WRINKLED…..and I don’t mean my clothes


Gosh I am wrinkled. They are everywhere. Like mosquito bites. It’s incredible where you find them. Technically, my “wrinkle” on my back isn’t really a wrinkle but it sounds nicer than “back fat” so I am counting it.

It’s the hands and face that are the worst. And my neck. OK, I should add in my chest too. There are many parts that are beginning to look like fruit leather. I think my triceps are ok but only because they keep flapping in the wind and I can’t get a good look at them.

Some people are aging beautifully. Not me. Yesterday I was asked if I was “retired”. No, just currently unemployed. It’s kind of the same thing but without an income. But I digress. I have a friend who is rocking the house as she gets older. She is tall, graceful and when she walks in a room, she holds an audience with her spectacular sense of style. It also doesn’t hurt that she is smart, funny, kind and can make a mean martini. She also has flawless skin that makes most women envious.

One day I was talking to her and I kept wondering what was different. She always looks great but this day, it was beyond radiant. At the risk of sounding like a commercial, I asked her what her secret was. She told me that she had been doing “facial fitness”. Yes, it’s a “thing”.

I had to look this up because she looked AWESOME! What was this miracle of miracles? It turns out that facial fitness is like going to the gym with a personal trainer except you get to lie down, not sweat and you come out looking amazing. The treatment series involves microcurrents that stimulate facial muscles so that they regain their tone. Your skin gets plumped up (in a good way) and fine lines and wrinkles are diminished. Eyes open up, upper cheeks fill out with a slimmer and more structured jaw line. Now that’s a WOW!

In particular, it was my friend’s eyes that looked amazing! Wide open. Her experience was that the sessions had helped her face “lift”. Think about pulling your forehead up and back over your skull. The face literally “lifts”. I know this because I tried it and realized that my eyes had developed a bit of a “hood”. More than a “bit”. At this rate, I am likely going to be blind.

Gravity is a tough gig. My face is not just “falling”, it is avalanching. Everything is falling from the top down. It explains why my breasts have fallen into my stomach.

In a small town, we don’t have facial fitness facilities. I told my husband we should look at moving to the city for facial fitness options. He said he could hang me up in a tree like a deer and see if that would work. He also said he wouldn’t charge me. I don’t find him helpful.

Without access to facial fitness, I had to come up with my own home remedies. Betty White said that “the secret to aging better is getting 8 hours of sleep; 9 if you are ugly”. I need at least 12.

How am I going to age gracefully without being hung up in a tree? I’m trying to learn that lesson. I’m trying to transition. This is a metaphor for many things right now. I am trying to accept external changes and find ways to wear them so that they look good and not awkward.

Lately, with COVID19, I feel that many things in my life have been falling; not just my forehead but my career, my bank account and my dreams of where I thought I would “be” at this stage of my wrinkles. COVID 19 is definitely deepening my “WTF” lines.

This week, I have to write a new business plan and possibly a resume. The only thing worse than writing a resume is trying on bathing suits and we covered that topic in a previous blog. More courage is required. I have to stand up and admit that things are falling. It’s not comfortable. It’s like jeans that are too tight or my forehead falling over my eyes.

I talk about letting things go but it’s hard. Harder than I thought. I am dropping a business that operated for 25 years and enhanced my life in many ways. It helped get my husband through school, contributed to raising three kids and allowed me to flex my life so that I could serve my community and be a voice. And now it’s going to be different and I have no idea what that might look like.

Glennon Doyle is a beautiful author who has become a travelling companion for me. She wrote “what screws us up most in life is the picture we had in our head of what it was supposed to be“. True that.

So this week, I will write a new business plan, a resume and a rough draft for my next chapter. Right now my wrinkles are from worry. I am wondering what would happen if I could move worry aside to make room for more creativity? Surely these next steps can be mastered with a positive mindset of “what if” as opposed to “don’t fuck up“.

This blog is about bravery and trying new things. Not in the scope of “world peace” but rather in the ordinary realm of being just “normal”. Think job loss, heart ache, injustice, indignity and messiness not to mention a whole lot of “fuck am I pissed off”.

