How did you spend your golden birthday? Was it a lucky year for you? I asked myself these questions today as I sent birthday wishes to my son. He is turning 26 on the 26th, which is known as the “Golden Birthday!” This only comes around once in a lifetime. Urban Dictionary defines it as “the day where a human being turns the same age as the date to which they were born.” Everyone (except Leap Year babies) experiences this special golden birthday. Some refer to it as the champagne birthday. Do you remember yours? Maybe you were turning two (like my sister) and have no recollection of the day or even the year. You missed it. But chances are you have a child who will be celebrating a golden birthday and you can make their lucky day special. Taking it a little further, I like to think that more than just the day, it is the year of the golden birthday than can be one to remember.
I was born on July 28th. While my memory is a bit foggy of how I celebrated by golden birthday turning 28 years old, I do remember that year well. That was my first year of motherhood. It was 1993. We were living in southern California with Janet and Paula, our Shih Tzus named after the pop music stars Janet Jackson and Paula Abduhl. We were navigating early parenthood with a five month old baby. He was probably sleeping through the night for the first time (hopefully). That year was a pivotal time in my life, transitioning from working outside the home as a school teacher to staying home full time with the baby. When I think back to that year I remember being exhausted caring for one child. I kept the house totally silent when he was napping. I had to tip toe out of the nursery after setting him ever so gently down in his crib swaddled like a burrito. Sometimes I did not even make it to the hall before he startled and cried out. Then I’d scoop him back up and walk back out to the recliner and let him sleep in my arms on my chest. I watched All My Children and talk shows at soft volume while he got the naps he needed. It was difficult for me to get anything done. By the time my husband returned home after working all day at the office, I could not wait to pass him the baby and grab a shower. I laugh now at my 28 year old “tired-with-one-baby-self.” Who knew that in a few short years I would be mothering four children under the age of eight. That golden year I not only grew in my confidence as a mother, but I loved it so much we got pregnant right around our son’s first birthday. It was definitely a lucky year after turning 28 on the 28th.
When I think about the golden birthdays of my family I can see something special in each one of their lucky years, even if it is something small. In 2017 our youngest son turned 18 on the 18th and he was celebrated by a great group of friends at our cabin. During his 18th year we added two aussie-doodle puppies, Koda and Summer (which also sprung the Grizzlybearma blog). Our St. Patricks day baby, who just celebrated his 30th birthday a few weeks ago, was a junior in high school on his golden birthday. I remember feeling grateful for a room full of well wishing teenagers that he met through theater classes after moving to Virginia the previous summer. A lucky birthday indeed! Our daughter born on December 27 turned 27 in 2022, had a most wonderful golden year. She got married and moved into her dream home. Our son whose golden birthday is today is 26. All weekend he has been celebrating with his sweet girlfriend and his friends. Who knows what this next year of life will bring his way?
My husband’s golden birthday was when he turned 13. I have no idea what he did to celebrate in 1976. Maybe he went to the movie theater to see “Rocky.” Maybe he went to Tower Records and bought the new Kiss album “Destroyer” or ACDC “High Voltage.” It is fun to picture him at 13, especially since his next birthday is a big one. He turns 60, his Diamond Birthday. But guess what his birthday will be in three years? It will be his Platinum birthday, which is when the last two numbers of your birth year match the year you are turning.
Gold, Diamond, or Platinum, whenever we put another candle on the cake we can consider ourselves lucky! I want to wish our son, Jack, a happy 26th birthday! Happy Golden Birthday! (Jack is pictured below in the lucky gold helmets…when Wake Forest beat NC State)
Ask any mother when she is most happy and she will tell you it is when all her little chicks are under the same roof. This is especially true for the empty nester. I know that full-hearted feeling well. The last time I had that it was Thanksgiving. It is the end of March. Four months have gone by since everyone of our children were at home together. COVID creeped in and cancelled our family Christmas plans. This may have been the longest stretch that I can remember that all of us were apart. Consider the fact that our nest was full with four kids at home for a little over ten years.
