For the first time in I don’t know how long, I was home alone last night. It was just an hour – between my husband’s departure for a meeting and picking up my youngest at soccer practice – but it was a sweet 60 minutes that only other busy mothers can truly understand and appreciate.

Since remarrying five years ago, I haven’t had many of these moments. There’s always someone around – the husband or one of the teenagers – or I there’s the impending threat of their arrival, especially the teenager with the job and wheels who pops in at completely random times.

So, I yearn for moments of quiet, when I can actually play my own music, lounge on the couch with a snack that no one wants a piece of, or curl up with a book without constant demands and questions.

It wasn’t always this way. There was a time when my two children were younger and I was a single parent that just putting them to bed left me feeling alone in the house. I was really strict about them getting to bed early to get enough sleep, and they were pretty compliant. In five or 10 minutes, there’d be silence in the house and I was free to frolic (usually that meant reading uninterrupted).

In that way that we’re never quite satisfied with our current situation, I was often restless and lonely, when their slumber left me alone with worries about finances, my aging car or the future. When they spent weeks in the summer visiting their father, it took me days to actually not dread going home to a silent environment. Only belting out my favorite songs into my hairbrush while the stereo pulsed at top volume seemed to ease the ache.

Now, life with teenagers and a husband is happy but always noisy, always hectic and always co-occupied. Not even a trip to the bathroom is sacred. When they were little, the kids would open the door and just wait for me to finish. Now, they talk to me through the door. Apparently, everything requires immediate attention, even if you’re doing your business.

Sixty minutes was mine last night. I turned on my music briefly, feeling too old to break out the hairbrush karaoke. I picked up my book and put it down again. I didn’t want a snack, having just eaten dinner. I didn’t want to start in on a project because I’d lose track of time. I wandered from room to room, enjoying the silence. And then? Then I picked up my book, drove to the soccer field and read in the car for 30 minutes until my daughter’s practice was over. I need to develop a plan for the next time I’m gifted with time alone at home, and hope it doesn’t take another five years!

Nothing piques my interest more than news about how my children are shortening my life. It’s not the news itself that actually grabs my eye, but the fact that someone, hopefully someone in a position of authority, is corroborating what I already know – these kids are  driving the express bus to my grave.

This week, a study by a team of Scandinavian researchers was published in Nature. The crux of their findings was that sons can shave a whopping 8.5 years, on average, off a mother’s life. In other words, a woman’s risk of death increases by 7% per year for each son born. Boys, the researchers state, are difficult from the moment they are born, presenting at the breast as more demanding feeders than girls, and, later, they fail to help their mothers with everyday tasks as much as their sisters.

This may be true in this particular project, which was conducted in a small Finnish village, but in practice in my humble middle-class American home, I’ve found the exact opposite is true. My son certainly did not reach the age of 19 without causing ripples along the way, but I’ve found that it is the female hormones emitted by my 15-year-old daughter that cause my heart to race, my blood pressure to soar and veins in my neck to pop. I’m not a medical professional, but none of these reactions can be healthy.

Once, when my children were 14 and 10, I told my mother I felt adolescence seemed to be going pretty smoothly. Sure, my son pushed some buttons and demanded freedoms I wasn’t ready to give, but it wasn’t too difficult to manage. My mother laughed ominously, having raised two boys and a girl.

“Oh, just wait,” she chuckled. “She’ll be worse. You were worse than both boys put together.”

Five years later, based on the results of my own in-family study, I must agree. My daughter’s moods spin like Linda Blair’s head and with an equally demonic presence. She’s laughing and being silly one moment but if I don’t pay attention and try to continue the frivoloty a moment too long, I might make her cry. I have mascara stains on the back of my armchair from last night’s meltdown, from where she leaned over and relayed the day’s slights into my neck.

The eggshells on which we walk are seemingly endless. Somehow my asking if she’s done with the cereal twists into me thinking she’s eaten enough, which she further translates into me thinking she needs to watch her weight. At the same time, the family’s shoulders have broadened to absorb some of her snippy remarks. Apparently, me singing along to a song in the car means she needs to change the station, and me having the same color nail polish or lip gloss - not just wearing the same color at the same time, but having at all – is the kiss of death for it.

I’ve come to the conclusion that this female adolescent cycle is at least worth 8.5 years off my life, especially since my husband and son have learned to spot the look in her eyes (what’s my problem?) so they back away from it, leaving me to bear the brunt. Plus, if it doesn’t end soon, it could add up to 10 years or more. Where’s the contact information for these Scandiavian researchers anyway?

There have been so many times through the years that I feel like the bearer of bad news to my children. Reality is not always pretty and I’m the harbinger of reality in their lives.