My goal for the week is to breathe into my “moreness” and keep a lid on the feeling of being “less than“. Again, my traveling companion Glennon, has good advice. “We can do hard things”. My hard might not be your hard and your hard might not be my hard, but regardless, it all involves that first scary step and that’s why we need each other. We need to reach out and help one another to rise up.

Courage cannot be measured. It’s a verb, not a noun and intensely personal not to mention it requires tons of bravery.

Here’s to having the courage to do hard things. Here’s to wrinkles that show a life that was lived with largeness and then some….

With love,

Shelley

And then they leave….


I’ll love you forever

I’ll like you for always

As long as I’m living

My baby you’ll be

Robert Munsch from Love You Forever

The people that stole my heart, call me “Mom”…… I love you forever.

I think I have mentioned that I never planned to have kids. Diapers, sticky hands, obnoxious behavior were all “no go” for me. Other people could have children. I was keen on a life. Also, I had no idea how to raise children. That sounded like a bad idea. I don’t fix my own car and I certainly shouldn’t be in charge of small people looking to grow up.

I have three children. The irony is not lost.

Like anyone who has been touched by kids, your heart expands in ways that you never imagined. They touch a part of your core that you didn’t know you had and they ignite a love that is impossible to describe. Kids have a magic and they weave their way into your heart. Ask anyone who has had a child sit on their lap, wrap their arms around your neck and nestle in for a total “love in”. If you want unconditional love, hug kids.

I didn’t know that this would happen but I tightened my seat belt and held on. As much as loving my kids was great, there were many times when watching them sleep were my best memories. Also, it meant that the chaos of the day had come to a conclusion.

Our kids are 23, 21 and 14. I have been through terrible 2’s, hellish 3’s, horrible 4’s and more. I lived through colic, tantrums, testosterone and teenage chaos. There were many days when I felt there was a loud speaker shouting “clean up in aisle three” and I would go running. It wasn’t easy and we had to lean in.

“The days are long, the years are short” Dammit. It’s true. There were days that felt like years and then suddenly, it was over. They left. At least the older two did. In a blink, they were gone. All that messiness, all those moments, all those years and with a click of a suitcase, they jumped out. I had done my job. I raised them to leave and become independent and pursue their dreams. They were ready for their next steps. This was way too whacked and certainly NOT the job satisfaction I imagined.

COVID 19 brought them all home. Yes, there was chaos and yes, they all acted like they were 14, 12 and 4 but gosh it was fun. Especially having Aiden and Megan home. It was a gift being all together. It was also incredibly gorgeous to spend time with my adult children. The “things” that they had turned into after all the muck. This was job satisfaction. Being able to adore them as people and loving conversations and insights and moments. All those tough moments of “holding the line” and helping them was realized as we sat on the porch and enjoyed an adult relationship. This was joy. I could stay in this Nirvana forever, even if it meant I was still doing clean up in aisle three.

But things change. My eldest, Aiden, graduated from the University of Victoria this year. Or, he was supposed to. Thanks to COVID19, I think his degree is being mailed. He’s now an electrical engineer. I’m super proud of him. I never got a degree so the fact that my eldest has one is super awesome. He has become exactly what I wanted. He has achieved more than me. Thank God. And don’t think it was easy because that first year was a major fuck up but he didn’t quit. He brushed himself off and started again. He worked uphill and then he finished. Wow. Did I mention that I am super proud?

He didn’t have a job due to COVID 19. That was stressful but he practiced peace and trusting the process. Sure enough, it worked out. Just recently he was offered the job he wanted. Before he starts, he left to visit his girlfriend. That was tricky. I wanted him to stay. Our last night wasn’t fabulous. I said, “if it doesn’t work out, you can always come back”. He took this as a slight; it got a bit tense and there might have been some heated exchanges.

Here’s the thing. “If it doesn’t work out, you can always come back” was meant as, “I will love you forever and you always have a place“. This wasn’t articulated well. He is carving out his life and excited for new beginnings. His life landscape is all new. I wasn’t criticizing him, I was missing him. “Clean up in aisle three” has been my role. There isn’t one time that I wouldn’t be there for my kids and not to be a part of this next chapter is killing me. When I said “if it doesn’t work out, you can always come back”, it was intended to mean, “I am always here for you“. I miss him. We miss him. Life is empty without him. He adds to our life and for a few weeks, with him here, life felt whole.