I will never forget when our oldest left for college, seeing his empty chair at our round kitchen table. It was sad. Once the door opened to the outside world it was not long before it was time for the next one to leave. Two empty chairs, then three, leaving a pretty quiet table that once had lively conversations bouncing back and forth. Our youngest was last to leave for college, and had something his older siblings did not get: our undivided attention. Unless you count when our firstborn was showered with all of our inexperienced parenthood in his first 18 months of life until his younger sister was born. Alas, it was inevitable that the nest would one day be empty. Our job was to prepare them for it. What sneaks up on you is what you were not preparing yourself for: the quiet empty nest. Friends of ours at this stage in life sometimes do more traveling, pursuit new hobbies like pickle-ball or pickling, or like us, they get a puppy (or cats, chickens and goats). No herd can take the place of having your adult children in the house which makes their homecoming visits that much more special. I have learned that they do return, and sometimes, if we are lucky, all at the same time.
My heart is full as I sit here today to write. It is not because the kids are home. It is not because we all got together, because we did not. The reason I feel happy is because in the span of one week I have connected in significant ways with each child. Sometimes that is all a parent has to work with if their children are spread apart. I think about my mom and dad. They have one daughter miles away in Virginia, one across the Pacific Ocean in Hawaii, one down in San Diego, and another living an hour away in Northern California. Trying to get these little chickies all under the same roof is definitely no easy task. So what is a mom to do? Complain? Be sad for what is what it is, that children grow up and sometimes fly far from the nest? Just as my mother and father have modeled other great things for me about parenthood, they have shown me how to handle this empty nest. They have always shown love and support, and never loaded any of us girls with guilt for spreading our wings far and wide. How? How did they do that?
When this winter chill blew through I sat under my blanket with a little pity party going on. I felt bitter again about what the COVID virus had been robbing us of for the last few years. Holidays, big birthdays, family reunions, and even weddings all cancelled, postponed and modified to virtual celebrations. My parents turned 80 during the pandemic. Instead of the big family reunion planned for that July, we had to get creative virtually. A big family zoom party and letters written from each member of the family was the best we could do. My parents were touched by all of the thoughtful words written from the grandkids and us. Again, their grateful acceptance and appreciation for what was possible instead of what was “not” possible impressed me. I am quite sure they felt sad about cancelled plans to gather with their extended family, but they were able to see things from the larger picture. Many people were dealing with sick relatives and isolation, and worst case, losing loved ones. Very scary and sad.
Long before the pandemic, my parents learned to deal with long months of separation from their daughters and their families. My mom has always been a letter writer and now even sends text messages in efforts to stay connected. We talk on the phone, often with my dad on speaker. Then we plan for visits, and when possible, big family reunions. The last time we were all together was at my daughter’s wedding in May. The next time we will all gather is likely to be at my sons wedding in October. So how does my mom do it? How does my mother-in-law handle living in Arkansas with her daughter in California and her son in Virginia? And how will I accept the distance between my children as they continue to build lives independent of us?
I will just have to take a page out of our parents books: do the best with what you have got, and make the most of the times you connect with each one of your children (and grandchildren). So rather than me noticing the empty chairs at the round table when only a couple children are home, I really need to be present and savor the time spent with who we have in the room. Then, as my mother does so well, make efforts to connect through text messages, phone calls and written letters. What is really most important to me anyway is that each of our children are happy and thriving independently, whether it is nearby or in another town or state. If I am able to hear their voice, lay eyes on them, or better yet hold them in a brief hug, then it is ok that we are not under the same roof all at the same time (at least for awhile). With this new way of framing things, my heart is fuller as I reflect on this past week.