Last weekend, my 15-year-old daughter went on a three-day trip to see her favorite dance crew give shows, meet and greets, dance parties and other assorted hoopla. She paid for the trip herself and anticipated its arrival for four months. The date came, she went and she had a fabulous time with her friends and “the boys” in the dance crew. Like all good things, though, it came to an end on Sunday.

Her lament?

“I have nothing else to look forward to.”

I actually wrestled with presenting the reality of the situation to her. She’s old enough and smart enough to understand the concept. I thought it best to let her wallow for a bit and see if the melancholy passed in an adolescent heartbeat, like many of her moods do. It, however, did not.

Two days after her return, and a million dramatic sighs and comments later, I looked her right in the eye and began awkwardly.

“You realize life is about being here,” I said, slicing my hand parallel to the floor in a horizontal line. “There are high points,” hand jutting upward, “and there are low points,” hand bottoming out in a valley before returning to the horizon. “But most of it is right here.”

Her look was akin to the devastation of learning the truth about Santa.

“Seriously? Well, I don’t know about you, but I just need to find something else to look forward to,” she said simply, flouncing away.

It made me think, as my kids’ simpler take on life often does, about having something to look forward to, something that reassures us through the valleys and gives us joy that speckles our lives afterward. Weekend plans beckon as our nose is to the grindstone during the work week. The promise of spring flowers brings sunshine to dark, cold winter days. A mid-afternoon snack eases the grumbles after a lackluster lunch.

The point is that while life cannot be all sparkles and rainbows, we each should reassess what we consider the highlights to always have something, however small, to look forward to. It’s a treat we owe ourselves.

My mother lives 1,200 miles away, out near my brothers in the Midwest, the land of plentiful jobs and a lower cost of living. They are all native Rhode Islanders and they miss the ocean, the clam cakes, and catching a Red Sox game on network television or a local radio station. But, they are together out there and I am still here in Rhode Island with my husband and children. That’s a reality that I dislike. Every day, all year. I understand the rationale for their migration west, each years apart from the other, with my mother going just a few years ago, after she retired. But, like many other things in life that we can understand, I don’t have to like it.

There are several points throughout the year when missing having my mother close is extra difficult for me, making me teary at times and leaving me with a sharp pang in my soul. The holidays are difficult, from Thanksgiving right through Christmas. When the first brother moved away 20 years ago, he would make the trip back every Thanksgiving with his family. We’d all exchange our Christmas presents in that week and it was a hectic but loving visit. Now, my holidays are quieter and the pang grows throughout the month.

But, my birthday is perhaps equally as difficult without my mother physically here with me. I’ve always been a birthday fanatic. It’s my day – no one else I know shares the day – and I welcome the good wishes, hugs, cards in the mail box and online. My children know this and make a big deal out of getting a cake, my husband whisks me out for a special meal, my friends plan get togethers and send cards. I love it, especially when they liken it to a national holiday.

My mother always sends a gift in the mail well in advance of the day and I place it in plain sight on the kitchen island, awaiting the big day. This year, she sent a beautiful scarf and a card that brought me to tears because of the sentiment it contained but also her handwritten note at the bottom, calling me her “beautiful daughter.” I missed her with me, I missed her hug and that motherly look that doesn’t need a sentiment in a card to express pride and love. Even so, my day was made complete when the phone rang on my drive home and it was my mother singing “Happy birthday” to me. We chatted, I told her the card made me cry, which made her choke up a bit.

It was my birthday and I was so happy to share a few minutes of it with my mother.

Every year at this time, I, like most people, reflect on the year that is ending and look eagerly to the blank slate of a year that is set to begin.

For the most part, I do this with gratitude. Despite the challenges and setbacks that life hands us each year, there is always more to be thankful for. Sometimes, however, I find it hard to remember all the year’s details. I do smile when I go back through my day calendar (yes, I still use a paper one that I write in) and see all the events and get-togethers the year held, but I know the hundreds of little moments go unremembered.

That’s why I particularly like a suggestion I found through social media the other day – a gratitude jar. Starting on January 1, the poster suggests we put out an empty jar (or box or basket), with small slips of paper and a pen. This encourages the entire family to commemorate moments they are grateful for throughout the year. A few words, a date perhaps, a fold in the paper and the memory is stashed in the jar. Next New Year’s Eve, sit with the family, or just with yourself if it’s a project you want kept more personal, and open the slips of paper.

It sounds a little corny. It may even sound time-consuming. But, I think that after the first few notes, it will become like second nature. And that’s what we want. We want to retrain our minds to think in terms of the positive, of the moments, people or actions that make us feel grateful. We want to fill our hearts and our daily lives with the warmth of these thoughts. We want to say thank you more often to ourselves and each other. We want to enjoy the little moments which, too often, get overshadowed by the challenges or the setbacks.