It’s not easy moving from active participant to supportive bystander. All those years, I gave everything I had. Some days I was a rock star, other days I likely could have done with professional coaching and there were certainly moments that if I had a supervisor, they would have written me up in my file. But each day, I gave it my all because my only goal was to make sure that they could be so much more than me.

I write this because when we lean into the lives of children, we sign up for heart break. The love we give is the inspiration they use to spread their wings, fly and then soar. I can only hope that sometimes they come back to say hello.

My children are my greatest surprise. I didn’t know “love” until I knew them and there is NOTHING that they could do to disappoint me. Well, except not come home for Thanksgiving because that’s an upspoken rule and expectation. Also, it’s a super fun week-end.

Here’s the deal. My heart grew when I met them and now it breaks as they leave. I know it’s supposed to be this way but it doesn’t make it easier. Our home will always be their home. More than anything, I want to ensure that they feel we are the safe haven when the world of life gets rocky and they need reprieve. I am so proud of each of them. They are gorgeous souls who bring joy. I didn’t know that I would feel split in two when I started this journey. Deep love equals deep loss. Watching them fly is beautiful but heartbreaking. Their new life is another chapter. These three creatures are the story of my life and I would give my everything to them to ensure they had what they needed to live a whole and fulfilling life.

“If it doesn’t work out, you can always come back” is a mother’s message of love. I know you’ll be fine and better than fine but let me have my moment. My heart is breaking knowing that you are moving on. Hear me. I love you. I like you. I miss you. Who would have guessed that hearing “clean up on aisle three” would be missed and give me ponder to consider where I fit now. When you give it your all, it’s hard to transition to ordinary.

To you my beautiful children, “as long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be”. Bear with me as I adjust and if you hear anything in my words, let it be “I love you“.

Here’s to the messiness of relationships, the chaos of connection and the growth that comes from caring deeply. Loving kids is possibly one of the greatest gifts we can give and that includes everyone.

With love,

Shelley

The “Ugh” of Running….


I am determined to keep running but while running, I derive absolutely no joy. Sorry all you passionate, fabulous runners, it’s just not my jam – yet.

My running routine generally involves spending more time choosing my playlist than actually running.

Nothing has changed, those first 10 seconds hurt. The second 10 seconds aren’t any better. How can ten seconds feel like ten hours?

If my playlist sucks, I feel the need to stop. Music is motivating. The pain of my lungs exploding, my muscles yelling and the agony of “I have so much further to go” is not motivating.

There is that little voice that speaks to me and says “walking allows you exercise your hip flexors which is a good thing“. I like that little voice. I like it more than my muscles yelling at me. I stay stubborn and ignore the yelling. I have been a mother for 23 years, I am used to people yelling at me and ignoring them.

How can 30 minutes surfing the net go by so fast and 30 minutes running feel like eternity?

I keep running. It still hurts. I don’t know which is better. Should my goal be to run 5km or should I set a “time goal”? If I run 5km, I run faster so that I can get through it quicker. If I set a time goal, I tend to slip in more “walking”. Longer could help me burn off that second glass of wine. Sprinting through the experience gets me home faster and still a “check” on the “to do list” but only a small taste of dessert. First world problems.

I keep running. I like dessert. I also like wine. I find it depressing that I push through pain and I still have not burned enough calories to compensate for either of my vices. This of course means I need to run longer (with less walking). Ugh.

I run where no one can see me. The joy of living rural. If I do see someone, my ego takes centre stage. I pick up the pace to give the impression that I am an awesome runner. At least I hope this is the impression that I am leaving. There is a good chance that my idea of a “fast run” is a turtle sprinting. If I am running fast enough, they might not see the look of pain on my face or the fact that my hamstring has seized and I may never walk again. Ego is not a healthy habit.

The good news is that I can run and my belly bulge has not yet heaved up to hit me in the face. I am making progress and running is getting easier. The “hate” is still there but I reluctantly admit that I feel better after doing it. Maybe it is relief that I didn’t have to call for an ambulance. I’m not sure.