Our oldest turned 30 last Friday and we celebrated him at an Comedy Improv Theater. With a dozen of his friends we surprised him and spent a few hours playing improv games. It was an experience he will never forget and was special for us as his parents to take part in (reminded me of his childhood birthday parties with magicians and mad scientists). Our daughter and her husband popped over the other night with their Oonie and we made pizzas. What is most special about that sentence is that they “popped over” which can only be possible because they moved into a house three doors down from us a few months ago (how lucky are we and what was I complaining about earlier). Our third child met up with us in Virginia Beach over the weekend so that he and his dad could run a half marathon together. Their cross state cross training has been special and fun for me to cheer them both on. Perhaps the last thing that has filled my heart with motherhood joy is that our youngest son, who graduates from college in May, decided to spend his final spring break here at home with us. We had quality time together, visiting the farm, watching movies, and taking walks. He was here for the Improv party and the pizza cooking night.
So while I may not have corralled all four of them into the same spot at once, I did get to laugh with and hug each one of them at some point in the span of one week. How lucky I feel! After a deep breath of contentment, I am now able to return my attention to our empty nest, which is expecting the arrival of four baby goats in less than two weeks. We have more to prepare: the stall, the fences, and the shopping for all the goat supplies. So until we can get our four kids home for one of our family group hugs, we will have to simply enjoy what life is for us right now: Koda, Summer, Sansa, Ruger, Kip, Chickens #1-15, and four Nigerian Dwarf goats that have yet to be named…
This is one of my favorite Mother’s Day cards drawn by my oldest son, the first to leave the nest.
March is Women’s History Month. It is the perfect time for me to highlight the power of female camaraderie. I am not only referring to the progress made by our strong sisters who worked tirelessly two centuries ago, women like Lucy Stone, Susan B Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton. I am thinking today about my girlfriends, my mother’s friends, and my daughter’s friends. I am thinking about women side by side with other women. Whether it be in book clubs, garden clubs, tennis teams, philanthropic organizations, knitting circles, quilting clubs, bible studies, mommy and me playgroups, or simply a handful of women who gather as friends. Throughout all time, history has shown us that great things can happen when women are in the company of other women. I would be remiss if I did not add that many wonderful things also take in place in mixed genders. Today, inside of the month celebrating Women’s History and it’s trailblazers, I would like to draw attention to how valuable it can be to build connections with other women. Nurturing those relationships by setting aside time together, away from husbands, kids, and coworkers is essential.
When I became a mother for the first time and decided to leave my job after the end of the school year, it was during those long days of isolation with an infant that I missed connecting with other women. I knew then that I needed to find others like me who sought camaraderie in the trenches of early parenthood. La Leche League, Mommy and Me Gymboree classes, and playgroups with other stay-at-home moms all helped to fill that need for adult interaction and support from other women experiencing similar things. By the end of the first year of motherhood, my confidence had grown by leaps and bounds (along with our early to speak and walk toddler). It was not an easy year. A loving husband who always was willing to help and a support system of strong women made all of the difference. I knew I was lucky. Not everyone is. So I partnered with a nurse at the local hospital and created a New Mother’s support group. Our pairing was a good one, she with the medical background and as an older mother, and me as a former teacher and mother fresh out of her first year. What I remember most valuable about the New Mother’s support group was the interaction between the young women, and the shared experiences despite their varied backgrounds.
As years passed, we moved multiple times, and we added more children into the mix. When I look back at the different communities we lived in, I can see the efforts I made to group together with other women. I played Bunko in Norco (always fun to go roll dice and laugh with the neighborhood ladies), reconnected with college sorority sisters in Fair Oaks (trips to the zoo with our babies in strollers), led Brownie Troops and Tiger Cubs with other moms in Ridgefield, and volunteered at school in Southlake (I was somehow convinced to serve as PTO President one year). Even if it was simply sitting in lawn chairs in the driveway while our kids rode scooters and tricycles, I treasured the time spent with other women. Then as the kids grew older we spread out: driving carpools to dance class or soccer practice to help one another. Quality time was squeezed into school hallways, gym bleachers, parking lots or chance encounters at the grocery store. Our families swallowed up most of our time and energy. It was not until our youngest went off to kindergarten that time really opened up wide in my day. The school had a “Boo Hoo” Breakfast for the parents launching their children off to kindergarten in the library on that first day of school. “Boo Hoo” for some, “Yahoo” for others. Either way, gathering in that library with mostly moms I was reminded again of how connected we are as women going through stages of life.
