There is a semi-wrecked car in my front yard. Am I too nice?

Monday: There is a car in my front yard.
It belongs to a guy who lives somewhere in the neighborhood who police said was probably going too fast on the slippery roads and came within feet of hitting the only tree in my corner lot.
It was before 9 a.m. He was very distraught and didn't seem dressed for the weather...it was one of those sub-zero days we are all loving so much. He had on a thin hoody and sweats was older, older than me! He was very shaken up.
So, when he came to my door and it was freezing cold I didn't think. "Dude, you almost hit my tree!" I didn't say, "give me all of your contact information, right now Mister, you've torn my yard to shreds!"
Nope, I was concerned that he was safe and warm and wasn't hurt. I was worried about him and didn't  even get his name. I told him no worries and I was just glad he was OK. My focus was on making sure whether he needed help while calculating whether or not it was safe to invite him into my house to get warm or make a call because I was alone and in my bath robe.  (His other vehicle, a Ford Tundra which  a police officer said capable of pulling the car out of the ditch, was  idling in the street.)
The tactic agreement in this exchange was that I expected he would do the right thing and come claim his car out of my yard when the weather got warmer and the crisis passed and make an effort to make things right.
So, now, five days later, there is still a car in my yard.
I called the police because I thought they would place one of those stickers you see stuck on cars on the side of the highway and, soon, remove it from my property.  I was informed by the police that it is parked on private property....mine...I am responsible to tow it away if the owner doesn't come to claim it.
So, I suppose, within the next few days I'll have to play some kind of hard ball and tow the car, somehow notify the owner and say "pay me what I paid to tow the car or it is mine."
That makes me uncomfortable. I was just trying to be nice. But I had a different recent experience were I discovered that all that being nice has gotten me is screwed out of tens of thousands of dollars over the years. And, believe me when I say, I do not have tens of thousands of  dollars to be screwed out of. But it got me wondering is it ever wrong to be nice? Have I been too accommodating over the years because I wanted to be liked or because I was afraid to hurt someone's feelings? Or because I I thought I was protecting someone else? Would it have been so wrong to ask the guy for his name and numbers?
Tuesday: So, I started writing this post on Monday and now it's Tuesday. The nervous car driver came by while I was carefully stepping through the icy driveway to retrieve my garbage can so I didn't break a hip. He was nervous and apologetic and promised to get the car out of my yard.
He said he had lost three people he loved in the last six months, including his wife and his mother,  and hadn't gotten use to it all. For a minute, to be honest, I wondered if he was telling the truth. There was an instant when I took all of him in. He was still wearing the same clothes ill-suited for the weather.  His speech was difficult to understand because it seemed he didn't have in his teeth. He looked about ready to cry. So I looked him squarely in the eye and said "I'm glad your were OK" and "I know you'll do your best."
In that moment it felt like the right thing to do but I still wondered, stepping gingerly back down the driveway that I may well be the biggest sucker of all time.
Wednesday: I pull out for work and the car was gone. It was one of those moments where I couldn't help but smile and the sun seemed to shine a little brighter.  It may be overstating it but I felt like my faith in humanity had been in part restored. I had considered reconsidering my probably naive life outlook that assumes that basically people are doing the best they can. This recent lapse in faith has been tied directly to a particular person who never ceases to amaze me in their ability to be thoughtless and hurtful.
But here is the thing. I'm the one at fault in that case. Once, maybe twice, you give a person a chance. When it gets to be chance, five, six, 100, 200.....you have to take some responsibility. Or, more directly, I have to take responsibility. And action. That person is out of good will and good thoughts.
But my distraught driver? He had one chance. He did the right thing and I have never been happier to see tire marks in my yard.

Shout out to our reader (readers?) in Poland! Menopause is universal.
Seventeen countries and counting!
Mary M.

50 Shades of Grey: "Nay" to the movie and bondage teddy bear

50 Shades of Grey that epic ode to bondage and something called the Red Room is all the rage. It's been dubbed "Mommy Porn" and  although plenty of suburban moms found it a page-turner statistics indicate that a lot of unmarried women in the 20s and 30s are reading it too. 