I will keep at it. I ponder that running is like Vegemite…. an acquired taste. We’ll see. In the meantime, I didn’t have to call for a ride. Success is relative and incremental. Here’s to one step at a time.

Love,
Shelley

Braving the Bikini….


This is how I feel right now. A wee bit “plumpy”. Maybe I misunderstood the Mediterranean diet. Everyday, I ate French bread with cheese and red wine. I was practically a vegetarian and yet the “diet” didn’t work. I am emerging from quarantine with a little more lump to the plump and I have to contemplate summer swimwear.

I want to be brave and wear a bikini this summer. Or at least a version of a bikini. I think I am gravitating towards a “two piece” swim suit. A bikini has string, I need spandex with strategic coverage and built in enhancements.

*NOT me! Oh to be brave! My “wish” bathing suit for summer 2020.

I used to wear a bikini and then somewhere along the line, I moved to tankini which was a disaster. Tankinis sounded super cute but in fact, it’s just a version of tank top that must have shrunk to sit weirdly above the belly button allowing the muffin top to look like a dozen donuts.

I also tried the one piece. Another disaster. A “sleek” one piece on me is like wrapping cookie dough in saran wrap. I experimented with the ones that had the “textured” middle but that just fluffed out the flab.

My next gravitation was to the sporty skort with longer top. This was quite fun until my hips went horizontal and caused the skort to skimp and reveal nether regions of raciness. I can barely tweeze my brows and shave my legs. If I have to do more grooming than that, I best buy a burka.

What I need is tasteful yet fun. Like the 50’s.

Here is the reckoning. The best looking women are the ones that show up as themselves and shine. It’s not the style or physique, it’s mindset. While I am stressing about the spandex not sucking in my stomach, someone may be looking and thinking, “WOW! Great legs“.

This summer, I am committed to making the shift. I will find my shine. Even though I failed with my Mediterranean diet, I exercised everyday. I chose on line work outs and made the commitment to sweat.

When I first started, if a workout session included burpees, I hit fast forward. I hated burpees. I hated them because they are stupid and hard and make everything hurt. Even though they are kind of stupid, I realized I hated them because I couldn’t do them anymore. I would do one and then slip into downward dog and pretend that was sort of the same thing.

I don’t know what part of me felt that I had to keep up with an online fitness program. They couldn’t see me! What part of “I have a remote control” did I not understand? I stopped hitting fast forward and would just hit “pause” and do the moves and do them at my pace. Today, I can now do burpees. I still hate them but I can do them. I am in my fifties. My physique is fluffy with a splash of flab but I am getting fit. Small wins.

I am pleased with my fitness but I am uncomfortable with my shape. I am embarrassed to be in a bathing suit because everything shows. All my imperfections are out in the open. I don’t like that I am not what I used to be. That other “me” that used to be 20 pounds lighter. It’s a weird walk of shame and then it dawned on me. This feeling isn’t about fit or fat, this is a metaphor about me. I don’t want to be seen in a bathing suit or in any other context. I want to hide in the cabana.

When I go to any social function, I have to talk myself off the ledge. I need cue cards to remind me of positive social topics that are neutral in content. I wear bright pink lipstick to give me courage. I try really hard to stay with small talk and say the “right” thing but before you know it, I veer off script and am knee deep in dialogue and debate with a heavy hand of out loud commentary. No amount of spandex is going to keep me tucked in and even if I just drink water, my mouth still runs off like I’ve had a few glasses of white. This all leads to the morning sense of regret. “Did I really say that?” “I wonder if they understood what I was saying?” “Should I have said that?” “Did they enjoy the conversation or just pretend to be polite?” And my favourite part of morning after reflection, “should I call them today and explain?” I just want to put on my bathing suit cover up and hide.

My goal continues to be to stop the self loathing and negative self-talk. I am working on reframing my self perceptions to a “what if” in the positive. “What if they liked my ideas?” “What if they were interested in what I said?” “What if they admired someone being outspoken?” I am also working on accepting that generally whatever I say, is really what I mean. I need to stop pretending I like the small talk. I like debate and deep social dialogue. I like hearing new ideas and hashing out concepts and possibilities. I like weighing in on topics many prefer to avoid. I like the mental stimulation that comes from hearing what other people think. I like the second layer, even if it gets messy.

