50-something Moms Blog

How not to look old??

My girlfriends and I have been rehashing the weary topic of aging gracefully versus aging desperately. It's an awkward topic. Even in the women's magazines geared to our demographic, "mature" fashion models appear to be surgically altered or Botoxed, then dressed to look 35. The message? Aging is shameful. To be avoided at all costs. She who looks youngest wins ....

There's even a new book out to lead us on this vengeful anti-aging crusade, and the title alone -- How Not to Look Old -- makes me wince. It also makes me angry, because I believe women can look fabulous and "older" at the same time. I keep hoping someone will write a book that celebrates real maturity, and doesn't imply that we're in some frantic competition with our daughters, or our son's girlfriends. Like everyone else, I want to look as good (and healthy) as I can, but I have no burning desire to revisit my youth. I don't miss the insecurities or the short skirts or the go-go boots. I'm not afraid to look like a grown-up.

It would help if we had a few more role models like Helen Mirren, Oprah Winfrey, Sally Field, Maya

Yoga, Part 2: I'm so not there yet

So I've gotten through Week Three of my twice-weekly yoga classes. And the practice remains a challenge, since there are too many poses I simply can't do at this stage. My artificial hips will only bend so far. (Picture the Tin Woodsman trying to sit cross-legged on the Yellow Brick Road.) But I'm making some progress. Better yet, I'm discovering that the lessons I'm learning on my yoga mat are enriching or informing other parts of my life.

Last week, for instance, the instructor reminded us that we shouldn't be looking over our shoulders at what others in the class are doing.

"Yoga isn't a competition," she said. "It is about listening to your own body, and paying close attention to what it's telling you, what you can accomplish. Never mind what others are doing with their practice." I thought this was both refreshing and wise -- and I couldn't stop thinking about it the following day.

Like daughter, like mother

Lately I’ve been spending an awful lot of time at our local hospital.  I used to think of hospitals as citadels of sickness and emergency, but this one, in particular, has set the stage for some joyful events and major turning points in my life. This is where I gave birth to my only child. And where, just after I turned 45, I had both hips replaced and, thanks to a first-rate team of physical therapists, learned how to walk again.

This time I’m back with my mother, who, ironically, is undergoing tests for her first hip replacement surgery. Unfortunately, her pre-surgical screening has uncovered other health problems, all of which seem to require another series of medical appointments. But Mom hasn’t lost her wicked sense of humor – one of the many things I admire about her. Waiting for a CT scan, she laughs between gulps of the barium “milkshake” she’s just been served for the procedure.

“Wanna try it?” she quips, waving the shake under my nose. Watching her sip the ghastly white goo from a straw, I laugh along with her, though I know she’s had nothing else to eat all day. 

A nurse appears in the doorway and calls my mother’s name. I’m told to remain here. Mom reaches for

Chicken Soup for the injured

Deb, a 50-something friend of mine, fell from a ladder while working on a home-improvement project last month. She needed emergency surgery to repair her shattered knee, and is now recovering at home with a battery of medical equipment.

Deb has a family to care for. She also has a full-time job, which had to be put on hold while her injury heals. Meanwhile, she’s practicing her physical therapy, learning how to use crutches, and trying not to collide with the furniture.

But her biggest challenge has been learning to give up control while she rests on the couch with her leg propped up. It feels strange relying on a cell phone -- “remote control parenting,” she calls it -- to arrange transportation for her teenager with special needs.   

Old dog, new yoga tricks

At the urging of two very limber middle-aged moms, I finally enrolled in a beginner's yoga class at the local YMCA. Everyone who does yoga seems to believe that the ability to twist oneself into a human pretzel is good for the mind, body, and spirit -- and that it keeps you from shrinking in your elder years. I'm all for that, and I'm all for anything that's purported to alleviate stress and heartburn. In fact, one of the aforementioned friends told me that yoga practically changed her life. So how could I resist?

Since I am a bilateral hip-replacement patient, however, I can't start any exercise program without a sense of caution. And so, before I picked a spot on which to unroll my spiffy new yoga mat from Target, I approached the instructor and informed her of my limitations. Poses that involve looping my legs around my neck, for instance, could result in the painful dislocation of my bionic joints and spoil the class for everyone.

"Not to worry," the instructor said, beaming with the inner glow of the enlightened. "Just listen to your

Some things I've outgrown

Earlier this week I had lunch with Laurie, one of my closest friends since junior high school. Laurie and I also brought our moms, who are now in their late seventies and hadn't seen each other in a long time. As we gathered around our table at a local hangout, it occurred to me that these women are my family -- in both the literal and figurative sense.