From the Today Show to the Interwebs it is being pitched as a naughty movie spectacular aimed squarely at Soccer Moms.

It is the only porn-lite creation that I can think of in recent memories that made it OK to talk about erotica at the neighborhood barbecue. (Unless you live in a significantly racier zip codes than I do where discussion of erotica is the norm.)

I just don't get 50 Shades of Grey. To be honest, I had no interest in reading it when it came out but, in the interest of elevating the discourse of Menopausal Moms I just read some excerpts. With language like "My inner goddess is doing the merengue with some salsa moves” and "He hits me, hard" and perhaps my favorite, this ode to baby oil "from makeup remover to soothing balm for a spanked ass, who would have thought it was such a versatile liquid.”

After reading the bits and pieces, I'm secure in the fact that I made the right choice for me. (For the record, this is Mary, if there is anyone wondering. Kim would not repeat such things.)

I will say this. I don't judge. If bondage porn gets your motor running and a consenting adult wants to get in that leather suit with you, well you guys probably make a lovely pair. If you enjoy it because it is a daring daydream, good on you.

And I suppose if you have to say "I am not a prude" you are pretty close to admitting that you are a prude.  But truth be told, I liked 9 1/2 Weeks and remember fondly Last Tango in Paris although parts of it just confused me.

I am all for a little dirty fun.

It's just I think the dynamics as I understand them between Christian and Anastasia is too skewed for comfort and a little cliche.  Plus, Dakota Johnson speaks like a little girl in interviews which I find off putting. In the trailers show her begging the much older man to love her and he resists. Yet, apparently, the more he hits and tortures her the more he is willing to be her real boyfriend.

Yes, that's a message I can't get behind, to love me is to beat me.

I won't get into why sexual violence in a shouldn't be celebrated.

And, beyond that, I just don't like the author. I suppose I should. A middle aged writer turned international success. But she just rubs me the wrong way. Maybe I am jealous. Maybe I would like to be a middle aged writer with international success.

Here is the final thing. 50 Shades is celebrated for appealing to woman, suburban woman in
particular, slightly older woman at that. But last week the Today show had a special showing of the film for 1,000 mostly middle aged women. There was something about the running joke that --ohhhh, ladies of a certain age like S-E-X.

And, truthfully, isn't one of the only bonus things about menopause is that you can have sex and not worry about an unintended pregnancy. So, if for no other reason than that, shouldn't we all like sex a little more.
Are you Yay or Nay for 50 Shades. Tell me what you think.



Update: This is a for real thing from the Vermont Teddy Bear Company. It is 15 inches tall and costs $89.99. I wish I was making this up.


Shout out to our reader in India. Menopause and Moms are universal
.

Movie remakes are making me feel old!

I can actually say I watched the original “Star Wars” movie at the Weddington Theater in Pikeville, Kentucky, in late May of 1977.  I am sure my children, who are anxiously awaiting the release of the newest movie in what is now the third trilogy, “Star Wars: The Force Awakens,” must think I am ancient!

I probably am.

That movie was released at a good time for my family.  In April of that year, our home was swept away in a horrific flood.  We lost all of our family pictures, home movies…and everything else we possessed, and we were living in a mobile home provided to us by HUD.

 

But, for that one night, we were immersed in battle with the Rebel Alliance against the Galactic Empire and their terrifying space station, the “Death Star.”  I so wanted to be like Princess Leia, and of course my brothers wanted to be Luke Skywalker and Han Solo.  And, for a few years following the movie, their bedroom paid homage to the film.  There were Star Wars curtains, blankets, lightsabers,  and toys everywhere!  Some of the items were quite scary to see at night. Can you say “Chewbacca?”

