the shopping part (what do they want, will they like it, and if they don’t, can it be exchanged, blah blah). Then there’s what I like to think of as environmental guilt (do they really need more stuff, is this something that will just clutter their shelf, their counter, their life). So for the last several years, I’ve taken to offering “special days”. It started with my nieces and nephew who live close by and then rippled further to include my sisters with whom we enjoy a dedicated “girl’s night out” in honour of all three birthdays, and now also includes my friends from time to time.

A “special day” still requires a certain amount of courage, especially if you don’t know if the person will 100 percent enjoy the activity you’ve chosen. But the biggest responsibility, ironically, is following through. The “chore”, if you will, is setting a date and ensuring you both keep it. I’ve seen many well-intentioned special days fall by the wayside because there was no clear follow-through.

For my nieces and nephew, I ask them to choose, or I suggest several options—and then get them to choose one. These dates have become annual highlights for, I think, all of us. Now, I have a small auntie confession here that I’m going to make because I think it’s important to set the tone: these beautiful children of my heart started off as very shy. They were not the kind of kids who would choose to leave the safe haven of their homes to traipse willy-nilly around town with their Mary Poppins-channeling aunt. But still, they humoured me on this one and I am in deep deep gratitude for their courage. And, despite any possible early misgivings or worries, all of us have grown to hold these special days near and dear to our hearts.

What have we done? Carnivals, basketball games, arcade halls, handmade ceramics, beading, pumpkin festivals, manicures, movies, book stores, all with the requisite junk-food indulgence either before or after. We’ve talked as much or as little as we felt like, and I’ve learned more about my dear young ones than any wrapped gift might have earned me. And they’ve learned about me too. And even as my nephew approaches adolescence now, he doesn’t seem to want to call an end to it. I think—I believe—we’re in it for the long haul.

But why am I spurred to write about this today? Well, because my best friend, Charlotte, is the queen of adventure-giving and she just took me on a birthday adventure that I not only loved, but that taught me something about myself as well. Over the years, Char has taken me to author readings, to see Leonard Cohen (omg), to plays and musicals, and even to a Spice Girls concert where by some fluke of luck we ended up on the floor, ten feet from the stage, baby Brooklyn (Posh’s kid) and his nanny sitting in the seats ahead of us. Yes, Charlotte is goooooood.

Well, yesterday, Char told me to wear shorts and a t, sunglasses and a hat, to wear sunscreen and bring a thermos of water, and that I needed to be ready at 10:45 so we could get to this year’s birthday adventure by 11:15. I had NO idea where we were going. Everyone was curious; Deb even asked me to let her know what Charlotte's adventure was as soon as I got home. 

So I’m guessing and wondering as Charlotte drives us to a well-known local inn and parks (brunch? the spa?). We make our way to a wooded lot (a hike? a fair?). And there stands a young man before a group of about 20 people, instructing them (us) on how to KAYAK the Humber River!!

I’ve never kayaked. I knew it was fairly straightforward, but still I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that my heart started pounding, my insecurities began fluttering, and my imagination filled with images of myself soaked and exhausted, barrel-rolling into the murky depths. But all for naught: it was easy, and wonderful, and a purveyor of surprises. Surprise because I was, dare I say it, pretty good at it, and surprise because I had no idea that nestled behind all the residential houses and streets of west-end Toronto there was a hidden eco-system of naturalized river and ponds just bursting with geese and ducks and cormorants and kingfishers and cranes and snapping turtles and deer and coyotes and 12-inch blooming lilypads!

By the end, I was soaked—but with well-earned sweat. I felt so exhilarated and happy and proud. Thanks, Char, for surprising me in more ways than one! And, even though I treasure the beautiful gifts that require unwrapping (hello, jade earrings), there’s something to be said for those gifts that come “user-friendly”.

Deb: First off, CHARLOTTE ROCKS! That is the greatest gift. What a wonderful adventurous surprise! I think it is a gorgeous tradition you have with the nieces and nephews and I am sure they don’t want it to stop because is FUN, TANTE BARB!

I, as anyone who reads the blog or has known me for more than five minutes, knows, LOVE my BIRTHDAY! I never quite understand why the world doesn’t stop to bid me HBD wherever I go. I can’t wait for it to begin and I never want it to end. Birthdays should be magic. We arrived after all, on this planet to live and love and grab on to every sacred moment. Our birthday is the day which give thanks for being here. How wonderful when others give thanks for us too. 

PS Charlotte and Barbara tried to take some commemorative photos of their adventure, but just ended up looking like drunken serial killers, so...

Deb and Barb Have A Three-Way

Deb and Barb Have A Three-Way With Molly

Deb and Barbara met Molly recently here on the blog. She has her own wonderful blog called Random Thoughts. Molly has become an invaluable member of our cozy community here at The Middle Ages.

Molly: I want to thank Deb and Barbara for inviting me to do a three way. I’m so honored and thrilled.