Squishing into a bathing suit is super uncomfortable and so is squashing myself into being someone other than who I am. I tend to do both to try and “fit”. I seek approval and acceptance and yet make the standards of my self acceptance so high that there is not a hope in hell that I will ever reach it.

I need to stop being afraid. My jiggly bits are my insecurities. I don’t feel I am “enough” but I am trying to ease that load.

I am afraid of wearing a bikini and I am afraid of being me. It’s time for positive action and to make a change. This summer, I will brave the bathing suit and being me.

Here’s to having the courage we need to become more than we thought we could (and to finding the bathing suit that fits to perfection). Here’s to the shine that lives within!

With love,

Shelley

COVID, The Cabin & Camp Sim…..


The Sim Cabin

Our house is like a summer cabin. It’s cute but not finished. My husband calls it a “work in progress”. I call that “marriage”. The house needs small things like trim and a wee bit of siding but somehow anything and everything has a higher priority than trim and siding.

The house sits on two acres and is “nestled” in the trees. That sounds idyllic and it is, until you get the faint whiff of the pigs…. We started the house with two bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen and living “area”. For a family of 5, it was cozy. Owen slept in the hallway. When we entertained, our guests had to bring a jacket because the only place to sit was outside on the porch. This was tricky in the winter. In the summer, we pretended to be trendy with “el fresco” dining.

Over the years, we have continued to renovate. Everyone now has their own bedroom, there is a large living room with a lovely vaulted ceiling and another big outdoor porch area that begs for rich conversation over steaming mugs of tea or glasses of chilled white wine. The house also begs for a second bathroom. However, all boys and men seem to delight in the freedom of the great outdoors so somehow we manage.

We are definitely not fancy. Our home is a collection of comfortable things; often second hand things. I love the worn leather couches and for some weird reason, I love the olive green loveseats with their cloth texture and 70’s design that don’t match anything else in the house. I adore the red chairs on the deck where I have my morning coffee and can listen to the rain on the tin roof. Our house wears like a favourite pair of worn jeans; it’s comfortable, casual and feels like a like a cabin all year round.

Mostly that is great but since COVID19, the cabin has morphed into summer camp and I am the new camp counsellor. The “campers” for this season include our eldest son Aiden (23), daughter Megan (21), youngest son Owen (14), our German student (16) and of course my husband Wayne who teaches the outdoor survival course. With all these people, you can see why I would be keen on a second bathroom.

The day starts exactly like camp would. Everyone gathers for breakfast and then they head off for morning activities leaving the kitchen help to do the dishes and tidy up. That’s me. “Camp Counsellor” is a wide descriptive. I also get to be the custodian and the laundry attendant. The camp seems to be run as a non-profit with volunteer “staff”.

As Camp Counsellor, I make sure I offer plenty of activity choices. Some examples are yard work, painting, scrubbing walls, sanding decks or organizing the sport shed. Afternoon “rest time” is the most popular activity. This is perplexing because it’s not something I offer as a camp activity and yet, every afternoon, people are happily lounging in chairs, hammocks or on the couches. They are reading or streaming or napping. I know this because I have to ask them to move while I sweep and mop around them. Time for camp chores.

I adore my daughter for all her Type A characteristics. She specializes in labelling, spreadsheets and organizational flow charts. Thanks to her, we now have a daily job chart where everyone is assigned specific tasks and each task has very clear directions and expectations. Cleaning the bathroom is NOT just taking a look and seeing that there is enough toilet paper. She just became the Camp Director.

Evenings are spent around the dining room table. The conversations flow and are quite animated. Sometimes we have to invoke camp rules like “play nice” and “don’t call each other names” but overall, it’s engaging. It’s also relaxing since the chore list was invoked and I don’t have to do the after dinner clean up.

