The anxiety I feel in these moments, after the rush of emotion, is overwhelming. It takes my breath away. I find myself praying to God to protect them both. I would sacrifice anything to keep them healthy and safe. Those tender moments make me want to keep them to myself and never let go. Letting go will be the hardest thing I ever do. I love them so. And these moments remind me the time is close at hand. Soon we’ll have to make college applications and go on campus visits. Trying to keep track of the youngling is becoming a sport — I have to put GPS on her. She’s making the most of high school and I find myself actually trying to keep up.

My youngest walks in and I don’t even bother to hide the tears. What’s wrong, she asked, what’s wrong. I just shake my head — can’t talk. She is relentless and won’t stop. I refuse to answer and change the subject. What am I going to say, I’m crying because you’re growing up? I miss my babies? I worry each and every day that you’ll be safe? I just keep typing and hope that ultimately she’ll be distracted.

I intend for you both to grow up, complete your college education, in careers that turn you on, find nice boys (nice, nice boys), have the wedding of your choosing (the one I never had — shameless, but at least I admit it; I’ll make sure your wishes are heard and if possible and within reason, honored), buy a house (scratch that) a home, give me grandchildren, don’t give up on your passions and stay true to yourself (keep exploring what that means), be good to each other and always give to others. Then just allow the rest to unfold (fade to blurry sunset). I’ve got it all planned out, preferably in the aforementioned order — now just accommodate me.

I am sending off my youngest to college this fall, and while I’m happy for her and know she’s ready for this next step, I’m wondering how I’m going to handle the “empty nest”? I’ve still got a list a mile long regarding the house. I’ve put off countless pursuits (yoga classes and book clubs and museum memberships and photography classes) in order to spend these last couple of years with the kids. Soon I’ll be able to turn more of my attention to me and I think I’ve forgotten how to actually do that. I know I’ll never stop being a mom, that they come back, that they still need you, but I also know it will be different. Am I still a mom when they’re not here? Who am I? I just want to continue to be relevant and useful to them, even when they’re not here.

I am questioning my career and wondering if it’s time to make a change. I took some career testing which revealed that I’m restless and won’t be satisfied continuing on just with my current work. That I should be publishing and that has led me to blogging as a first experimental step. So I’m exploring my options and allowing myself to consider, for the first time, career decisions, just for me. With two kids in college, I’ll be arriving at decisions slowly, until I know for sure their college careers are financially secured. Initially my thoughts turn to, are you nuts, we’re in the middle of a terrible recession! But I can’t help feeling excited, like I have something to look forward to!

I believe that both physically and emotionally I need to get serious about my weight. As I mentioned in a previous post, the first big step to that is opening my eyes at my physical for the first time in 15 years to see what I really weigh. Yes, that’s right, I’ve avoided looking at the scale for that long. So two weeks ago, I did just that. And I was shocked and deeply disappointed in myself. For about 24 hours I was very angry. But then I asked myself, what’s the difference between yesterday and today? You’re the same person, the same weight. Why do you want to lose weight? So I began thinking in terms of numbers and that set me back. How am I going to lose 30 pounds? The number, the number. Why do you want to lose weight, I asked myself again? To feel better and look better. How do I know what number that equals? How will you know until you try? Firstborn is home for the weekend. I think I’ll have her finally show me how to use the Wii Fit…

In spite of all this personal uncertainty, I really believe there is opportunity in change. It’s all in the way you choose to feel. Sometimes I lose sight of this and am filled with anxiety. But who wants to feel anxious all the time?

Cut out the easy carbs and fats and try to focus on nutrition. So main meal will be a protein, some veg and a complex carb like whole wheat sobu noodles or quinoa. Fruits and nuts for snacks. Smoothies consist of fruits, veggies, nonfat yogurt. For soups (not cream based) I’ve chosen homemade chicken & rice soup, french onion soup, Italian Wedding soup, and butternut squash soup and tortilla soup.

We’re two days in and I feel no ill effects and have a little more energy (could just be psychological relief that this is do-able.) My husband though isn’t doing so well — portions. I came home last night to find out he had eaten my dinner as well as his own. He asked this morning, “what’s in the smoothie — anything of substance?” So his withdrawal is more acute than mine.

For those of you that might be participating, I’m one week behind the program as it’s being introduced and emailed out — took me a little longer to get on board and get everyone else on board as well. Temps outside will be near 30 today so I am walking! So far so good!