What is making me so nostalgic you ask?  Well, I watched a trailer for a movie remake that will hit theaters this year, “Poltergeist.”  I simply could not believe the movie was old enough to have a remake.  But, I saw this movie when I was dating my first husband, in 1982.  That was almost 33 years ago.  #ThatCannotBeRight

And, I freakin’ LOVED this movie!  But, my experience watching this movie was most likely scarier than most.  Why?  Because we were watching the movie at the Huntington Mall in West Virginia and a tornado came through.  It knocked the power out in the theater, and the theater went black during the “clown under the bed” scene.  I just about peed my pants!  And yes, I screamed like the girl I was!  And, no, there were no cellphones back then to light up the place.  Of course, when you actually need the guy who kept walking through with the flashlight to make sure you weren’t smuggling in food, he was nowhere to be found!

When the movie came back on, my heart was racing out of my chest.  There was no way I could finish the movie at that point, or so I thought.  We started to exit the theater, and I kept watching the Freeling family search for Carol Anne, as I was walking out.  We decided to sit in the back row and watch a few more minutes, just to make sure Carol Anne was ok.  But, she wasn’t, and that was all it took to reel us back in.  I was so glad we stayed.  And, the whole experience gave new meaning to the phrase, “Go into the Light, there is peace and serenity in the light.”  There was almost no light for Carol Anne to walk into.  

I watched the trailer for the new “Poltergeist” movie, and the first thing I noticed was cellphones.  Technology will most likely add a whole new edge.   Just think, with the new 3D TVs out, Carol Anne shouldn’t have an issue with a fuzzy screen.  And, the messages from the dead should come through loud and clear!  Hopefully, this Freeling family will have surround sound!

After watching the “Poltergeist” trailer, I began to think about all of the remakes that have been coming out lately.  And, it made me think about some of the remakes of great movies I watched as a young woman.  They were new to me because I was too young to remember the originals.

 

One such movie is “Cape Fear.”  When I saw “Cape Fear” in 1991, I remember thinking, “It’s hard to believe the original movie was made in 1962…two years before I was even born.  That was a long time ago!”  But, it was actually only 29 years earlier.  That wasn’t even as many years as there is between the “Poltergeist” movies.

 

So, to see all of the movie remakes coming out lately and knowing I watched the originals when I was a young adult, really makes me feel my age.  “Ghostbusters” is even being remade.  Has it been that long since we heard Ray Parker, Jr., sing, “Who ya gonna call?“

And, was it really that long ago that we heard Sissy Spacek ask, “Why didn’t you tell me momma?”

I guess it was.

 

Time goes by so fast anymore.  I fear closing my eyes and hearing the remake of “Fifty Shades of Grey” is coming out.   But, for now, I am not too old to consider watching the original on Valentine’s Day! #UhOh

May your hot flashes be mild and your wrinkles even milder!

Kim York

Ok, now I believe you. There's a stretch when you won't recognize your teen.

