The phone call every parent dreads.

The phone rang at 11:30pm.  A phone call after 11:00pm is never a good thing.

I immediately felt something internally grab my stomach, and I couldn’t breathe, and my intuition was correct.  It was the call no parent wants to receive…the call telling me my son had been in a car accident.

I jumped out of bed and started asking a million questions.  The nurse was put on the phone, and she replies with, “He is lucid.”

This was the longest night I can ever remember.  

Jordan was able to talk with me, but he was extremely anxious about everything.  His legs were aching terribly, his head was hurting, his chest was hurting, and he couldn’t remember much about the accident.  I felt that was a good thing.  The good Lord above protects our minds until we are better prepared to handle all of the details in such traumatic events.  That is my belief anyway.

I don’t ever think I have felt more helpless.  My son, Jordan, was in Dallas, Texas, which was many, many miles from Winchester, Kentucky.  He was in his 3^rd week of flight academy training with American Airlines.  All that I could do was depend on Jordan’s friends to keep me updated on all of his test results, and they did.  One friend, Caity, will forever be on Santa’s good list if I have anything to do with it.

In between phone calls, my mind wandered to that baby boy I brought into this world 26 years earlier.  I saw pictures of him in my head taking his bottle, or playing with his big brother.  I remembered his first birthday.  I remembered his first day of school.  I remembered band concerts, and I remembered a special lunch we shared at Ramsey’s in Lexington, KY.  I felt fear like I have never felt fear before, and I felt completely out of control.  Yet, I had to be strong for my son, my baby boy. 

After Jordan was a little calmer, he was able to tell me he was on his way home after a very late class with 4 other friends, and that he was in the middle of the backseat.  A car in the left lane beside them came over on top of them and pushed them off the road.  The driver panicked and overcorrected pulling the car back onto the highway, and the car began flipping.  That was all he could remember until he woke up to paramedics.

He then said the hospital had to cut off his clothes and shoes to get to his injuries and that he would need some new clothes.  Really?  Really?  That is what you are concerned about in this moment.  I was sure it must be the meds talking, or his way of thinking about something else.  I assured him we would get some new clothes.  And, I told him to try to relax and think about other things…hoping to lower his anxiety after such a traumatizing accident.  But, that didn’t work very well.  I could hear the trembling in his voice.

Throughout the night, test results indicated he would be fine.   He had lots of bumps, cuts and bruises, but nothing that seemed life threatening.  He did have a strong headache, and the doctors asked friends who were taking him home to wake him up every two hours to make sure he was ok.  This created a situation where Jordan was afraid to go to sleep.  But, I do think he got a little sleep.  I, on the other hand, did not.  I was up thanking The Good Lord above for taking care of my child.  Oh, how this story could have been so different.  

The next morning, Jordan was beginning to remember pieces of the wreck his mind had protected him from.  He remembered the car was laying on its side, and the young man to his right being on top of him.  He could hear screaming.  And, he could remember trying to reach up to push the door open at the top.  That is all he remembers.  He still does not know how he got out of the car.  However it happened, God had a big hand in it.

My son has had an on-going headache, his left leg has a deep cut and is very swollen…he has many aches, pains, bruises and cuts throughout his body, and his nerves have been on an emotional roller-coaster.  But, he survived.  He even got up the next morning and made himself go back to class.  I was not too happy about that.  The momma bear in me wanted him snug as a bug in a rug…getting rest.  I lost that battle.  He is nothing, if not determined!

I was so inspired by the strength my son demonstrated that next morning.  I would like to think he got some of that strength from me.  Well, he would have received that strength from a younger version of me.  I only made it through a half day of work the next day.  This menopausal mom cannot run on zero sleep!  I went home and went to bed. 

But, my son has taught me a valuable lesson.  When I feel, let’s use the word, “witchy,” I will step back and think about how blessed I am, and that I need to keep the “witch” in me, in check!  And, when I have minor aches and pains, as older women do, I will remember how much he was suffering when he got up and went to class the morning after such a horrific accident.  And, when I have those days where I feel I cannot take anymore, I will remember the Lord above is with me, just as he was with my son.