Quarantine with the family has had its moments of “OMG! I HATE THIS CAMP, GET ME OUT OF HERE” but as the days flowed into weeks, I found joy in the rhythm. Morning breakfast includes morning visits with each of the kids. Megan and Aiden help Owen with his homework; they all head out biking and since Camp Sim doesn’t ban alcohol, happy hour is another popular social activity.

Camp life has allowed us to escape to a place in time that we never thought we would experience again. Wayne and I thought we might have outgrown camp. After all, Aiden and Megan had left home. They had gone onto university and had started creating their own pathways and were stretching towards their life milestones. Pre COVID, our family home was just the touchpoint that was used to bring people back together for Thanksgiving and Christmas. These holidays were lovely but the time was fast and fleeting. These days, we have nothing but time.

At Camp Sim, we laugh, we giggle and yes, we argue but we also make up. Wayne and I get to “know” our adult children in ways that we never imagined. Owen has new relationships with his siblings that previously didn’t exist. They have developed connections amongst themselves that are the foundation for a lifetime relationship and it’s beautiful to watch. I’m not so keen when they gang up on me as Camp Counsellor but I do cherish that they are the best cabin team of the summer.

There are many awful consequences to COVID19. At night, I admit to falling into a cold sweat (different than hot flashes) over finances, the economy and all the other “what ifs” but if I stay focused on our sense of summer camp, I am transported into a magical place for which I am intently grateful. Time has been suspended long enough that I can embrace the whole family in one hug. Life has paused. I can swim in the clouds and experience whole hearted being with my all my kids, all at once.

This week, the gears of our world are slowly churning and grinding to restart. Social circles can be expanded, businesses can cautiously turn on the lights and students will resume school in part time blocks. It’s not going to be the same; it’s going to be different. I hope the “difference” will include the good bits of what we have all just shared. I hope that we don’t “rush” back to a life that kept us too busy from connecting on meaningful levels. I hope that we continue to grow gardens, shop local and stay in touch. I hope that “slowing down” is viewed as a valuable part of being whole and healthy and that the “rush” and the “stress” of being “busy” is a pandemic to avoid.

It’s been a funny journey. The shock and awe that first took me by storm has morphed into gratitude for Camp Sim. I like this bubble but I know it can’t last. I know the bus will come and take the kids back to their lives. We will hug and say goodbye; it’s part of the camp experience but for right now, I just wish camp could last just a little bit longer.

With love,

Shelley

A Mother’s Day Tribute to The People Who Stopped Us From Eating Our Young….Happy Aunt’s Day!


My life goals never included motherhood. Children didn’t interest me. The exception to this was when I was babysitting and I was paid.

I remain immensely surprised to be a mother to three children. Perhaps the bigger surprise was having two children and then having a third eight years later. No, this was not a result of a second marriage. Yes, there was alcohol involved but that’s another story.

When our first child was born, I went to the hospital with three sets of cue cards. One for me, one for my husband and one “just in case”. The cards outlined the three stages of birth and suggested phrases of support. If my cue cards weren’t stupid enough, I also declined “drugs” but only because I had packed a small bottle of vodka as a back up pain plan. I’m not kidding but I am super embarrassed……

No one read my dumb cue cards and I forgot I had packed the vodka. All best laid plans went to hell and I just remembering looking up at the clock after hours and hours of horrific back labour and thinking “I’m pretty sure the cue cards said that we would be done by now“. This thought was followed by “how the hell do I get to stage three“?

The awful reality was that stage three was only achieved by actually giving birth. F*CK.

If I gave birth, I would then become a parent. I took Young Drivers of Canada to learn how to drive and I went to marriage counselling prior to the wedding. How was it possible that the hospital was just going to let me leave with a baby? No screening questions, no criminal record check and no one even looked in my bag to see if I had cracked the seal on the vodka bottle. They let me leave after seeing that we had a certified car seat. OMG.

Flash forward two years when baby number two arrives. If you think a pandemic brings on day drinking, try a husband in school and living in a one bedroom apartment with an overactive toddler and a baby that has colic.

I was not a natural parent. I needed help. PLENTY OF HELP. In addition to my own Mum, what really got me through was the “aunties” of the world.

