50 Awesome Things About Turning 50

If you would've asked me at the age of 20 how I pictured myself at age 50, I probably would've said, "Who cares? I'll be old by then."

So, I didn't really make a list of 50 awesome things. I'm sorry. I tried, but then realized most of my ideas centered around the ability to afford things. It seemed a little shallow – as shallow as a 20-year-old! So, I shifted my thoughts and decided to make a list of blessings. But that just seemed like boasting about how perfect and great and talented and smart and beautiful our kids are. No one wants to hear that. So, I decided to nix the list and jot a few observations over this past weekend as I pondered this milestone that I share with Woodstock and Man on the Moon and The Gap.

Observations:

Look at that train.

• The shock of turning 50 can be softened by preparing for it early – like the day you turn 46. I distinctly remember saying "I'm almost 50" back then. It seemed to lessen the blow of actually turning fifty, until, of course, the smart ass in the room points out that I'm now half a century.
• At this age, nothing can be too boring. Boring is actually preferred. Doug and I visited Kenefick Park this weekend. It's a park which features two old Union Pacific locomotives. Yes, we did this upon our own volition. For years, I've been wanting Doug to throw me a surprise party. Somewhere along the line, this wish dissolved. I'd take our visit to the museum any day over a drinking binge. Almost any day.
• No matter their age, our kids have the ability to lift my heart with just the tiniest of efforts. Like a passing comment:"At least you're not turning sixty, Mom. That would really suck." Or, a text that says your long lost daughter can meet you for lunch after all. Or a heartfelt embrace between the kids showing their love for each other. They do like each other! (Those moments really made my heart sing.)
• My mother makes the best potato salad ever. We invited my parents over for steaks this weekend. I knew they'd bring me my birthday gift, but I was most excited about her potato salad. It's that good. It's a little sour, a little sweet and has the perfect texture – not one bit mushy nor overly mustardy like most potato salads I endure. Every mother has that specialty item – the thing they make better than anyone else and their kids will never forget it. Every mother, that is, except for me. I asked my kids what I make that they absolutely love. Nothing came to mind. This, I realize, is something I should work on.
• I will never, ever, ever grow tired of The Cheesecake Factory. Doug and I ate fantastic Indian food this weekend. (He hardly broke out into a sweat after eating a chili pepper!) But with the delicious naan and dashing company (Doug), it wasn't the same as sitting down at a Cheesecake Factory and breaking bread together as a family– as we have many times and happily repeated the ritual on my birthday. By the time we order cheesecake, it isn't so much about wanting dessert. It's about extending our time together as we catch up on each others' lives. Okay, that's not entirely true. It's very much about wanting dessert. And catching up on each others' lives.

My younger self might be surprised to learn that I still have goals and dreams at the ripe, old age of fifty. They're just different than those of the 20-year-old. Instead of dreaming about having a big house, a fancy convertible, and taking posh vacations, I dream about helping my family, writing inspiring books, and taking posh vacations. And by posh, I'm talking really fancy railroad museums. 

My husband worked especially hard to spoil me to the point of guilt this weekend. He watched the RBG documentary and talked feminism with me. He took me any place I wanted including a "SheRocks" concert which reminded me of my long ago dream of becoming a rock star. (Now, that's an actual recurring nightmare I have.) He bought me that gas fire pit I've been wanting. (Thank goodness, because Cole has plans for this.) Best of all, he drove me to Des Moines so our family could spend the day together – and eat Cheesecake Factory. But after receiving so much attention from my husband, my parents, the kids, my coworkers and friends, I've realized something. I'd much rather give attention than receive it. I never would've believed that as a 20-year-old. Perhaps that sentiment is the truest gift age can bring.

Pure love.

A Salute to Crazy Soccer Parents

So, I cleaned out the back of my Traverse last week. I put away four coats, two sweatshirts, one pair of mittens, two sets of gloves, two stocking caps and two baseball caps. The high school soccer season has come to an end. Not only will groceries fit in my car, but we'll "have our lives back" as parents like to say, but don't really mean.

What parent would deny the joy of "game night"? Knowing we'll likely be dining on extra salty popcorn and pizza and Tootsie pops. Knowing our kids will be competing their hearts out while insane parents coach from the bleachers. Knowing we'll endure the brutalist of cold not to miss one second of the game in case that almighty goal is scored.

There are basically two types of soccer parents. There's the certified crazy. These people have been told their kids have talent – usually when the kid was six-years-old and consistently score nine goals against a goalie who was smart enough to step aside when the herd approached. But no matter the age, the word talent almost immediately translates to likeliness of college scholarships and thoughts of playing in the MLS. These parents:

1. will ask their child if they have practiced enough if they don't score a hat trick. 
2. will grunt about a missed passed.
3. will tear the referees a new one if their kid falls on the ground, as soccer players often do.
4. will try really hard not to talk about their own kid. Too much.
5. will never, ever really understand offsides.

Most of us fall within this category. (I'm sure there a a few parents ranting, "I understand offsides!" My apologies.) But there is a small sub-set of soccer parents are are just plain cool. They never seem to get angry or upset. They offer only positive encouragement to every player on the team that no one can hear because of their mild demeanor. These are typically the grandparents. 

All kidding aside, there are two things all parents have in common: the love for our kids and a need for connection. We want our kids to perform well, because it will obviously make them happy. But as Doug often says, what Cole will remember most about soccer are the bus trips or the chatter in the huddles or the movie nights with his team. It's a similar notion for the parents. It won't be that one goal or interception. It will be the sharing of the salty popcorn. It will be the cool pics Denise took. It will be the stories of our boys' unbearably, aromatic cleats and lost jerseys. It will be the hugs we shared after a PK shootout.

We all seek camaraderie. I'll miss it. Not as much as I'll miss my son when he graduates next year, but I'll miss every single parent. Crazy or not.

In my Traverse, there still are four blankets, two stadium chairs and two soccer chairs. Summer league has started. Cole has mentioned more than a few times, we don't have to attend. We know we don't have to. But we kinda want to. We crazies need to connect.