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A Man Looks At Midlife | Menopause In The Trenches
What Will You Do In Your Next Life? | Teenagers: Antidote to Midlife Complacency

Teenagers: Antidote to Midlife Complacency
by Rhonda Heldman Raider

One of my favorite stories goes like this. A man asks his teacher the secret to his wisdom. The teacher responds, "I keep a scrap of paper with a message in each pocket. One says, 'For your sake the universe was created'; the other, 'You are nothing but dust.' The secret is knowing when to reach into each pocket."

I think of this story often now that I'm in midlife. In one pocket, I've never felt better about myself. I'm comfortable with how I look -- never mind the "character lines" on my face and south-migrating breasts. I'm at the top of my form professionally. I can usually find my keys. I revel in wonderful long-time friendships and some special new ones. With more time to myself now that my girls are older, I've rediscovered a joy in singing and writing that I had more or less abandoned when my absence at bedtime triggered havoc and resentments. And I own enough pairs of eyeglasses that I can usually find them, as well.

Here's what's in the other pocket, the dust thing. It's being mother to two young women, ages 15 and 12, who have ingeniously discerned my every button, my every flaw. They're very diligent -- and accomplished -- about making sure I don't get too cocky, or too complacent about who I've become. Once I gently suggested to the younger, who had turned into a banshee upon realizing that she'd brought home the wrong backpack, that sometime we could talk about ways to control frustration. She raised a (plucked???) eyebrow and said she'd better talk about that with someone other than me -- referring, I suppose, to my own recent menopause-induced banshee incidents. My 15-year old, being driven to high school, asked me in exasperation to please respect her preference for morning quiet, saying, "You're just talking to fill up the space. You're speaking your thoughts." Yup, of this I'm also guilty: trying to impose cheerfulness when neutrality would be more in order. Who else besides these two people who've known me their entire lives could hone in on my shortcomings with such laser-like precision -- and be so confident in my love that they'd dare to say it.

It's not that we don't have stunning times, my daughters and I. We share a passion for novels, baby animals, dude ranch vacations -- and a fleeting obsession with Survivor (admirably, they petered out before I did). The eldest re-enacts for me the social dramas of her friends, lauds or denounces her teachers, and tries out her rapidly evolving opinions on gay rights, feminism, whether to work as a lifeguard at the place that pays more or is swankier. The youngest, a far more private person, wants much less of me than I'd prefer to give. So when she does ask for something -- a French braid, word definition, my running to the window to see how that baby deer does twisting "happy jumps" just like her old bunny -- the moments shimmer.

Ironically, my daughters are transitioning into young womanhood at precisely the time my aging has become visible. My theory is that some people's faces and bodies age gradually; others can look about the same for many years and then suddenly catch up. I'm in the latter category. A few years ago I watched my eldest dance in a production of Once On This Island. I was struck by her body, suddenly much more sumptuous than mine had ever been. I've read that many women feel jealous of their daughters' nascent sexuality. What I felt was awe -- and proud amazement that this beauty had sprung from my DNA. Now the youngest, too, is looking womanly, with a streamlined, athletic shape more like mine at my prime. I feel immortal.

What they do for me in midlife, these miracles of mine, is constantly bump me smack up against my convictions. Is it okay to shave legs in sixth grade? Never even occurred to me until high school. Wear make-up in seventh? It was wrenching for me to try my first swipe of lipstick in my twenties, to look older for a job. Okay to be tardy to class because a friend was crying and needed comforting? To not turn in an essay on time for the same reason? No, and no, I think. One daughter would agree, the other most definitely would not.

It came as a shock to me, in my early thirties, to realize that life at that stage wasn't just the contented sameness I had imagined descended after finishing college, getting a job, settling down. There is little sameness among my days now, either with respect to activities or certain of my beliefs. With their questioning and constant trying on of new selves, my daughters dare me to sort out little-questioned opinions from conviction, and to be who I am mindfully instead of by default.

Oh, and we both agreed the fun of working at the swankier club made up for the slightly lower pay.

© 2002 Rhonda Heldman Raider