I am currently ignoring a stack of high school and middle school yearbooks I need to put into the attic. Nostalgia is such a time vampire; I’m not sure I can afford it right now. Has anyone ever opened one of their high school yearbooks and only read ONE note? I
I’m frankly not sure how much of my avoidance is my sincere lack of that kind of free time (the uninterrupted kind you have before you have kids) and how much is a small fear of the bittersweet. I try not to put on rose colored glasses when I look back on high school, but I do feel lucky that I really enjoyed it, for the most part. Obviously there were downs. My dad died my freshman year; my Mom and I were seriously at odds throughout most of my teen years; I recall episodes of depression, cattiness, and an embarrassing number of times I believe I acted like a tease. But overall I was very happy -- I fell in love with Matthew, I was surrounded by a web of fascinating, creative, and open-minded friends, I explored acting and music and philosophy and debate and the outdoors, I had amazing teachers whose compassion and humor and wisdom still inspire and guide me, almost fifteen years later. My senior year, especially, glows in my memory. I considered skipping that year, graduating early so I could join my cadre of friends who were all a year older. I entered my senior year feeling very much alone. But it was such a freedom, and I embraced it. I felt I could reinvent myself. And in the void of a circle of friends, I found new ones, including my dearest Ada. There was a lot of joy and self-discovery in my last year of high school.
From my current perch, it does seem like I have lost a great deal of that verve and creative spirit. There just isn’t much juice left after a day spent playing cheerleader to Henry on the way to school; six hours of pleasing bosses and clients; another long drive to school and home; being playmate to Dean and coaxing Henry through homework, getting everyone fed and bathed and read and sung to and off to bed with a kiss and a hug. By the time I get to the sofa, and the pile of laundry that usually sits on it, I don’t have much energy left to think about inventing fictional characters or writing down those song lyrics that entered my head on the drive home. I confess I find nothing more relaxing on these long week days than a glass of wine and an episode of Star Trek.
Why doesn’t motherhood feel as glamorous as high school? It isn’t as though I want to go back to that time, or even close to it. I am happy with where I am now, I have the life I have always wanted -- a husband who still thrills me, two beautiful, healthy children who make me laugh harder than anyone ever has, a house I love surrounded by friends I cherish. I am having the time of my life in so many ways. Sometimes I think it is a shame no one makes a yearbook of this time in our lives -- sure we have videos, and way too many pictures, and I even keep this blog -- but I want a book that captures all the rest of it: all the terrific fellow parents in our neighborhood, getting together on Friday nights over a bottle of wine to plan out the neighborhood Halloween party; passing each other and honking in the foggy early morning as we load kids into the car; the sight of my grandfather reading the paper on my Mom’s front porch as I walk Dean down for a visit; the sweaty-faced kids and the animated conversation that bubbles up from the sidelines at the weekly soccer scrimmage; the clink of glasses and cackling laughter at my monthly book club lunches; the happy sigh in a friend’s voice as we finally get to sink into a long conversation long distance; the look in Matthew’s eyes as he and I take in the wonder of these monkeys we’ve created, hopping around our house with the unabashed certainty that they’re the whole reason we locked eyes in the first place over a family dinner almost twenty years ago. I guess that yearbook will exist only in my head; I hope it won’t get lost in the attic.
I’m frankly not sure how much of my avoidance is my sincere lack of that kind of free time (the uninterrupted kind you have before you have kids) and how much is a small fear of the bittersweet. I try not to put on rose colored glasses when I look back on high school, but I do feel lucky that I really enjoyed it, for the most part. Obviously there were downs. My dad died my freshman year; my Mom and I were seriously at odds throughout most of my teen years; I recall episodes of depression, cattiness, and an embarrassing number of times I believe I acted like a tease. But overall I was very happy -- I fell in love with Matthew, I was surrounded by a web of fascinating, creative, and open-minded friends, I explored acting and music and philosophy and debate and the outdoors, I had amazing teachers whose compassion and humor and wisdom still inspire and guide me, almost fifteen years later. My senior year, especially, glows in my memory. I considered skipping that year, graduating early so I could join my cadre of friends who were all a year older. I entered my senior year feeling very much alone. But it was such a freedom, and I embraced it. I felt I could reinvent myself. And in the void of a circle of friends, I found new ones, including my dearest Ada. There was a lot of joy and self-discovery in my last year of high school.
From my current perch, it does seem like I have lost a great deal of that verve and creative spirit. There just isn’t much juice left after a day spent playing cheerleader to Henry on the way to school; six hours of pleasing bosses and clients; another long drive to school and home; being playmate to Dean and coaxing Henry through homework, getting everyone fed and bathed and read and sung to and off to bed with a kiss and a hug. By the time I get to the sofa, and the pile of laundry that usually sits on it, I don’t have much energy left to think about inventing fictional characters or writing down those song lyrics that entered my head on the drive home. I confess I find nothing more relaxing on these long week days than a glass of wine and an episode of Star Trek.
Why doesn’t motherhood feel as glamorous as high school? It isn’t as though I want to go back to that time, or even close to it. I am happy with where I am now, I have the life I have always wanted -- a husband who still thrills me, two beautiful, healthy children who make me laugh harder than anyone ever has, a house I love surrounded by friends I cherish. I am having the time of my life in so many ways. Sometimes I think it is a shame no one makes a yearbook of this time in our lives -- sure we have videos, and way too many pictures, and I even keep this blog -- but I want a book that captures all the rest of it: all the terrific fellow parents in our neighborhood, getting together on Friday nights over a bottle of wine to plan out the neighborhood Halloween party; passing each other and honking in the foggy early morning as we load kids into the car; the sight of my grandfather reading the paper on my Mom’s front porch as I walk Dean down for a visit; the sweaty-faced kids and the animated conversation that bubbles up from the sidelines at the weekly soccer scrimmage; the clink of glasses and cackling laughter at my monthly book club lunches; the happy sigh in a friend’s voice as we finally get to sink into a long conversation long distance; the look in Matthew’s eyes as he and I take in the wonder of these monkeys we’ve created, hopping around our house with the unabashed certainty that they’re the whole reason we locked eyes in the first place over a family dinner almost twenty years ago. I guess that yearbook will exist only in my head; I hope it won’t get lost in the attic.
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