Because I’m starting to wrap my head around the idea of being middle aged. Fifty is middle aged. I mean, assuming that all goes according to plan and I live to be 100, I’m about midway through. And things are different now, than they were. I’m tired. A lot. I’m in the middle of caring for my children and my parents, and feeling frustrated and powerless by one half of the sandwich and excited and relieved by the other. My body is changing, I don’t sleep as well any more, my sister is becoming a grandmother and I still sort of feel like i’m not quite old enough to be in this position.
Marriage is different now too – not worse, because it’s always been a good, strong relationship. But Marc is going through his own emotional turmoil, his parents are about 10 years older than mine, and I think he’s dealing with a lot of new and strange emotional weight around watching his parents. He needs a lot more from me lately, on a whole bunch of levels and I’m not always handling that as well as I could be.
I’m not at loose ends, if that makes sense. I still really like my life, value the role I play in a lot of different lives and feel good about what I’m doing and how I’m doing it. But I can’t deny that there’s a sense that everything is a little weird right now. I’m in a new place. My baby is a teenager, my oldest is off in the world and my boy is exactly where he should be.
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