I spent a lot of time at Laurie's house when I was growing up. And so, just being with Laur and her mom was a heavy dose of 1970s nostalgia for me. Not surprisingly, our lunch conversation circled around memories of blasting the Hollies and the Rolling Stones on the stereo ("This is why I have a hearing problem now," my mom joked). And Laurie recalled how we used to wander the neighborhood freely after dark on warm summer nights, which is something our own kids were never allowed to do. Things weren't perfect for baby boomer kids; but they were different.

Some late-blooming thoughts on midlife gardening

Last spring, the local Master Gardener Society invited me to be the keynote speaker at one of their meetings. I was honored, at first, but as soon as the date of the talk rolled around, I started getting nervous. And with good reason.

Master Gardeners aren’t just fooling around with bulbs and blossoms. These folks earn a minimum of 40 hours of instruction in horticulture science. Meeting for at least 11 weeks to earn their certification, they take classes in caring for indoor and outdoor plants, establishing lawns, growing vegetables and fruit trees, designing gardens, and more.

I’m totally out of their league. Barely getting my hands dirty, I’ve written a few magazine pieces and newspaper columns on my romance with plants and flowers. I've shared back-yard memories of lilac bushes and home-grown tomato recipes. But set me loose with a shovel, and I’m just an eager amateur who has murdered rose bushes and planted azaleas in the absolute-worst spot.

Even so, the grand poo-bah of the Master Gardeners assured me that his group of green thumbs would be

Skeletons in my bedroom closet

The calendar says it's spring, but you wouldn't know it to look outside my home office in suburban Detroit. Today I felt the primal urge to dump every wool sweater I own into a cedar trunk -- though I should know better. Here in Michigan, winter ain't over till the fat lady sings (or screams because her bathing suit won't fit).

Regardless, spring is synonymous with pitching and purging, at least in my neighborhood. In a ritualistic effort to "cleanse" her entire house, a friend of mine recently unloaded 38 garbage bags crammed with stuff she no longer needs. She joked that emptying her closets and junk drawers “was practically a spiritual experience.” After sorting out the externals of her messy life, she added, she felt lighter and ready to tackle some deeper personal issues. I know exactly what she means.

This afternoon, I started sorting through my bedroom closet, which, up until now, served as sort of a textile museum chronicling my fashion history. After all these years of hoarding, I've accumulated a wide array of old prom dresses, hippie clothes, business suits, and other vintage "treasures." I don't wear any

The worrying doesn't stop

I used to think I wouldn't have to worry about my kid (at least not so much) when he was in his twenties and away at college. Boy, was I wrong. All sorts of things can happen to your "young adult" when you're not watching. Spring break is only one of them.

Last week, my college senior took a week-long, tropical-island cruise with about 200 other students from his university. Imagine a boatload of suntan oil, raging hormones, and margarita mix. The stuff of every mother's nightmare, and potential fodder for the evening news. One last hurrah before graduation.

I got the phone call after midnight the day my son returned from the big trip. His flight home had been delayed three hours, thanks to record-breaking blizzards all over the Midwest. And when he finally arrived via taxi at his off-campus condo, he discovered he'd forgotten/misplaced his keys. None of his room mates had returned from break yet, so he was locked out. Totally locked out. It

Life lessons in a biopsy

Every year around this time, I schedule an appointment with my gynecologist, then head to the nearest imaging center for a mammogram.  While I don’t look forward to this procedure (and I’m always relieved when it’s over), I keep urging my friend Dana to do the same.  Dana is a 51-year-old wife and mother and has good health insurance -- but she’s never had a mammogram. Why is that?

As Dana puts it, “I’m afraid they might find something.”

It’s hard to argue with a friend who lets fear dictate her health-care decisions. But I don’t give up. Regular screening, I tell Dana, brings a woman peace of mind -- or might save her life.  And, oh yes, I speak from experience when I tell her that sometimes they do find “something.” I’ve never been diagnosed with breast cancer, but I’ve had two worrisome biopsies over the past 15 years. All said and done, I’ve come to believe that even the most painful biopsy has a silver lining and several lessons to teach.  Here are the three most important things I’ve learned while waiting for the results:

1. I need to be grateful for modern medical technology.

My paternal grandmother, a breast cancer survivor who was diagnosed with the disease in the 1950s, didn’t have the advantages of today’s early screening procedures and diagnostic tools. But I do. If she