May your hot flashes be mild and your wrinkles even milder.
Kim York

  

If it's the internet is it snooping? If you're a Mom is snooping wrong?

When I was about 13 or 14 I kept a diary. Like many things I did at 13 or 14 I did it mainly because I thought it was the thing I was spposse to do. I am pretty sure Marcia on the Brady Bunch had a diary and that's what cool, teen girls did.

It was really more of a notebook than a diary, there was no lock on it. I did  take to hiding in my room, under some pillows or in boots I never wore. I wrote the heck out of the diary. 

I told that diary everything for a while. I told that diary things I never dared tell my friends or, God forbide, my mother.

And I will admit now having a daughter who is two years away from being a legal adult if I found a diary where she wrote many, ok any, of the same things I wrote when I was 13 or 14 I would  be concerned.

So.....my Mom found my diary all those  years ago. That's the way I remember it. She didn't even come right out and say "I read about your escapades and, boy, you are in deep trouble." No, she alluded to and tried to get me into counseling. 

Looking back it was a reasonable, measured response focused on my well-being. Then the reading of the diary was a massive invasion of my privacy.
I was furious. In fact, I was so mad that, employing the logic of a teen girl, that I burned the damn thing. 

Yes, if you are going to read my deepest, darkest thoughts and replace it in my room and try to get me to talk to someone I am going to show you...... 

And, here's the other thing, I rarely after that kept any kind of diary. I rarely wrote something like this blog that talked about how I looked at things or what I was doing. What I felt was a betrayal at that age colored my behavior for a long time. 

Anyway, so here I am a Menopausal Mom who once had a diary I tucked under my pillow and in my boots and my daughter has the diary-equivilent of a Twitter account or Instagram or Facebook. (If you are a Menopausal Mom you laughed at the last part because no teen is really still on Facebook,)

So if I seek out the words and pictures she shares with the world am I snooping unnecessarily? Hypothetically, say, I happened mostly by accident on an unlocked version of those account that she thinks she's sharing with 249 of her closet friends would that make it a worse kind of snooping?
Fundamentally, is it wrong for a mom to snoop or is it a job requirement?
Over the summer at a family gathering my daughter broke the news to me in front of a crowd that she and her friends and then boyfriend had plans to go camping. Adults I trust were going to be along and there would be separate tents for boys and girls. Still, I was hesitant. My family joined in and I got a very unexpected piece of advice from my 84-year-old Mom. "What are you afraid of?" she said, "Are you afraid they are going to have sex? If they wanted to have sex they can do it your drive way. At some point you have to trust you raise them to make good decisions." This was my internal response mostly to the thought of anyone, especially my daughter, having sex in my driveway.

But when I thought it about my Mom had a point.
I feel like that logic extends to snooping. I should just say no to snooping unless there is a real reason for concern about her health and safety. Even then probably the right thing to do is  try to talk with her first You know, act like a mature responsible adult and create channels for meaningful, supportive communication.
Still, snooping seems a lot easier.
What do you think? Is it snooping and is it wrong?
Shout out to France. Yes, France. We have a reader or readers who have checked out Menopausal Moms. It just goes to show that Menopause and Moms are Universal.

