23. Don't Put Off Today, What You Can't Do Tomorrow

This one comes hard-learned. In the photo to the left is my friend Ken Ober, who died this past weekend (also in the photo is my friend Stephanie). I hadn't talked to Ken in a couple of months, but maybe it's been longer. There'd been email exchanges, perhaps a random phone call here and there, but I always thought there'd be time. He wanted to get together awhile back. He was willing to drive over, pick me up at whatever time I wanted, and bring me home. Yet somehow I managed to not go. It wasn't about him. It's sort of been like that with most people lately. I blame it on not having the time; life is too busy, I have too much to do. But somehow, over the past couple of years, I've just let things slip past me. Friends I adore, things I love to do, have just little by little started to fade away. Partly this is because I am busy - that's what happens when you're a single parent for most of the week. Single parents are in worker bee mode. That alarm rings at 5:45 a.m., and you are on the go until 10:00 p.m. There's not an ounce of spontaneity on those days.

However, I do have two nights a week to myself so why have I let this happen? I write this not really having an answer. This is, perhaps, self-examination on the fly. And why is it so many of us don't really stop to think about things until something terrible has happened? In this case, the death of one of the kindest, funniest, most generous friends I've ever known.

I used to be one of the most social people I knew. In my 20s, I was out every night. I loved crowds, parties, clubs. I even loved the packed subway. I found it exhilarating. Everyday was an adventure I couldn't wait to explore. Of course, by 31 I was pregnant and life took a different path. Now I was up in the middle of the night not because I was rolling in before the sun came up, but because I was breast-feeding. Yet I was still social; dinner parties, drinks with friends, art openings. When I was in Austin, I was going to see my friends play music or hosting parties at my house all the time. I met new people constantly.

Now, at the time when I probably should be social (single, in the last few years of being somewhat okay to look at, still in possession of bodily and mental functions), I'm the most isolated I've ever been. It's not that I don't go out - it's just that I go out and I'm home by 9:00 p.m. most of the time. No kidding. Now there's a nice little life I've carved out for myself, right? Meanwhile, life goes on. My son gets older, I get older. Time doesn't stop because I have.

If I constantly say no, eventually no one's going to ask. If I don't answer the phone, it will stop ringing. If I don't go see friends I've known for nearly 20 years, they will go away and that is a very, very sad lesson to learn.

I vow to call my friends, make plans to see them, and open myself up to the adventure that life still is.

That's probably the corniest, most embarrasing line I've ever written and I am cringing, but it's message is important. To me, anyway.

Everyone is probably blogging about this...

But, just watched the season finale of Mad Men, and how is it that I'm siding with Don? Especially given that my own situation with my parents divorce was not so simple, not so cut and dried that either one was right, really. It was a complicated situation, and I probably do side with one more than the other, but for the sake of my own peace in the family, and my son's place in the family, I don't choose sides. It was hard, it sucked - and I know that because my own relationship didn't work out. I made bad choices that affected my kid, and will likely haunt him for the rest of his life. I mean, again - we're Upper Middle Class in a First World Country so really, how hard can it be? His parents broke up, that wasn't great, but he still gets love, good education, basketball shoes and utter devotion from both of his parents. When he comes to me later with his problems with me, I'll step up - but I'm saying now that he has it pretty good, under the circumstances.

Having said all that, watching Don Draper cheat for the past few years, seeing how he grew up and how his family life has played out - I don't know. I don't think he was so bad. So he cheated. Big deal. I mean, okay - commitments are made, vows are spoken. I guess I get that. But don't both people have to hold up their end of the deal? As in, love and understanding and friendship and compassion? And yes, I know - he lied about who he was. That was a big one. But in my viewing of the show, what I took from it, Betty absolutely loved getting that information about Don's past, learning he was Dick. She wanted OUT. I get that too. It was the 60s. Women were being subtly, and then not so subtly, told that their lives as housewives were meaningless - they should think about themselves for a change. It was the beginning of the "Me" generation (of which I spoke about in the blog just before this). In my view, Betty took that and ran with it. But she's sealing her fate - running from one guy to the next. That was absolutely not the point of the women's movement - from what I got, it was to go on without the men. Make it on your own. Whatever. None of it worked. Betty and Don are just the T.V. version of many of our parents, though ours not so glamorous - but at least, for the first time in my memory, portrayed realistically and sympathetically.