So, get your jar ready for next week. Put it in a prominent place in the house. Get fun colored pens, or decorate the jar with a ribbon or raffia. Just try it. You deserve it.

It seems that it takes tragedy to remind us how important being part of a community is in our lives. In the midst of the holiday season and as the world pauses in silence today to remember the victims of last week’s mass shooting in Connecticut, it’s a good time for each one of us to reflect on the communities to which we belong.

The world community has embraced the families in Connecticut in a warm, loving way. Their messages, the musicians who have traveled hundreds of miles to perform on the town streets outside of funeral services, the practice of 26 acts of kindness, one for each victim, brings warmth and comfort.

What we each need to remember, however, is that it should not take tragedy to evoke such benefits of community. In my own life, I’ve been blessed with communities that help guide me through life with affection and care. When my children were young and I was a single mother, for example, there was always someone to help with things I couldn’t seem to manage – the father who included my son with his as they worked on pinewood derby cars in Boy Scouts, the friend who took the kids to the pet store to buy goldfish after we’d been forced to give away our cats during a move, the Boys and Girls Club staff who provided Christmas presents during the lean years, even a few for me. There were always communities of people who cared.

Communities can be extended family, religious, work, social groups, neighborhoods, PTAs or sports team parent groups. They are made up of people with shared interests – whether it be the Saturday afternoon soccer game or the city’s St. Patrick’s Day parade. In the hectic pace of today’s world, we too often lose sight of these groups that surround us and how important they can be in our lives. Maybe we bustle about in our own little worlds, going mindlessly and individually from work to home and back again. Maybe we’ve lost trust in others because of tragedies, both national and personal.

Whatever the reason, it’s time to look, really look, at the nation’s response to the shootings and to draw that warm feeling of community support closer around us. It’s time to examine our daily travels and see where our own communities exist. And, then become more present in those communities and make them more personal. In the neighborhood, instead of just waving hi over the fence, stop and have a conversation. Join committees to help with PTA or league events. Sign up to usher at church, greeting every arrival.

We have been living in silos for too long and have become a less personal, interactive society. It’s time to change that, and not just when tragedy brings us to our knees. It can be done daily, in ways large and small, in your communities. Just try it.

As we all approach the Thanksgiving holiday tomorrow, most of us are thinking of stuffing recipes, cleaning the house, traveling many miles to see family, or just logistically fitting everyone around the table for the big feast.

As trying as these times can be – economically, politically, socially – we all have something, and most have many things, for which to give thanks. Instead of thinking in grand terms, I invite you to try thinking like a child. They view life more simply. They understand the value of the necessities, even if they are surrounded by video games or other electronics.

When my children were smaller, I would get showered with the artwork done in school and day care. I have always tucked the seasonal pieces away with the ornaments and tinsel. That means that every time I unpack a tote of holiday decorations, I have treats at the bottom that remind me how adorable and innocent these moody, gangly teenagers were at one time.

In the tote of fall decorations, I found a small turkey made from a tracing of my young daughter’s hand. On the palm, she had written, “I am thankful for” and on each feather finger she wrote one of her blessings. They included her family, home, bed, best friend, clothes. Her bed. She loved her comfy bed then and loves it even more now based on the amount of time she spends sleeping in it on weekends. How basic a thought is that? How many people, even children, could not offer the same sentiment of thanks because they do not have a bed on many nights?

A friend of mine also recently reported that her elementary school-aged son used an art project to thank her for feeding him “so I don’t die.” Simple. But how many people eat a meal without realizing how lucky they are to have it. Apparently, the children around us do.

So tomorrow, put on your childhood glasses and see life at its most basic. Be thankful for your bed, for your clothes, for your food. Enjoy counting your blessings.

The great American playwright and Pulitzer Prize winner Thornton Wilder once said, “We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.” As the calendar page turns from October to November and the day dedicated to giving thanks approaches, and as people in the Northeast scramble through the sodden remains of their lives after Hurricane Sandy, it’s an especially good time to focus on cultivating attitudes of gratitude.

It’s easy to lose sight of what we have in the constant quest for what we want, what the Joneses have, what we feel we deserve, or simply that which we do not have. It’s a feeling that is actually woven into the fabric of the American dream, starting with Pilgrims who wanted religious freedom and evolving to modern day when new arrivals want an income to feed their families and lifelong Americans simply want – newer clothes, bigger houses, shinier cars.

Materially, there is always more to have. Look at billionaires who have the cars, clothes and multiple houses yet long to jet into space. There is something they do not have. And they want it. Some would say that spiritually there is always more to acquire as well, ways to open the heart wider.

I have a friend who turns that wanting on its end each year by dedicating the month of November to being thankful for what she has, physically, emotionally and spiritually. It’s not one day, laden with turkey and football. It’s not even the days of active religious worship, when congregations drop to their knees in thanks. She will give mindful focus to her worldly blessings every single day this month, and offer her thanks in poignant social media messages for all of her friends, relatives and colleagues to enjoy.