In a later chapter of motherhood but in an earlier era, there was a group of women that found one another and started something extraordinary. The year was 1975. Eight women from the same geographical area but from differing social circles came together. They shared a common love of the outdoors, of nature and the peace it offered. All eight were mothers around the age of thirty-five, fit enough to carry forty pound backpacks into the Sierra Nevada mountains for a seven day trek. They left behind husbands, children, pets, jobs, frozen casseroles, and notes of carpool instructions and extracurricular schedules. They got away from everything. It was about not having to take care of anyone else besides themselves. No cellphones at the time, they were able to completely disconnect. That first year there was some reluctance by some of the husbands. The women were excited to just give it a go, see how it went.
My mother turns 83 next month. When we spoke recently about that first year of the “Mountain Mamas” annual backpacking trip she said, “We knew right away it was magic.” She described the experience of sitting on the rocks and having deep discussions with the other women. She recalled a feeling of “awe of the world.” She told me how the division of labor in camp was easy, no assignments based on gender: either they all collected some kindling or none did. For the most part these women had lives layered with responsibilities for others, so shedding those must have felt amazing. Each one of them had different skills or talents to offer the group (gourmet cook, writer, water color artist, etc). They contributed to the group from their various skill sets but also took delight on relying solely on themselves. Literally everything they needed carried on their own backs. I can only imagine the transformation that took place as they got further into the wilderness and more distance from their roles as mothers and wives. The reason I am only able to imagine is because those days and nights spent up in the mountains are their private memories together to treasure. I am certain that what my mom did tell me is true, “It was magic.”
The core group of women continued for several decades what began in the summer of 1975. Year after year they planned weeklong treks into different mountain ranges. The husbands (like my dad) who were luke warm about the idea initially saw how much their wives got out of it and embraced the annual trips. In the early years the husbands planned big welcoming parties the day the women came out of the mountains. That was phased out due to the challenges of re-entry for the hikers. It makes me happy to know how much my dad supported my mom. I am sure he missed her greatly and appreciated her even more after caring for four teenage daughters in her absence. We were a handful.
I wanted to know more from my mom about what she felt over the years about these ladies. I knew them as her “backpacking friends.” My mom also had friends from other areas in her life, like her childhood best friends and women she was close to in our neighborhood with kids close to the ages of her daughters. She explained to me that Mountain Mamas were all busy with other friends and interests, which made their coming together that much more special.. They celebrated each other’s birthdays with a little breakfast and met up to plan before their annual hike. Not even the isolation of Covid stopped them from driving to my mom’s cul-de-sac and sitting far apart in lawn chairs to celebrate her eightieth birthday. I wondered what is it about the Mountain Mamas that continues to pull them together even in the years since the backpacking days have passed? She told me that these have been relationships “to savor” and that she knows she can depend on any one of them at any time. Through the various stages of their adult lives they have remained connected. Growing older together as “backpacking” friends they have weathered hardships and celebrations: weddings of children, grandchildren, relocations, divorce, death, health issues, career changes, and retirement. I am envious of the relationships she has that are so deeply rooted and long lasting. My mom reminds me that relationships have to be tended.
Women inspiring other women is what this month is all about. I was reading about Lucy Stone (from the 1800s). The passion and drive behind her efforts may have been for all women but I also believe she wanted to inspire her daughter Alice. She did. I hope in some small way I can inspire my own daughter. She formed a book club recently and was excited to tell me all about it. Not even married one year yet and she is already making time in her busy work and family schedule to gather with other women. I love it! Discussing the origin and long journey of the Mountain Mamas with my mother reminded me of how strong a woman she is and how much she values self care. Whether it is through art, piano playing, meditation, yoga or experiencing nature with friends she is a great role model. My mother inspires me (along with my three sisters). We value our close sisterhood, even when many miles separate us. As my mother reminded me, relationships need tending. This is true of sisters and of friends. I thought about this, especially being the home-body introvert writer that I tend to be as I have grown older. Relationships do need tending. Saying yes to girlfriend getaways, attending book club or tennis clinics, and just meeting up for a walk. Gather with other women and you will find renewed energy and perspective. Maybe even a little magic.