There are certain things that we Moms, menopausal or not, simply don't share willingly with each other. Did someone, anyone, come to you when you were pregnant and tell you that your feet would never been the same size again? Did your best friend or sister let you know that the shoes in your closet would forever be a reminder of your pre-pregnancy glass slipper size as your newly evil step-sister sized feet will never again squeeze into.
No.
No one tells you.
I've never told anyone.
I don't have the heart. The baby-making mammas are so excited. I can't stand to point out any of  the downside.
They'll find out soon enough.
 Giant feet. Raw nipples. Lack-of-sleep psychosis. They'll find out.
Along the same vein, no one tells you while you are growing a human that someday that interloper will think you are an idiot and actively show their disdain for you. Eyes will roll so far back into their head you aren't sure they will ever unroll. This may be because you suggest, perhaps, wearing a coat to a high school football game because with the windchill factor of -15 degrees.
Apparently it is a part of the developmental process. The paperwork given to me by my mental health counselor -- if  you don't have one you should totally get one -- shows that it is a child's job to separate from their parents. My personal experience is that it is especially painful or dramatic between mothers and daughters and compounded exponentially between Menopausal Moms and hormonal teen.
No one told me.
Ok, that is not true. A couple of people told me and I didn't believe them. One of the them was the sweetest, kindest, most Christian woman I know. She swore her daughters were terrible as teens. She didn't recognized them. The got better when they were young adults. I didn't believe her. Her family was so adorable it couldn't be true. They looked like the families that come in pictures frames when
you buy them at fancy stores.
My fellow Menopausal Mom, Kim, told me of the Dark Times with her now grown, and awesome, children. She also said it will fade and my girl will come back to me.
I'm not sure I believed that either.
So, I have been taking two informal polls in the last few weeks. One is of mothers whose daughter's recently travailed adolescence. I don't even have to really know you. I just have to know you have a young adult child. I just say something like: My daughter and I are at that stage where she acts like she hates me.
They nod and look sympathetic.
The other is among any unfortunate young woman who I encounter between the ages of 20 and 35. Did you hate your mother at 15? I ask. They all say yes.
What about now?
Generally, it's something like "Oh, I totally love her, I talk to her every day. She's in Bolivia and we FaceTime every night."
So I take some solace.
This being the holiday season every sitcom I watched this week seemed to have an over reaching mother shaming, begging, manipulating their children to spend time with them And, sitcoms being what they may, in each instance the child, often grudgingly but most genuinely as a sitcom can manage will see -- gosh darn it-- I love my Mom too much not to spend an evening
around the Christmas tree with her if that's her hearts desire.
Oh, if life were wrapped up like a sitcom.
But I realize I have to adjust my thinking. This developmental stage isn't personal.
When my girl was a baby and she cried I didn't think "that cry is a indictment of my skills as a
mother". No, I tried to help her. I tried to figure it out. I put myself second and worked for the better of both of us. And that's what I need to do now.
I never thought of myself as one of those moms who saw herself first as her kid's friend. But maybe it slipped that way. Maybe I thought I was protecting her by letting of some things I need her to do ...like chores or listening or being respectful because overall she is a great kid.
But, apparently, according to my mental health professional, she needs something to push against.
That is me.
So here is my job. She pushes, I stay firm. She hurts me and I let it go.
I set a rule and I stick to it.
It is a little trickier because part of this for me is saying no, setting boundaries and making her accountable so she can be an accountable adult. I was really good at setting boundaries for her when she was little. Even when she would push. Because I could see it clearly. Don't touch the stove you will get burned. No matter how much you want to touch the stove the answer is still no.
And now it is the same. The lines are just more involved. But I will figure it out although I could use some suggestions.
And I know, and I should have known all along, we are family and we will work it out. It might be a couple of years, apparently, but it will work out.
Polls don't lie.

Merry Mushy Christmas!

Maybe it’s my menopausal emotional mood swings?

Maybe it's because I turned 50!

Maybe it is celebrating Christmas without my children all together this year? 

Maybe it’s the fact my dad has been gone a year this month, and I want to hug him so much?  I would love to hear him say, “Hey Sissy,” just one more time. 

Maybe it is all of the heart-wrenching CHRISTmas videos I am seeing on Facebook?  I don’t know what is doing this to me?  But, I am a mushy mess!  Christmas is such an emotional time. 

Last week, I was taking pictures at our church of Santa reading the story of Christ’s birth to the children.  Santa asked the children if they knew the true meaning of Christmas, and one little boy stood up and yelled, “Jesus!”  Wow!  Out of the mouths of babes!  The church erupted in clapping.  He brought a big smile to my face.

Later in the service, the children went downstairs to celebrate the birthday of Jesus.  They were gathered around a table playing with various toys.  But, while they were doing this, they were singing, “Happy birthday Jesus…I’m so glad it’s Christmas.”  (If you don’t know the song, check the link below.)  I couldn’t help but tear up.  And as a photographer, it is quite difficult to take pictures while boo-hooing like a toddler who just got time-out.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B44dPW08TGg

This has been my emotional rollercoaster for the last 7 days…up and down.  One minute I am laughing hysterically, and the next I’m sobbing into what is now the third box of Kleenex I have opened this week.