At any rate, as much as I am for the girls and always ready to take it for them, I'm on Don's side on this one.

22. It's not all about you.

This picture is from Hideous Kinky, which to me is the ultimate depiction of the "Me" mothering.

Okay, this might not be typically on blog point, but I think that what I am feeling and planning on conveying is related to aging gracefully, even if in a round about way.

I've had an interesting couple of weeks and I'm just now beginning to process all that's happened. I don't need to tell everything, but some of it is important, and it's particularly important if you're someone who questions every move you make, every word you utter, every look you give or breath you take. Some of it's private and would hurt people I love, and therefore, even if I find it important to a point I'm trying to make, out of respect for those people, I will refrain.

My birth mother is terminally ill and two weeks ago my son and I got on a plane to visit her, likely for the last time. I met her when my son was a baby, and he's now 11. I've kept in touch with her over the years, including a few visits and many phone calls and emails. I have siblings, one whom I don't know very well because he is, sadly, in jail and has been for a long time. One sibling died before I had much of a chance to get to know him, but there are two girls - much younger than I - and we are close. I've written essays and emails to friends and talked to therapists. I have left no stone unturned when it comes to figuring out what I feel, how it affects my life, and more importantly my son's life where this family is concerned.

Yet, when it came time to face the situation - to take a look at this woman who gave birth to me and was now dying, I wasn't sure how to feel. No one had told me what this would be like. There was no guide, no road map. What the hell was I supposed to be feeling? I felt like an outsider, to be honest. Was there something I should be feeling? Shouldn't I want to do everything in my power to help, to caregive, to pitch in, to be a good example to my son? What was I so scared of? But then something amazing happened. I was able to see her for who she was for the first time since I'd met her. There was great freedom in this. I didn't have the growing up issues my sisters did - I was removed, in a sense. We all shared blood, yes - but I'd had a whole other life. Other parents and siblings and a lifetime of memories with them, some good, some bad - some life altering. But a whole other family, nonetheless. With that came power and knowledge and compassion and perhaps some perspective I could share.

The thing is, for those of us born to parents of the 60s, those of us who grew up in the 70s and 80s, we really had to figure life out for ourselves. We were, in a very real sense, on our own. That "Me Generation" was very real, and I was a part of it. I know now how much my parents loved me and I have spent many years working through it and trying to overcome my alienation from that life. It's worked. I'm close to my family, we talk a lot and I see them twice a year and they're always there when I need them. But growing up, and my mom admits this, it was about them. Their needs, their desires, whatever worked for them and however us kids fit into the picture was kind of how things went. I'm sure, in fact I know, they thought they were doing a good job and I have too much love for them now to tell them "You know what? It sucked. It hurt. I was lonely. I had no idea what to do and no encouragement and way too much opportunity to get in trouble."

Back to Santa Fe and my dying birth mother. After seeing the dynamics that I missed by not growing up there, it finally occurred to me why I was there. I was there to assure her that I did not hate her for giving me up, I was there to try and convince her to let go of her wound and anger, and to start letting her daughters go so they weren't left with those same wounds after she was gone. It was now her gift to be able to say to them "I'm sorry. I was wrong. I messed up. You didn't deserve that." It is our job as parents, after all - to let our children have a voice. Let them tell us how mad they are and take it in the gut. It. Is. Our. Job.

One day my son will come to me with a list of all I've done wrong, and you know what? He'll be right. I will have to look him in the eyes and say "You're right, I was wrong, I'm sorry.

I hope it's not hard, because in the end it's not all about me. Or you. It's about them. Children or friends or siblings. Take it in the gut. It's the parting gift, I believe.