The “aunties” are my sister (my AMAZING sister!!) and extended relatives but also those other magical people who helped along the way. They were the friends that gave baby showers and who offered to babysit. They were the people that talked me out of the bathroom after I locked myself in for a “timeout”. They held my hand when things got tough and hugged and cheered during major milestones of joy. They are the ones that still remember each of the kids names which is helpful because I always forget.

These friends and family members are the honoured “aunties” and an invaluable part of my children’s upbringing. At every stage, they extended kindness and support. And never judged. OK, when our third fell in the well, there were some raised eyebrows but honestly, he’s fine and has even learned to swim. The point is that when I made mistakes, it was the “aunties”, that supported me and kept me on track. They also made me laugh.

These beautiful souls went shopping for grad dresses, took the kids for dinner, taught them to ski and surf. They remembered birthdays and when left in charge, even made French toast as a special request. They filled in where I had gaps.

Glennon Doyle wrote “Blessed are those brave enough to make things awkward, for they wake us up and move us forward“. I hope that every mom has a team of “aunties”. They ask the hard questions. “Are you sure you want to do (or say) that…” “Have you checked…..” “Did you consider…..” and of course the big question “Don’t you remember when you were ……”. That last question was always tricky because I have to be accountable to those who have proof of my teenage years. As side note, if my children ask, I was perfect, never snuck out at night AND a virgin when I got married.

My kids are better because of those outside the role of “parent”. The “aunties” are the best influences and the greatest support. They are perspective and balance and the only side they “choose” is love for all. They are the compass in the storm and the touchstones for ever after. It’s not only my kids who are better but I am better because they weighed in and weren’t afraid of the awkward moments. They woke me up and moved me forward.

This year, my version of “Mother’s Day” will include “Aunties Day”. This year, I celebrate all those women who stepped in and walked beside me to make a difference. Thanks to them, I have three great kids who are the sum parts of genetics and external moments of love. Unconditional love is not the sole lawn sign that belongs to moms, it’s a whole big team who can wear the uniform with pride.

I am not enough. Kids need more than just the mother and the father; kids need the collective and sometimes the collective takes on different faces. My mother became the Grandmother, my sister becomes the Aunt and my friends are the “aunties”. My relationship to each of them is different than the relationship they have with my kids but it works to create the whole. Without them, I know I would have cracks. The “aunties” give kids a place to “be free” of parental judgment and nuttiness.

While I never thought I would be a mother, here I am. I still haven’t done a criminal background check but with the exception of falling in the well, being left at the hockey arena and maybe forgetting to pick them up after basketball, no one is in jail. And that includes me.

To all the amazing people who have shared in the journey of my kids, thank you! Thank you for being the safe space, the letter of reference, the person that dropped everything to listen and who always gave the gift of love. In my heart, I dedicate Sunday May 10th to you and the deep difference you have made to me and my family. You are my miracles and I am beyond grateful.

With love,

Shelley

The Slippery Slope of Aging and the Need for Larger Fonts…


A few years ago, I noticed that I would have to hold a book further and further away to read. When I needed to stretch further than I could reach, I realized that I had arrived at the age of “readers”.

While picking up party supplies at the local Dollar Store, I casually slipped a pair of readers into my basket. That night, reading my book in bed was a joy! The words were clear and bright. It was marvelous and also my own little secret. Like grey hair. Those little suckers were quietly covered up too.

My secret soon became public. I was at the gym peering at the stair climber console trying to squint my way through getting started. Likely more urgent was that I liked the TV on the console and couldn’t see the channels. No matter how hard I squinted, it was one big flashing blur. Nothing screams “OLD LADY IN THE HOUSE” more than wearing a pair of readers on your head during a gym work out. True story because when the younger members saw me come in, they quickly turned down the music and switched the station to hits of the 80’s. At least it wasn’t “golden oldies”. Ugh.

My readers went from an occasional companion to having a pair in every room, two pairs in my purse and the emergency pair in the car. “Don’t leave home without them” was not about my children or American Express, it was my readers.

With failing eyesight, I can’t see dust or grime or chin hairs until it becomes overwhelmingly obvious. Not terrible when it applies to dust or grime but discovering a lone chin hair that has gone rogue is a totally different issue. “How long has THAT been growing?” and “why didn’t anyone tell me?”