I can't win if I don't play: Selling myself

I am applying for a really fancy fellowship. I won't jinx it right now but believe me when I tell you it's one of the best gigs in journalism and I really want to get it.
I'm a writer. I do that all the time. This kind of blogging is a bit weird for me because I've always been careful to, except for very rare occasions, keep myself out of my stories.
But I'm growing bolder with each post so, thanks for that.
But this application is kicking my butt. First I had to admit to myself then to other people....like my bosses....that I thought I had a chance at competing among what appears to be a very accomplished group of people. You know grown up people like an Amal Clooney you might run into at Wal-Mart.
Then, not only do I have to sell myself and sell myself hard in 1,000 words, I have to ask other professionals who I respect to help me sell myself. It doesn't help that someone helping me might have told me that one of the people making the decision on this particular fellowship may lean towards thinking that of Kentucky, Georgia, Alabama and Tennessee as the same place. (Honestly, I can kind of see that if you aren't from somewhere there.)
So I have spent about 24 hours out of the last 72 working on an essay. I don't even remember what I wrote for a college essay. ( I got a couple scholarships so I guess it was OK.)
First I was breezy and bright which has worked for previous far less intense fellowship applications. Second, after reading five years worth of bios of previous recipients, I went dark and serious and pulled out some of the saddest stories I have ever told.
It did make me sound like a Serious Journalist. And, honestly, I have lots of stories that do that. I'm sure my Serious Journalist competitors have lots of those too.
On my drive home tonight, I started thinking about what really makes me different maybe special. Yes, I am good at my job. That's true. Yes, I've had great help in producing some terrific work.
But there are lots of pepole who can say that.
I'm rounding the corner into thinking that maybe what will bring me out of the impressive stack of applicants is the things I've done that not too many people I know have done that didn't seem all that special at the time.
Some of that is my Uber-Nerd devotion to journalism at a very young age. As a high school journalist I interviewed 300 kids about the impact of the recession on the youth of the day. Yes. I. Did. I surveyed 300 kids. Not surprisingly my middle class, mostly white peers did not suffer much from the recession in the early 80s. Or, if they did, they didn't want to admit it to the cute girl in the cafeteria who kept insisting that they help her fill out a survey.
But I also decided at some point, after falling forward through three lay offs in five years in the early 90s that I was not going to take a fourth job even though the money was good. There were two reasons. I thought the company was growing too fast and I didn't want to get stuck in Miami. Plus a friend of mine's Uncle Joe told me following a family funeral that no one should ever take a job just for the money. He said this with a New York Italian accent that made it sound especially profound. I didn't' take that job.  Six months later, the department I was going to work in was eliminated.
Instead, I focused on being the mistress of my own fate and made freelancing work until after my daughter was born and did fine.
Better than fine.
My daughter calls in my hippie phase. I tried to pretend she was wrong. But hand-dyed, tie-dyed overalls, check.
Birkenstocks, check.
Long wild hair most often in a basball cap or held up by a pencil, check.
Bartering photography and pottery classes by mixing glazes and mopping floors at an art school, check and check.
So, in my hippie phase, I made sometimes beautiful things just because and read brainy books for no good reason. If I hadn't had that break between Uber-Nerd and Serious Journalist I would have cracked under newsroom pressure a long time ago. (OK I may have cracked, I think I would have broken.)
So, I'm going to hit "post" on this and send it out into the ether and go onto what could literally be the 50th draft application if you count each time I 've closed and open the file.  I'm hoping to win because I have the courage to play the game and tell the truth about some messy choices in my life that ended up with good results.
If you pray, say a prayer for me. I you send up good vibes, vibe away. If you think good thoughts, I could use the positive energy.
I'll keep you posted.

I got the best Christmas present ever 16 years ago. My daughter

 I was pretty zen considering I hadn't gotten any medicine yet. The hat says "I believe"

To Bailey from her Mom:

I'll start at the beginning. Well not all the way at the beginning because that involves the type of conversation that is inappropriate.
But this is the thing I can tell you. The way I remember it the nightyou first arrived in this time and space there was the most amazing moon. I've never seen one like it before or after. Your Dad and I had been in Sanford, Fla., just outside of Orlando and we were heading home as the moon was coming up. And on the flat landscape somehow the moon looked epic, like it was really rising out of the road ahead of us. It was perfect and orange and red andround and kind of breathtaking.
I had some trouble with keeping you around early on. But that is a story for another day.

I loved growing you even though I threw up at least once a day.

Somebody told me that when a baby has a lot of hair it can mess with your digestion. You had a lot of hair.
A few months in I had a dream about the baby I was going to have. I'm not sure yet even if I knew you were a girl. But I had a dream of a little girl with a bouncy head of hair in a field of flowers. Her
hair was kind of reddish and she had the chubbiest of cheeks and she wasn't smiling but looking at me like she knew me and that she would be heading my way.

