Periodically, I remember that I have a blog, and that I should write. Initially, when I started blogging, it was because my “good morning” emails to my mother and Becky were too long, and I liked having a format where I could write and write as much as I wanted. Then I realized that what I was doing was capturing a time when my kids were little, and there were things happening that I wanted to remember. To think about, to process, and to be able to have as a memento for my kids and grandchildren.
But then it started to feel like a violation of their privacy. As the kids got older, it was harder and harder to write my story without feeling like I was sharing more than they would want. So I took a break. Even now, when I look back, I can clearly see stuff that was going on but it doesn’t feel appropriate to write about them, but it’s not just my story anymore.
But I still need to write. It’s how I process my life. And the reality that my life is one of being a caretaker. In reality, I feel like I’ve been doing it since I was a toddler. Being an older sister occupied probably the first 30 years of my life – it was certainly the most significant part of it. My relationships to my siblings and their kids – it took up an enormous amount of time and emotional energy. It wasn’t until I met Marc and had Jessie that all of that changed – and it’s absolutely safe to say that those relationships never recovered.
What I’m doing now feels like a new reiteration of that caretaker role. I’m moving out of the intense mothering stage. Jessie is starting her senior year in college, Sam is 18 and healthy enough to really engage in education at Perkins, and my focus is on Julianna and high school. I work part time, also in a caretaker role, at the JCC in the babysitting room and the preschool – where I really just function as a mom. It doesn’t feel like work – because it’s just my life.
The “caring for your parents” thing that I’m doing now is new. And hard. It’s a lot harder than caring for the kids in my life – because that’s predictable and understandable, and kids know they need help. Adults don’t always, and the transition to needing me is complicated and crisis filled and even when you get them to agree that you might be helpful, on occasions, when the chips are down, they’re still going to refuse to actually let you run things.
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