(Watercolors painted by my mother on her backpacking trips)
A few years ago in my memoir writing class my teacher handed us a list of quotes from authors of memoirs and asked us to write about one. After reading through the list of twenty or so quotes from well known authors of memoirs, I decided instead to use the phrase my writing teacher says aloud to us each week after assigning us the next week’s prompt. “Go wherever the writing takes you. There is no wrong way to do it.” What follows is what I wrote that week for class (in 2018). It is a reminder for me now, when I find myself distracted with word count, research, and self doubt, to simply pick up the pen and write. Just write, Carolyn.
My notebook is full with pages of scribbled down thoughts, feelings and memories. I sit in my favorite spot with the blanket on my lap and the cat curled up in a ball on my thighs; though I am sedentary my mind travels far. I pause every now and then to stare out the window, not seeing the activity of the birds in the trees but picturing the thoughts running through my head. I search for the details to bring the memory into crisp focus. While I sometimes struggle to recall exact words, I am able to remember the footprints left on my heart. What always helps me to keep the pen moving is the simple phrase, “Go wherever the writing takes you.” Quite often the path I set out on, lead me in a direction I had not planned to go. To allow myself to venture off course is a liberating experience. Especially being told that there is no wrong way to do it.
The author inside of my head has only recently begun to record my stories onto paper, but I have been spinning tales throughout my life. The imagination I had as a child was my favorite toy in the chest. I loved to make up songs and scenarios. I took on accents as I role-played a British nanny or a kidnapped southern school girl. I was Shirley Temple in a room full of imaginary orphans. I was Pippi Long-stocking sitting on a branch in the jungle talking in rhyme. I also played the lonely princess in the castle dramatically weeping out on my balcony, as I waited for my rescue. Characters and storylines borrowed from books and improvised with my available props. My two little stuffed monkeys that had velcro on the feet and hands were my babies, I connected them around my waist while pretend-dusting the furniture in my bedroom. Even with three sisters in the house, I still found myself playing alone. Joanne and Susan had each other and kept their door closed, not letting me in. “Get out of here, go play with Diana.” I remember feeling left out, Diana was four years younger. It felt like she took forever to grow old enough to be fun. I was the director of our play. We explored hot lava fields jumping from the large square sofa pillows strewn around the living room. We hid in the bottom of closets on the shoes whispering in the dark about the approaching giant. We played grown up sisters living in a fancy city apartment, dividing our bedroom into two parts with a jumprope, then calling each other with telephones and talking about what we were wearing to the party. We built forts out of blankets and told scary stories with flashlights. A big mess was typically left in our wake, only to be reprimanded later for not cleaning it up. The biggest mess we made in the house was the widespread settlement of Fisher price Little People. We had the whole family of wooden cylinder shaped armless bodies. We had the house, the town, the bus, the farm, the camper, and the airplane. I always wanted Sally, with the plastic yellow braids and bangs and the blue dress with the white collar. She said goodbye to her parents and left for school, she fought with her mean brother Mike who wore a sideways baseball cap and freckles. She walked her black and white dog Spot. I played Little People far longer than I ever admitted to friends at school. I preferred the endless possibilities of storylines with this community to the brushing and dressing of Barbie dolls. I worked out many of my dreams and fears those summer days stretched out on my stomach voicing the different little people.
We had a wide linen closet at the landing at the top of our stairs growing up. It was lined with shelves full of books. My mom read to us often. Three of my favorites were Big Sister, Little Sister, A Holiday for Mister Muster, and Jenny’s Hat. Each had vivid illustrations and special meaning to me: two sisters lying in a field of grass and wildflowers, an older sister who is bossy but in the end shows her little sister how much she is loved. A small school bus jam packed with zoo animals poking out of the windows on a trip to the beach, so silly and fun. Then the beautifully illustrated story Jenny’s hat, with a collage of different shapes, patterns, and flowers on her hat and dress. Of all the many books from my childhood, those three stand out.