When you were about three we were at the kite festival. You were running up and down the hill in your Tweetie buttoveralls with your curls bouncing in the sun and you turned around and looked at me.......and your face was the same as the face I had seenbefore you were born. I struck me then, like it has a hundred times since you've been mine, we were meant to find each other.
So back to the day at hand. It was Dec. 23. I was ready to have a baby. Because, as you know, I am a woman who likes to have deadlines and, baby, we were on a deadline. You were due Dec. 23 and I felt pretty strongly that you should arrive. I was huge and uncomfortable and ready to have you occupy your own space in this world. I had been reading all the things you could do to promote labor. I had actually written a story about the pine nut and gorgonzola salad at a restaurant in Winter Park

that women swore helped get their labor going. (Years later I read something about the chemical properties of pine nuts actually do mimic some labor hormones so, who knew?)
Anyway I had the salad. I took walks. I was shopping at Christmas time
in a crowded chi-chi shopping place and I was enormously pregnant so you can imagine how much I was enoying that. Oh, did I mention I had on a red and white stripped candy-like shirt and a baseball
cap/elf hat that said "I believe".
I ran into an old boss as I was wobbling through one of the stores. His name was Mike Bales. He had laid me off. But had done me a kindness in doing so. I'm not sure I was aware of that at the time. We
had some idle chit-chat in a crowded store. I joked at the time that Mike Bales scared me into labor.
I was prepared. There was a bag packed, movies included: Clueless (because it is my favorite movie ever) and It’s a Wonderful Life (because George, Mary, Bailey).

We had asked our friend Jan to come along to take some pictures and keep us company.

I had on a red and white candy cane stripped shirt and a elf-inspired baseball cap that said I believe.

We had been to the birthing class. To be honest, I had a feeling that your Dad wasn't going to be all that helpful. (Turned out I was right) Jan was a no-nonsense kind of person when the situation called for it so I knew she would be stalwart.
But, here is something that is a little surprising, I was not really well versed on exactly what would happen. I knew I would be giving birth and there would be breathing and epidural but that's kind of
where it ended. I didn't know about drugs or hormones or how many centimeters you needed to be dilated. I guess I figured my body would just make it work. More likely I was afraid I wouldn't do it right so there was no point in studying for this particular test.
I don't remember the contractions being that bad but when they became about five minutes apart we went to the hospital.
They wanted us to walk. So we did.

It was, you know, late Dec. 23 so most of the hospital was empty plus there was renovation going on so there were entire hallways with no one around. We walked and walked and walked. I had my Birkenstocks on and I was, you know, hugely pregnant so I kind of rolled along. It was likely a very slow procession. (Still in candy cane shirt and hat.)
At one point I decided to sing. It seems to me that I sang a lot. One song went something like this, except to the tune of Jingle Bells: "Giving birth, giving birth, it's time to give birth. We’re here now,
I'm big like a cow, It's time to give birth, Yeah!"
When we came close to wings where there were people, I am sure 1) People thought we drunken idiots. 2) They really wished I couldn't sing so loud.
Eventually my water broke or something happened and the nurses were suddenly not so keen on my walking and they made me get in bed and they strapped this belt around my middle that told them exactly what my contractions were doing. I didn't know until maybe 11 years later
when we were talking to Dr. Meinke about your calves, that they were in a rush because they were worried you might swallow meconium and that you were in distress. And that could have been bad.
But, fortunately, I had not done my homework so I just thought ­-- Ok...I'll lay down now.
Contractions were not that bad. They did go on for like, 11 hours. I kind of got use to them. Jan's boyfriend at the time was there and he had an annoying habit of looking at the monitor and announcing with each contraction that this one was going to be an especially bad one.
Thank you Jan's douche bag boyfriend.
But mostly, I said "ouch". Yep, "ouch". No screaming. Surprisingly, no
cussing. Just "ouch."
Just like when I threw up everyday and I said that it was for a good cause, I told myself the same. This was for a really good cause. So, "ouch."
When the doctor showed up, finally, he had on the same hat that I did. Although I had never seen him before and don't recall his name, I believe that was kind of meant to be.
They kept telling me how I needed to stay really still for the epidural. I had been saying ouch for 10 hours and they told me the epidural would make that stop so I was damn skinny going to be still.
No problem.
Then I was a little giddy on medicine, ok, a lot giddy on medicine. I decided I wasn't going to be able to do this thing. Yes, I was going to be the first woman in the history of healthy woman in actual labor with a healthy baby who would somehow mange to not be able to give birth. I somehow decided I was just incapable of it so.....I wanted to go home.