So, I’ve gotten into a positive frame of mind and I’ve counseled myself on no extreme changes, but a gradual transition. In addition to the Wii Fit,  I thought I’d add walking and yoga. But where to start? I know, I know — I need to weigh myself, but I’m thinking I need to psychologically build up to that. I’ve made an appointment with my internist for a physical and I think I’ll actually open my eyes for the first time when they put me on the scale (end of January). I may take someone with me for moral support and then drink heavily afterwards. But I digress. As I was contemplating this resolution,  I got an email newsletter in December about this program, the Whole Body Action Plan and I thought I would explore (not necessarily committed at this point, but exploring).

First up that’s practical and do-able for me is the Fitness Assessment. There are four suggested components to the assessment:

1. Cardiovascular Endurance
2. Arm Strength
3. Core Strength
4. Flexibility

Let’s see how I did: I began with the cardiovascular test which is basically 3 minutes of stepping up and down (12″ vertically). I chose my first step of my stairway, grabbed my iPhone with the stopwatch feature and away I “climbed.” Upon the 3 minute mark, I took my pulse and looked at the chart to compare my results. I was at the bottom of average for age 47 and encouraged to shoot for the high end of average by the end of the Action Plan. So far so good, off to a decent start.

Next, Arm Strength. I’ve always had questionable upper body strength so I assumed this would be a total flop, but I was pleasantly surprised. I fell once again into the average category, easily doing 12. Onto Core Strength! I’m on a roll! I’m fitter than I thought!

I have no core. I mean, the middle of me is a morass of floppy muscle and flubber that couldn’t sustain any of the required positions for an average length of time. I repeat. I have no core. I don’t know where it went. I don’t know how to find it.

Flexibility was last and apparently I am rigid if not brittle. Sitting with legs slightly spread apart, bend forward and reach out with your arms, hands touching the floor. (I even unbuttoned/unzipped my jeans in the event they would impede my progress — note to self, yoga pants next time.) Goal is to reach 4.5″ beyond your feet! I’m at -6″. Or as the feedback indicates, those exceeding -3″ need to “keep trying.”

Okay, a split decision. Probably a decent snapshot. So what next?

I live in the Midwest and as I look out my window snow is falling at a pretty good clip (6″ today — wow that number, oh, this one is a positive 6″) and I have anticipated inclement weather by purchasing adequate footwear for walking, even in the winter! I’ve signed up for a Yoga 101 class which begins the first week of February. I would begin the Wii Fit, but it will weigh me before suggesting a series of routines, and I’m NOT ready yet. So I think I will walk and begin reviewing the “detox” portion of the program. Liquids for breakfast and dinner (smoothies and soups), with a main, healthy meal at lunch. I’ll report back on this in my next entry.

Just like that, 19 years in the making, and she’s off to college. The girl with the curl in the middle of her forehead, proclaiming “so big” with her arms stretched high. My pain is staggering. The anxiety, overwhelming.

I’m having a hard time comprehending what just happened. Despite filling out the countless forms and schlepping to several campuses, in the dead of winter no less, I’m still in denial.

But she’s always been here I protest — slow to get up in the morning (night owl), she contemplates a run to Starbucks either on her way to school or work. Dragging herself up and out, sauntering into my room wearing something fabulous but simply thrown together, she swears. She texts me of her arrival, and perhaps skypes me during the day of an event. When she arrives back home I hear her voice calling out from downstairs “I’m home family!” and the dogs bark their greeting.

“How was your day?” I would ask, and she would reply, “fine” or “great” or “it sucked” and then we’d discuss. “How much homework do you have” or “When is dinner going to be ready?”

Then it was on to the homework, or manga or fan fiction, but if I was really lucky, it would be a snuggle and a movie or top chef or project runway. And the banter would begin. Either a singalong (we love musicals), lip-syncing the dialog to our favorite movies (anything jane austen is a perennial favorite, “Hill” in our best Mrs. Bennett voice), or rating our favorite reality chef or designer. Oh she’ll probably still do all of those things just not with us (I’m really blocking the whole snuggling thing) but with someones elses. My inner child is screaming.

When she works around the house she can be found/heard with her iPod turned up. Show tunes & Disney are her favorites and I can hear her singing to them as she does the dishes or works on her computer — Hairspray, ABBA, Little Mermaid in no particular order.

Will she make good decisions? Will she remain safe? Will she study?  Will she make time for us? Who am I kidding, for me. We’re close, how do I remain relevant, useful to her? Who am I if not a mom? Am I still a mom when she’s not here to parent? Who does that make me without her — like ripping a piece of me off, there’s a huge gaping hole.

I’m an emotional amputee, trying to figure out how to adapt my life to this recent trauma. Just as a physically challenged patient rearranges his home for, say, a wheelchair, I am staring at her room wondering if I can manage to get up and down the stairs without looking in, hoping to see her dark brown hair tumbling out from underneath the covers.

college bound

Upon arriving home from the scene of the accident (can I call it that when it was a premeditated?) I went into her room, crawled under her bedding, screamed into her pillow and let the tears rip.