Tears, however, are not always a bad thing.  The first video I watched on Facebook this morning was of children who were given an early Christmas present.  This present was their father returning home from serving overseas.  I cried like a baby!  But, those tears were happy tears.  Those children were crying too, but everyone involved was happy.

https://www.facebook.com/video.php?v=10203039855222069&set=vb.1375884238&type=2&theater

The second video I watched this morning was the story of a young mother who lost her husband in a car wreck, just 14 weeks after the birth of their son.  The baby was also injured in the wreck, but survived.  The video centered on the mother thanking the hospital staff who saved her son ten years later.  And, it had a happy ending.  But, all I could dwell on was the loss of her young husband.  I cried again, but this time, I was so very sad. 

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/12/03/kellie-haddock-mom-thank-you-project_n_6262640.html

Life is full of good and bad things, and maybe God does this on purpose.  We cannot truly appreciate the good things unless we have the bad to compare it to.  2014 taught me this lesson very well.  I lost my father (very end of 2013.)  I had difficulties in my marriage.  I had difficulties with work.  I also injured my back and treatment for this caused my hair to fall out.  It just didn’t seem like it could get much worse. 

But, our oldest daughter, Amanda, got married to an amazing man this year, and we now have a bonus granddaughter to boot.  And, our younger daughter, Ashley, had a documentary, “Tig,” she co-produced, chosen for the Sundance Film Festival for 2015.  Our oldest son, Brad, won two KPA awards for his work in journalism, and our youngest son, Jordan, was hired to work for American Airlines.  I am so proud of our children!  Too obvious?

Along with the good things happening for our children, I was offered a position teaching full-time for a technical college.  This has always been a dream of mine.  And, I renewed my wedding vows to my husband…who just also happens to be my best friend.  We also have a roof over our heads and food for our bodies…many people do not. 

It is truly a good life.  God has blessed me so much!  And, to him I give all glory!

MERRY MUSHY CHRISTMAS TO ALL!

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

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 :)

Turning 50 is like attending a funeral…

Have you ever attended a funeral…walked up to the casket…only to hear someone say, "Don't she look good?" 

Really??  Have you ever seen a dead person look good?

And, what is the deal with all of the flowers?  The person is dead!

Typically, funerals are sad events, but many times families host "Celebrations of Life" to honor the dead and remember the great aspects of that person's life.

All of this is quite similar to what happens when someone turns 50 years old!  On Sunday, December 14th, 2014, I turned FIFTY!  I woke up that morning and thought to myself, "I cannot believe I am 50 years old!  …I am so old!!!" I was actually depressed!

Other people know you are old too!  On my birthday, people felt compelled to tell me how good I looked to be FIFTY years old!  And, they sent me flowers!  Don't get me wrong, I have enjoyed them immensely!  But, my house began to smell like a funeral parlor…ironically!

And, yes, the day was definitely a celebration of life...what little I seemed to have left.  It was filled with wonderful birthday greetings and Facebook posts that were so sweet and nice…as you would expect epitaphs to be. 

Here is my top ten list of things said to me when I turned FIFTY:

Number 10:  Fifty is the new 40!
Number 9:   You look really good to be 50.
Number 8:   You are just getting warmed up!
Number 7:   You could actually say it is the 20^th anniversary of your 30^th birthday!
Number 6:   You are a HALF-CENTURY old. Wow!
Number 5:   The older you get, the wiser you get.  You must be a genius!
Number 4:   Welcome to the club!
Number 3:   My age was compared to a dog playing dead.  (This one came with a video.)
https://www.facebook.com/video.php?v=10205649993832046&set=vb.1320168050&type=3&theater

Number 2:   Are you able to get a senior discount now?
Number 1:    Rudolph is celebrating his 50^th anniversary too.

All in all, my birthday was amazing!  My students threw me my first ever surprise birthday party.  

I attended the “The Nutcracker” ballet in Louisville with my husband, son and fellow Menopausal Mom, Mary. 

We ate at an amazing restaurant called, “The Rudyard Kipling.” (I HIGHLY recommend this place.  The food was amazing, and there was live music!) 

And, I only suffered one hot flash during the ballet. (I think the snow tricked my mind into thinking it was really cold!)  This was without a doubt, the best birthday celebration ever! 