Mr. Tree which I had won by stuffing entries into a give away box at a local store was waiting for me at home. 
I tried my best to go home. I tried to be my most charming. I promised and purred that I lived just so close and that I would come right back. It would be finnneee.....why not just let me go home for, like,
a sec? No worries. I'll come back.
I tried and tried to convince everyone to let me go home and no one would. They wanted me to rest but I kept wanting to talk to your Dad so I could convince him to let me go home. They made him leave the room so I would sleep.
So what happened when you finally decided to come?

I my memory, it was like there was stadium seating in the place. Jan was there. Your dad was there.
Your Nana and Pop were there. My friend Cheri was there. Jan's boyfriend was there. Jan. Your Dad. There were two teams of nurses because they were worried about you although they didn't tell me that.
The only time I lost my cool was when they were telling me to push.
The whole room was kind of yelling at me. It was suppose to be encouraging but I couldn't believe that they didn't understand that I kind of needed to concentrate.

Pushing out a human, here!
I snapped a little: Only one person can tell me what to do.
And there you were. Your Dad swears It’s A Wonderful Life was playing on the television. (That is back in the day of VHS.)

Anyway. You were beautiful.

I felt in an instant that you were mine. I could feel your heart beat in sync with mine and I never knew I could love anything as much as I loved you.
They put you in what looked like a plastic bin away from me and told me to rest. But every time you made a sound I would sit up and look in your direction, even though I was exhausted and still pretty high. I knew I had to help you if you needed me.
When we got to our room it was just us. Everybody left. Now it was Christmas Eve. There wasn't even hardly a staff. The nurses didn't answer the call button. There was a place for your dad to sleep but he went home.
So it was me and you and they told me not to keep you in the bed with me but I did for awhile. When I put you back in your plastic bin I didn't want you to feel lonely so I had a yarn Santa face that had
been on a present and I taped so you could see it and have something interesting to take in.....although looking back, you know, the whole world was new to you so it was probably a little bit of overkill.
Still, my sweet baby girl, it was the most amazing day of my life. My best day ever, easily. And you are truly the best Christmas present I have ever had.

(Although, when you become a successful grown up, I hear diamond
earrings are awfully nice :)