It’s not a new concept. There have been books and blogs written about it. One of my favorites is “Attitudes of Gratitude: How to Give and Receive Joy Every Day of Your Life” by M.J. Ryan. I bought it on a whim and read it voraciously. It essentially gave me permission to slow the wheels of life, the quest for more, more, more. It let me simply be, and become aware of what surrounded me and my heart.

My friend said it’s harder than people think. It’s difficult to profess thanks for things like a home when you know the homeless population around the world is soaring, and when so many people lost their homes this week to Sandy’s wrath. At the same time, to someone who has never been homeless or lost a home to disaster, a home may be something that is taken for granted. Perspective is key. That’s why the process becomes so introspective. She looks beyond the feeling of gratitude for her husband, for example, and feels happy that he is a good balance for her, gentle, understanding and dependable, anchoring her in life.

Reading her posts has prompted others to start their own journey or, for people like me, to reconnect with a journey begun along the way. The posts are humorous and heart-felt. But the message is clear – being thankful cannot be contained in one day. There is simply too much to list. Being thankful cannot be rubber-stamped. It is too incredibly personal. And, being thankful is not a fleeting moment. It needs to evolve into a lifestyle. A month is a good start. It’s long enough to turn the attitude into a lifestyle, into a routine that can carry through the rest of the year.

But, the most important thing to do is to start. So tell me, what are you thankful for today?

There were times when my kids were young that I would look enviously at older adults in restaurants or stores who had no children hanging out of a carriage or fussing over a meal. I would often wish for a little of their peace and quiet.

Funny thing is, it’s happened.

Mind you, it is not always peaceful or quiet in my world. The kids are now teenagers and there’s an ever-present thrum of music shaking the floor joists under their rooms or escaping from around their ear buds when we’re in the car (because my music is apparently totally unacceptable). There is bickering at the dinner table on those nights I can wrangle both of them into their chairs at the same time. There is bustling to move cars around in the driveway with the one who drives or coordinate chauffeur duty for the one who doesn’t.

But, much more often lately there is also a quietness that leaves me feeling sad. I hesitate to use the word “loss” because it sounds morbid, but I do feel a loss in the sense that the days of them needing me, thinking the world revolves around me, or just wanting me to boost them to the water fountain are long gone.

Certain times of the year are more poignant than others. In October, I think of all the Halloween costumes I’ve made throughout the years – Dorothy from the “Wizard of Oz,” a clown (for the child who now admits he’s afraid of clowns!), Dracula, witch, hippy, pink pig. The costumes are stored in a tote somewhere, but I haven’t made any in a few years. In fact, this will be the first year that neither of my kids goes trick or treating. I look at the fabrics and patterns in the store and feel wistful.

December is another month that lacks the magic it held when the kids were younger. They still ask for Advent calendars (who doesn’t need that little jolt of chocolate every morning?), but the countdown isn’t the same and the build-up lacks a child’s breath-taking sense of anticipation. I look at wide-eyed toddlers and elementary school-aged children and miss the crayon-scratched lists that are updated after every commercial. I miss the innocence.

It makes me wonder if the older people looking at me struggling with young children in a restaurant or store felt the same way. At the time, I envied their peace but they very well may have longed for a little of my family’s spirit.

One of life’s biggest drawbacks is that we are often so completely unable to enjoy what we have or where we are at that very moment. The result is that we sometimes feel like sad witnesses to the lives of others.

Calling menopause “the change” sounds so promising and hopeful, like making your fresh slate of resolutions on New Year’s Day. For a few women, it can be a breeze, passing with nary a bead of sweat on the forehead. For too many others, however, it can be nights without sleep, waking up from a dead sleep soaked in perspiration, hot flashes in the middle of an important presentation at the office, urinary leakage when you laugh or cough, an extra few pounds around the middle, and vaginal dryness that causes issues in what may be an already diminished sex life.
While adding more strength-training exercises to your routine can help keep your bones strong, and watching your diet can help with the stomach pooch, some symptoms of menopause can be unbearable.
One of the physicians at Women & Infants’ Center for Reproduction and Infertility recently published an article addressing one of those symptoms – sexual dysfunction. Sex does not have to end after 50, Dr. John Buster claims, but the real way to help fix this issue is communication. Too many women are uncomfortable broaching the subject of intimacy with their providers, and too many providers fail to address it as part of regular appointments.
Dr. Buster urges women who are or have gone through menopause to open the discussion if their providers don’t. Simple prescriptions of testosterone, for example, can effectively restore sexual desire in post-menopausal women. But, the first step is the conversation.

For more information, call the Center for Reproduction and Infertility at (401) 453-7500.

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