Plucking eyebrows is also tricky. I have to lean into the mirror, inch the readers slightly down my nose and then carefully angle the tweezers around the rims. The trick is being able to balance the readers so that I can see the dissident hairs and pluck appropriately. Without my readers, things can go bad very quickly.

I need things supersized. This includes labels, directions to medications, the font on my phone and menus. Even the best readers can’t help me in dimly lit restaurants with a romantic candle. Get rid of the candle and could someone please bring me a flashlight!

The struggle continues in the shower. At hotels I have to strategically place those little itty bitty bottles around the tub. Front right corner is the shampoo, front left is the conditioner and rear right corner is the body wash. One slip of the system and I am washing out of order. Even at home this is a problem. Finally, I got smart. C is for conditioner and S is for shampoo.

Readers were easy solutions but they were just one visual form that announced the aging process had begun. Tank tops are another.

I always wondered why women of a “seasoned” vintage wore tank tops in the winter. I get that wardrobe choice now. It’s not fashion, it’s survival apparel.

It takes real self discipline to be in a meeting and not bat an eye when suddenly your body catches fire. Staring straight ahead, you continue with the meeting. “Nothing to see, everything is fine“. No acknowledgement that your body is about to combust into flames. Beads of sweat start to form on the upper lip and brows; armpits become open taps and water cascades down the back like a waterfall. Quick action is required because at any moment people are going to start noticing the puddles pooling on the floor. Diversion strategies are critical. My favourite is to point towards the ceiling and ask “is that a spider“? I just need those few seconds to mop my brow, whip off the jacket, flap the blouse like a fan and regain my composure. These are the superpowers that I wasn’t expecting in my 50’s.

C is for Crisis.

The readers, the tank tops, the grey hair and the new spare tire were public admissions of getting older. I felt moments of “ageism” creeping into my reality. Parts of me were breaking down including knees and shoulders. I question hem lengths of appropriateness and I sure can’t attend exercise classes that include an excess of “jumping”. Was the best of me now behind me? There lay the sadness. I saw readers as the start of the decline and the years ahead were a hell of a lot shorter than the years behind. A point of life crisis.

Somehow I had let the “adulting” wear me away. I traded in my hopes and dreams for “respectable” and “responsible”. I gave into the concept that a “good mother” wouldn’t put herself before her family. A “good mother” would be last. The last to eat, the last to bed and the last to take time for herself. I bought into this invisible code of ridiculous conduct and now I was faced with the fear that my next decades of life would involve a tasteful wardrobe made up of ugly flowered blouses, comfortable shoes and bad light jazz.

C is for COVID19 and Courage.

A pandemic has brought panic but also an abundance of time to rethink my drink and recheck reality. Many self-help authors are more than willing to share their secrets of their incredible success but I am not sure I relate to “them”. Where my real inspiration has taken place is with those that are my friends. Here is where I found courage in action.

One friend has started an athletic apparel company, another is following her dreams and starting a business that involves cooking for seniors while others are embracing new careers and making moves to pivot their business models in response to the new economy. I am in awe of those who are winning with their fitness goals, starting new hobbies and I am humbled by those who have chosen to consciously “stop” and give generously to the needs of their family and friends. These people are not collapsing but rising and rising strong.

And if that wasn’t enough inspiration, Google has more! Judi Dench became the darling of the screen in her 60’s, Mary Kay kickstarted her career in her 50’s and even after a brief stint in jail, Martha Stewart rose to a new level of stardom in her 70’s.

C is for Change.

To follow along my theme of bravery, I need to reset my perspective. I am the one that chose to conform to some nebulous playbook; a weird form of societal convention and that has to change. My choice moving forward is to give life to the 18 year old that still lives within; to bring back that gal who loves to crank the music and dance on tables. Maybe my “readers” are to see that the best is yet to come thanks to a life full of experience and well lived life lessons.

To you my friends, thank you for the inspiration to be more than I thought I could be. There is power in reaching the age of the “reader” and I vow to rock the tank top!

With love to all.

Shelley