From the ages of 8-12, I was involved with a children’s theater group. I had such a wonderful time performing as a kid. What I didn’t realize then was how much being a part of that company was going to shape me into who I am now. Along with an appreciation for the theater arts, I learned two valuable lessons. I learned how to use my voice and I learned how to be comfortable in front of a crowd. While I didn’t make acting my career, (I went into Recreation Management) those two skills have really played a major role in just about every aspect of my life.

One of my many dreams has been to start my own children’s theater and introduce kids to the theater in the way it was done for me so many years ago. I’m not professional (it’s been 20 years since I did any theater) and I’m not looking to make professional kid actors. I just wanted to give some kids a chance to do something they have never done before. Doing the children’s theater was always just a dream that played around in my head and I always thought to myself, someday……

Right now, in my life, I have some free time in a way I haven’t had since my oldest son was born 13 years ago. I’d been thinking about doing this theater for years and over the last several months it was in my brain more and more. Then, through a series of events and visits with several friends, I got to thinking that maybe I could do this. I mulled it over in my head for several weeks, thinking out the plan I would need to have if I was serious about this idea. I didn’t want to tell anyone, not even my husband, until I was sure that I had thought this through.

In May, I announced Auntie M’s Children’s Theater to my family and friends and expected everyone to say, “Molly, that is the dumbest idea you have ever had.” But they didn’t. They thought it was very neat and were so supportive. I held the auditions, directed rehearsals, built the sets, and on June 17^th and 18^th, we had our performances.

Auntie M’s Children’s Theater

The kids, who ranged in age from 6-10, did great, although they had the hardest time remembering to not turn their backs to the audience. I was also very amused that they couldn’t seem to speak loudly on the stage, but as soon as rehearsal was over, they were running around yelling. Go figure.

I knew that if I didn’t do this now, I would always regret it. I had to try. If the entire thing blew up in my face and was a disaster, I could say I tried and move on with my life. However, it wasn’t a disaster. Sure, we had our moments of difficulty, but that’s all it was, a moment here and there. I loved working with the kids. It wasn’t a professional production by any means and I had to accept the fact that several of them would undoubtedly turn their backs to the audience, and they did, but it was OK.

Since the show, I’ve had a lot of people ask me if I’m going to do this again next summer. Yes I am! I can’t wait. I’ve already gotten one script written and have started a second one. So, a big thanks to all the ladies who inspired me to follow my dreams. The experience has been amazing.

Barbara: Molly, this story is so inspiring! For a few reasons actually. One, because you had such a brilliant and wonderful dream to pursue. Two, that you pursued it with such dedication, despite concerns that you might fail. And three, that you pulled it off in such a miraculously short period of time!

I think a lot of us find ourselves holding dreams that we either don’t have the courage to initiate or, if we do, then those dreams don’t have the common courtesy to come true for us!! Molly has inspired me to remember that the bottom line is that it’s about getting your hands dirty. Doing whatever needs to be done. Working your butt off toward your heartfelt goal. And not giving up if someone turns their back on you ;). Because in the end, that is the best and greatest sign of success: that you went for it. No one and nothing will hold it against you if your dream doesn’t turn out the way you’d hoped (and if someone does, well, that’s their problem). Because the truth is: NO dream can come true without someone dreaming and then actively working toward it.

Molly wrote us privately not too long ago to share her story with us. Not only did we ask her to share it with you here, but we asked if it would be okay to include a certain interesting element of that story. Molly agreed. Her email was as beautiful and inspiring as today’s post, but what stopped me in my tracks was that one of her many inspirations came from reading our three-way with Rayna of Coffee Rings Everywhere. The nutshell of that wonderful post is that present-day Rayna has an honest conversation with her younger self. Turns out this prompted Molly to ask herself what her younger self would say to her today. She realized that her younger self would want her to follow this amazing dream. Obviously, this moment was one of many dominoes that lined up to tip Molly’s resolve, but the reminder here too is that there is an amazing power in our collective ability to support each other, either knowingly or unknowingly. And for that, I am truly and utterly amazed and grateful.

Thank you, Molly, for your great story and for this wonderful reminder!

Deb: Molly, I too was so inspired by this story. I LOVE when people follow their dreams. Any dreams. All dreams. Yours is especially sweet because you didn’t have to fight tooth and nail with friends and family naysaying it. You had support. It is as if this dream was sitting here all ready to go. The universe knew it, but was just waiting for you to realize it.

A year ago my sister-in-law lost her job because the people she worked for retired and closed up shop. She is middle-aged but decided she wanted to pursue her dream of acting professionally. Some people were trying to discourage her because of her age and her lack of experience. But she wanted to give it a go. It’s so funny how people will go out of their way to tell you that you can’t, isn’t it? But I thought I don’t give a darn what her odds are and proceeded to help and encourage and foster her dream. For a while she worked with a cold-reading group and loved the creative stimulation. Sadly, time ran out and she had to take a job which she loves but is not in the arts. But no matter what, I know that she would have regretted it forever if she had not tried. GO DREAMS! DREAMS ROCK!

Molly is a stay at home mom of five children, ages 3, 5, 7, 11, and 13. In addition to raising kids, she enjoys weaving, writing on her blog Random Thoughts, is an amateur onomast, and has begun working on her Master’s degree in Library and Information Science .