The ironic piece here is that I had never had a birthday party or celebration to this point.  So, getting old does have its benefits; people feel sorry for you, and in turn, do super nice things for you!  It’s a good sort of sympathy!  I’ll take it! 

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

https://www.facebook.com/video.php?v=10205649993832046&set=vb.1320168050&type=3&theater

I'm still a ID Mom although my baby loves the death metal musings of Slipknot

This is my latest ill kept secret: 1D is my jam and videos of the 1D boys in interviews are my happy place even in my Menopausal Mom years.

For those of you are reading this blog carefully --- at this point I think that is a couple of  my sisters and my fellow Menopausal Mom, Kim and I really want to thank you all -- you may have detected a few trends.
1) I'm having a hard time my daughter growing up so fast.
2) I like to listen to One Direction. I listen to them to work out. I listen to them in the car and do some enthusiastic if not elegant car dancing.
3) The first thing I am working on. The second thing makes me both ridiculously happy and a little embarrassed.

The three are actually tied together. I started to like 1D because my daughter loved them. I remember the car ride to Wal-Mart where I was like, ok, there are five of them? Harry has brown hair? Niall is the Irish one. Who is Liam?
She laughed a lot. For months I could never get them straight. They were just a meld of Justin Beiber hair and British accents. 

 This is 1D in what fans call the "Fetus" stage because they were such babies. BTW. That's, left to right, Liam, Louis, Harry, Niall and Zayn.

And when I say she loved them. She really loved them. She spent hours watching videos of them. I think she sent Tweets and Instagram posts about them. She put pictures of them all over her walls. She bought magazines about them. She wanted desperately to see them. On the first day of high school I played their CD at car rattling levels because we could all sing along and I knew that would both distract her from panic and keep her breathing deeply so anxiety couldn't set in while we waited in what seemed like an hour-long line.

When they announced they were touring the  U.S. lthough I didn't really have the money I got her two sets of tickets, one in Lville and one in Nashville, as soon as they went on sale. The tour would be an year later but was already selling out. It was more than $300 which is more than I've spent in my life on anything other than a car or a major appliance. My wedding dress was less expensive.

This a pictures of her looking extremely happy because of the tickets to Lville.

So how did I get sucked in? When they hit it big, in the 2011, she took this ridiculously extended vacation to Florida. (A blog for another day.) She was gone for a month. We had never been apart for a month. I really missed her. I started watching 1D interviews on YouTube because it made me feel closer to her. (Weird, maybe, but not even close to the weirdest thing I've ever done as a mother.) Before I knew it, for the first time in my life, seriously, I was a fan who knew not only the music of a band, but the back story. (Don't get me started about how they aren't really a band. Just because they don't play instruments doesn't mean they aren't a band. Just ask Twitter. I dare you.)

When I was the age of the most ardent ID fans, I thought getting really invested in any celebrity was just stupid. I never dreamed about marrying one of the Cassidy boys because I knew, even at 10, that I would never meet them. I have never been an uber fan of anything. It must be some kind of pathological fear of commitment.

But soon I knew enough about 1D to help my friend's daughter make a great sign for the concert they went to, when they were four rows back from the stage that said "I Heart Niall and Nando's" a nod to the Irish-one's favorite restaurant. The sign got a thumbs up from the real Niall (OMG!) and a nod to my friend when Harry had a shout out to all the "1D Mums" who've made band such a hit.  I'll admit...I'm a little jealous Harry didn't give a nod and a shout out to me.(I let my daughter take her friend with our two tickets, although I really would have liked to go.)

I love them so that I have made her promise multiple times to play One Direction's  Live While We're Young as a surprise to the guests at the end of my funeral. (In advance, you are invited to attend. Hopefully you will all forget by then and it will still be a surprise. If not, pretend for my sake.)

Look at the boys all grown up.