3Ms: Mat Maid to Mom to Mid Life Crisis

I was a Mat Maid at Waggener High School  in 1982 where wrestling was, at the time, the sport.
A Mat Maid's job was to cheer at wrestling matches.
Sue Heck, the dweeby middle daughter on TVs The Middle, is a kind of  fictional Mat Maid. But at Waggener High School in 1982 it was considered an honor. If I remember correctly the boy athletes voted the girls onto the squad.
As my brief tenure would attest, skill was not a pre-requisite.
Mat Maiding overall made me uncomfortable. I didn't enjoy being so front and center with so much pain. I had to resist the urge to yell at the grappling boys: Use Your Words!
No offense to those athletes, and they were impressive, but I'm generally not a fan of grunting, moaning and wrestling unless I am an active participant.
Frankly, the title Mat Maid even at 17 it made me think of a maid who made her money on a mat, short for mattress, and, well, that didn't seem appropriate.
As I believe we have established with It's OK. Go Gray I was adorable, thanks Mom/Dad/God, but was clueless.
But  even way back in the age of Big Shoulder Pads and Bigger Hair I was aware that I was a terrible Mat Maid.
And that one particular Mat Maid semester I had a lucrative waitressing job, a boyfriend, was editor of the school paper and, you know, trying to get into college I remember getting a nasty virus or walking pneumonia. It might have been Mat Maid induced MRSA. Anyway, my Mom told I was stretched too thin and I had to let something go so, bye-bye my short cheering career. I think I was looking for an excuse to decline something that was suppose  that was an honor because I didn't want to seem ungrateful because, you know, boys voted for me!
About a year later, around my 18th birthday, I remember thinking really clearly....I'll never be a cheerleader. Which is weird, because I really never wanted to be a cheerleader. My failed Mat Maid effort showed that.
I think at the time it just marked a passing of a phase like when I was 7 and realized I was never really going to be a Pretty Pretty Princess or when I was 22 at my first job and I thought 'I will never go from reporter to Editor-in-Chief is two years' which had happened in college. Another revelation at the time was "I will never get another summer off."
(Random aside: I was also a ball girl for the Westport High School fighting soccer Warhawks circa 1980-81. I liked this job because it afforded close proximity to soccer players who were a Harry Styles-type combination of dreamy and mildly rebellious. There was also limited grunting and pain. Plus in those early Title IX Days it offered me the athletic outlet of running, climbing fences and being part of a team.  Also I, for a ridiculously long time, wanted to put "Ball Girl: 1980-1981" and "Mat Maid: 1981-1982" on a resume under "Other Interests" just to see what happened. Back to the story at hand.)
Over the years there have been some other moments of "I will never" some are poignant like "I will never see my Papaw again" others are shallow like  "chances are, I will never be famous."
But as you likely all know by the blog title Menopausal Moms I have hit the big one.
I will never have another child.
That ship has sailed.
That store has closed.
This uterus is officially out of business.
I don't know that I have ever really thought.....I must have another kid. I did think, briefly and wrongly, that maybe having another baby would right my wrong-trending marriage. Thank God for a moment of clarity there.
But more and more I am trying to think about my next chapter as my daughter gets ready to drive and go to college then on with her life.
I have had three main jobs,  two of them paying,  in my life.
Waitress, Writer, Mom.
The perimeters of one is changing and I can't do anything about it.
Adjusted for inflation of the other two one of them paid significantly better, especially in the last few years when health insurance rates keep going up, unpaid furloughs are required and raises, even matching 401-K contributions, have been non-existent at the same time workloads, required job skills and stress levels at my place of employment have increased.
So I'm trying to refigure the Mom part. (Thus, the blog)
I'm thinking about the rest.
There have been so many signs that God is trying to nudge me and, as always, I am slow to take the hint.
I got up on a recent Sunday and picked up the the paper from my driveway dressed in my non-too-fancy pajamas that didn't match and drove to the home of a long-time subscriber who had been working without success for two weeks to get her newspaper delivered.
It wasn't a long drive. I live in a small town.
But the trip was notable for two things. One, I don't normally go out, sans bra,  in Pjs and Crocs on a winters morn.
Two, I don't generally sob while driving.
I cried most of the way because my heart was breaking. Working for a newspaper is more than a paycheck for me it is a calling. It's what I've wanted to do, more or less, since I was 10. For a restless spirit who loved to write it was kind a dream job. I love all the good and noble parts of it. I am a believer in the power of a story both big and small.
It's also been a lifeline for me. When you tell the story, you are in charge and get to make the world make sense. There were times when I desperately needed the world to make sense.
I learn something every single time even when it is a topic I've covered a lot before.
I get to invest in people and, most of the time, help someone
I have to wonder if "I will never be able to do this work until I retire"
That is a big one.
I admire women who've gone back to school or started something completely different mid-life.
And I was once a girl who just picked a path and charged towards it. When I was a freelancer I would look at any kind of product with words and think: Someone has to write that, it might as well be me.
She's in there, I guess, but she seems diminished and not quite up for another big bold run.
I am pretty sure I'm not alone in these feelings.
I believe it is called a Mid-Life Crisis
I just know it makes me incredibly sad. A few weeks ago I was at a lunch with a bunch of nice people who all devote their lives to helping others. My daughter was with me. Someone I really respect introduced me as being "a really great reporter".  For the first time ever, I wished she could think of something else nice to say.