Not that I managed a dignified exit. We were all in her dorm room, saying our goodbyes. I dismissed the rest of the family to have a few minutes alone with her — Mom’s privilege. She began to cry, crawled into my lap, and I held onto her for dear life. She expected a lecture but she didn’t get one. “I love you,” I said quietly, worried about the unknown to come. I asked her to promise me to be safe, study hard, and keep the channels of communication open. I sobbed down four flights of stairs and stumbled into the car. I couldn’t get out of that college town fast enough.

dialated to 10

The doctor was kinda talking to herself, murmuring really. Checking her notes from my last annual violation.

“uh huh, mmm hmmm, a couple centimeters I think…”

My mind is elsewhere. I’m doing my deep breathing exercises and wondering if we can just get this over with. Now mind you my ass (which has reached an unflattering middle-aged flabbiness) is hanging out of an ugly hospital gown and over the edge of an examination table, sock covered feet in the stirrups, my eyes fixed firmly on the ceiling, while I try to concentrate on anything but the doctor’s usual … “you’re going to feel something cold and then some pressure …”, but wait a minute, did she mention measurements? The last time I was measured in my nether regions was 1991, cervix dilated to 10, just before I delivered Erica. What the hell?

The doc continued to dictate to the nurse, “yep, she’s dropped 2-3 centimeters since her last exam.”

My brain is attempting to comprehend these words.

“Dropped…dropped…what exactly has dropped? What’s dropping down there?” comprehension is eluding me still but alarm has set in.

“Why your uterus, of course,” the doc said in a very matter of fact tone.

“My uterus” I said slowly, still staring at the ceiling. “My uterus, has dropped, 2-3 centimeters…”

My head snapped forward as I peered at her from between my bent hairy knees catching a glimpse of her red head (yes, I forgot (suppressed?) I had the appointment and didn’t shave, just who among us hasn’t?)

“A uterus can drop?” asked the bewildered and indignant patient. “Is that a bad thing? Will it drop some more…could it… could it… fall out?” and in my thoughts, not wishing to share, “What the hell? on top of everything else — sagging ass and boobs, gray hair, wrinkles, and I’ve got a dropping uterus? What next? incontinence?”

The doc tried to maintain professional objectivity but was clearly suppressing a good laugh.

“Age and gravity gets the best of us, but you could do some kegel exercises…”

“Kegel exercises, are you kidding me?! I haven’t heard that since I delivered Erica. I thought it was a joke then…”

I decided to investigate this further on my own and in private…according to the Mayo Clinic, the technical term for a “dropping uterus” is Uterine Prolapse and is defined as follows…

“Uterine prolapse means your uterus has descended from its position in the pelvis farther down into your vagina.”

You can be asymptomatic or your symptoms may include:

* Sensation of heaviness or pulling in your pelvis (okay, we’ve all been here, no biggie)
* Tissue protruding from your vagina (…ARE YOU KIDDING ME!)
* Urinary difficulties, such as urine leakage or urge incontinence (as predicted, see above)
* Trouble having a bowel movement (the perennial complaint of my father-in-law)
* Low back pain (again, we’ve all been here)
* Feeling as if you’re sitting on a small ball or as if something is falling out of your vagina (shoot me, you just can’t make this shit up)
* Symptoms that are less bothersome in the morning and worsen as the day goes on

As I contemplate my fate of epic proportions I’m wondering where the sisters are? Why haven’t I heard of this before? I’ve heard the commiserations about hot flashes and dry vaginas, but never this!

I bet Angelina Jolie isn’t going to have to deal with uterine prolapse…not after all those cesareans. But me, no, I had to push mine out the pioneer way… the way God had intended babies be delivered, thru my vajayjay. Who knew I had to be worried about the tone of my pelvic muscles. I didn’t have time to worry about the tone of ANY of my muscles chasing after the kids and running a business. I considered it a good day when I was wearing clean underwear.

I got out my retractable tape measure which I usually used for planning renovation projects — ahhh the irony does not elude me…

uterous -3 and counting

2-3 cm — just exactly what are we talking about here … that’sssss not sooo bad. As I pondered my fate, I wondered if I should share this information with my loved ones, gal pals, husband … then again, maybe not.

But ladies, let this be a lesson to you — do your kegel exercises or the next time you see your OB/GYN she might meet you at the exam table with a ruler…

postscript: as a 47 year old working mother of two, currently residing in the heartland, I realize I have no business using the term “honey pot” or “vajayjay” for that matter. In fact, my 20 & 18 year old daughters were so horrified to learn what I had entitled the post (or as they refer to it “TMI about my mother,”) they suggested I adopt a nom do plume. And so I did.