But my Middle Aged Mom fan status also shows the depth and power of social media. The people handling these guys did a great job early on taking questions on Instagram and Twitter creating live stream chats. Teen and preteen Directioners are a true, fast-typing force of nature. This Matt Lauer recently learned after an apparent diss of member Zayn on the Today show. http://et.tv/1zCWLig

I think he got death threats..

But the 1D handlers were also genius in marketing  to the parents, especially Moms. In the first movie about the band there were sequences about all of their mothers and how they missed their boys. They were all so young and so scared it tugged on my maternal heart strings and I also felt for their, mostly, middle aged moms.

Being a 1D Mom is kind of a thing. So I am not alone by any measure. On Twitter girls brag about their Moms being 1DAF. Some naive moms think it means One Direction Always and Forever but it really means something that rhymes with As Duck but starts with the second word beginning with an F.  It is meant, I believe, as a compliment.

I don't know if I am that far in but I do know for certain that while my girl has moved onto the death metal musings of SlipKnot........

I'm not moving along with her.

Cinderella has given stepmothers a bad name

When I married my husband 21 years ago, along with him I received the most amazing blessing, two bonus daughters named Amanda and Ashley. 

Yes, officially they are my step-daughters, and I would officially be their step-mother, but really?  Who came up with the term, “step?” 

I did a little research to determine it is actually a Judaic term from Biblical times for men who would step in and marry the wives of their brothers when their brothers passed away.  In those days, it was an obligation of one brother to take care of the family of another brother who died.  That was noble.  Right?

Of course, for the women, I am sure they hoped the brothers were like the ones from “Property Brothers.” Oh yeah!  http://www.hgtv.com/shows/property-brothers.  

ste

I digress.

It is also said that a man/woman “steps” into a family as a father/mother when they marry someone who already has children.  But, many times, those children already have both a mom and a dad...they have just divorced.  So, I say the term “step” should be eliminated from family descriptions!

Look at Cinderella.  One of the most famous fairy tales ever, and both the step-sisters and the step-mother in this story were evil women.  This story annoys me for many reasons, but this one is the trump card!  It gave “step-mothers” a really bad name!

I never made the girls sweep the chimney, or haul in buckets of coal.  But, they did work as cashiers at the local grocery store in high school to earn extra spending money.  My dad was their boss, and he loved them dearly! 

More than anything I just wanted them to grow up and be happy.  They made (make) me happy every day. 

But, being a step-mom is a tough role, especially in the early stages.  You never know where the boundary lines are for anything…it is always a guess.   As the relationship grows, and the love grows with it, those lines become less and less blurred.  You become family.

My bonus daughters have grown into two of the most happy, successful and beautiful gals (inside and out) that a step-mom could ever ask for.  I couldn’t love them anymore if they were my biological daughters. 

And, as I approach my 50th birthday, I take comfort in knowing I can now go to them and whine a little if I am having a bad day...because the older I get, the more things seems to go wrong.  And, they will say, “It will be ok Kimmiebun.”  (To have your first name end with “bun” in our family is a term of endearment.)

And, my oldest bonus daughter, Amanda, has married an amazing man who also has a sweet daughter from a previous relationship.  So, Amanda is now a “step” mom, and I am now a proud “step” mimi. 

My sweet bonus grand-daughter, Sophie

Amanda, her husband, Paul and Sophie

The family

But seriously, where do the steps end?  There are so many steps!

Is this what we actually want to call someone who has entered our lives for what we hope will be “til death do us part?”  We don’t have such terms for parents who adopt a child.  They are still mom and dad. 

Something needs to change!  The total number of blended families grow every day and the steps get higher and higher.  Let’s tear down the steps and build something new!

I like the term “bonus.”  What do you think? 

Bonuses can be something a working person receives from their employer at Christmas time.  Those bonuses are always welcome…right? 

Bonuses can be something free you get in addition to something you have purchased.  Free stuff always puts a smile on my face. 

Bonuses can also be a reward for doing something right, or going above and beyond. 

For me, I would like to think I did something right to earn my bonus daughters.  They mean the absolute world to me.  I could not imagine my life without them.

Winning!

Kim York
May your hotflashes be mild and your wrinkles even milder.