When I became a mother I brought out those same books to read to my children, along with many more. I also began telling them bedtime stories. Our family favorite was the tale about Stretchy Man Sam. Colton found a tiny blue stretchy figure inside the plastic bubble you get for a nickel outside of the grocery store. Only a couple inches long, his arms or legs could be stretched out a full foot. He carried it with him everywhere, until one day he sadly lost it out in the woods next to our house. And so began the adventures of Stretchy Man Sam. The kids especially liked that they were the main characters of the stories. They would listen intently tucked into their covers, as I took them through Stretchy Man Sam’s travels through the woods, into the laundry basket, inside the bubbly washing machine, into a backpack off to school, and hanging onto the bumper of our car as I ran my errands. They giggled with glee visualizing the silly details. I made up other story spinoffs like the Magic Gum. Out in the same woods we came across a piece of sparkling pink gum. One of the kids put it into their mouth’s and began to slowly rise up into the air. So we all chewed the magic gum and flew over our house, our yard, our town, and across the country to visit our relatives in California. They delighted in seeing our lives from a different perspective, up above in the sky. We waved down to Grammie and Aunt JoJo. It was not hard for me to come up with these fantasies.
My active imagination that I had as a child continued into adulthood. I am an avid people-watcher. Due to our numerous relocations, there have been many times I have sat in an unfamiliar place observing strangers. Without realizing it, I look from person to person and build an entire background and story for who they are and what they are doing. Those two women at the other table at the McDonalds are best friends who have children the same age playing in the ball pit. They are on diets because they both ordered the tasteless salad, but are picking at the fries in their kids happy meals. They work out at a gym too because they are in matching sweat suits and ponytails. They are probably complaining about another mom in their preschool who is bossy and pretentious. I know my story could be completely wrong, but it doesn’t stop me from watching and wondering. It’s harmless.
What did negatively impact my state of mind, is when I would begin concocting the worst possible scenarios when my husband was late home from work. He must have veered off of the curvy road because of a deer that ran out. He is unconscious in a ditch. I will be widowed at age 35 with four small children. I will move back into my parents’ home in California. The story goes on, my heart beginning to race until I hear the sound of the garage door opening. Phew. He is home. Then there are the nights I lie in bed looking over at the digital clock as the time of curfew is approaching. Please God, I pray, keep Jack safe on the road. Thirty minutes go by, he is late. My thoughts travel into a tragic storyline of an officer knocking at our door. But it is the sound of Jack coming through the door that breaks me from that tragic plot. “Sorry Mom, the car line at Taco Bell was really long.” Thankfully this time the story ends well.
Just as the characters in my games of Little People or the storyline of Stretchy Man Sam, we have had to find our way through some tough challenges. Recapturing the details of the difficult moments through writing has given me the chance to reflect on our resilience. Some people do not like to go back to painful moments, but being able to write about them in my present state helps to take the sting away. Writing about my happiest moments transports me back to the years when my adult children were little. The nights of of bedtime stories in pj’s. I am right there again, lying with them smelling their freshly bathed soapy skin on their outstretched arms, and their Johnson’s baby shampoo wet hair next to my chin. I hear them yawn as they give in to the exhaustion from their busy activity of the day.
My son and I spoke at bedtime last night about time travel. I was reminiscing about when he was little and the stories I told him and his siblings. He said that in his English class they are reading The Great Gatsby. He believes that reading the words written almost 100 years ago are a form of time travel. I asked him, “Are you time traveling back there? Or is F. Scott Fitzgerald time traveling here?” We laughed together at this perplexing question. Go where the writing takes you. I like to go back in time in my writing, and then some day my written words will bring me back to the present moment with future generations of my family.
Grizzlybearma 