It’s Not the End, it’s Just the Beginning

By Lisa Sugarman

Thirteen years. Thirteen profoundly life-changing years. That’s roughly two thousand three hundred and forty bagged lunches, twenty-seven violin recitals, eleven cross country and track banquets, eight trillion No. 2 pencils, dozens of lunch boxes and backpacks, countless school open houses and parent meetings and report cards, buckets of tears and laughter and failures and successes. And now, here we are, me with a tennis ball-size lump in my throat and my oldest daughter about to dress in her cap and gown and walk her last walk as a high school senior.

It all goes so shockingly fast. Faster than we can ever imagine when our kids are little and we’re embarking on what seems like an endlessly long trip.

And then it’s here. That moment. The moment that the last thirteen school years have led up to. That moment that we, as parents, quietly anticipate in the far corners of our minds. The moment we’re not sure will ever really come because there’s so much to be done in between the time we start the journey and when this part of it ends.

It’s so cumbersome, this idea of our children graduating from high school, that most of us can barely get our minds around it. And then it happens. The day comes when your daughter asks you for the money to buy her tassels for her cap and gown. That moment when you realize they’ve finally made it. They’ve done it. We’ve done it. We can exhale. But only long enough to draw in possibly the deepest breath we’ve ever had to take as parents—the one that allows us to say goodbye.

See, Riley is my first child to graduate from high school, so this column has been percolating since she started kindergarten. So needless to say, there’s a pretty hefty collection of memories and emotions and feelings ready to stream out once these flood gates open.

And I’m sorry, I don’t care who you are; when your oldest hits a milestone like graduating from high school, there’s just no way you’re not feeling something. It’s too big of a day for them and for us as parents not to need at least a pocket-size package of Kleenex nearby.

I mean, I really just don’t understand how it happens this fast that we go from swaddling our newborn to putting a deposit down on their freshman year of college. It’s a very time-warpy sensation as you get ready for graduation. And everyone always says, Enjoy it all while you can because they grow up soooooo fast, and new parents usually politely shrug it off and think Yeah, yeah, suuuuure it does. But it’s true. God is it true. It all goes faster than we can ever imagine back when we’re being wheeled out of the hospital with that little package cradled in our arms.

The second your toddler takes their first steps you have to just buckle that five-point harness tight and do your best to hang on, because life starts moving like fast forward x10 on your DVR. And it never actually stops. Not for a second.

Right now, to me, it feels like no more than eleven minutes ago since Riley’s cheeks had that orange beta-carotene tint from too many orange vegetables as an infant; and now she’s only a few days away from graduating from high school and moving on to the next stage of her life. (A stage which, just as an aside, involves living in a totally different place than under our roof.)

And that notion hits you in very different and very unpredictable ways as you approach graduation day.

Take last week, for example. I’m setting the table for dinner when it hits me like a puck to the back of the helmet that this time next year, I’ll be setting out three dinner plates every night instead of four. That’s a thought that’ll sober you up pretty quick once it creeps into your head.

The problem is, I’ve had such a contact high since September from the excitement of her living out her senior year, that I’ve barely paid attention to the fact that it’s all actually leading up to her moving on and moving out in the fall. I’ve just been enjoying all the fun.

I think it’s because senior year is just one long steady flow of electrified energy (between applying to schools, prom, senior projects, exams, classes, sports) that there’s really very little time built in to absorb what’s really happening. It’s all just so exciting.

What I’ve realized this year, though, in spite of all the chaos and the to-do lists and the emotions and the anticipation, is that she’s ready for this. Ready in ways I’m not sure I even appreciated until I saw her navigate this last year of her life. And I’ve come to understand that that’s the only thing that really matters.

She’s ready to cast out on her own and to carve a new path for herself. Ready for the classes and the independence and the opportunities and the new relationships that college will bring. She’s ready to make her own decisions and to find her own way. And while every parent’s darkest fear is that their child doesn’t need them anymore, I think it’s also our greatest triumph when we’ve raised a child who feels confident enough to let go of our hand and walk out into the world on their own. Because that’s the payoff. That’s the endgame.

The truth is, on the surface, senior year looks like it’s a big celebration of lasts and that’s why it tends to take our breath away. But what most of us fail to realize is that senior year is a cleverly disguised launching pad for new beginnings. It’s actually the doorway that leads them to rest of their life.

So as I softly cry behind my sunglasses this Sunday because this chapter is ending, I’ll also be celebrating everything that my sweet girl has accomplished in her life up to now. And I’ll be contemplating everything that still lies ahead.

And hopefully, if I can steal her away for a quiet moment during all the craziness, I’ll be able to find the words to thank her for bringing all the color to my world and for showing me the reason why I’m here in the first place. I’ll explain that I’m celebrating her and the powerful, beautiful woman she’s turned out to be. And I’ll do it with the knowledge that it’s finally time for her to get on with her future.

But most importantly, I’ll thank her, in advance, for taking all of her laundry with her when she goes. (Oh who am I kidding, I’m gonna miss that too.)

Lisa Sugarman lives in Marblehead, Massachusetts. Read and discuss all her columns at facebook.com/ItIsWhatItIsColumn. She is also the author of LIFE: It Is What It Is, available on Amazon.com and at select Whole Foods Market stores.

Come on body, stay with me!

By Lisa Sugarman

I feel like it’s time to talk about something that I’ve been noticing for a while now. It’s kind of upsetting stuff, at least to me, so I just feel the need to commiserate with someone. You know, to talk it out. And while I’m a little hesitant to lay all this on you, I’m going to do it anyway because I have a nagging feeling that you’re probably dealing with the same issues yourself.

Here’s what I’ve been seeing: Things are changing. Things I’ve been able to count on throughout my life have very suddenly started to abandon me. And I’m gonna be honest, it’s been a little disconcerting.

As far as I can tell, my body is going through some kind of mini rebellion and it’s severed all ties with my brain. None of my body parts or systems are working collaboratively like they used to when I was younger and that’s creating a significant amount of internal confusion. They’re all just doing their own thing which is such a shame, because up to now they’ve been in a pretty harmonious little groove.

Not any more, though. Now it’s anarchy.

See, I’m used to being able to do certain things, like read the newspaper at an appropriately close distance from my face or metabolize mint chip frozen yogurt or a hunk of properly aged Gouda or maintain a relatively flat stomach. But not anymore.

The fact is that, while my mind still thinks it’s business as usual, my body has a completely different plan of its own.

I’m trying my best to be flexible and adapt but the truth is, it’s been rough. So I figured that maybe, by acknowledging it and talking about it here, maybe we can both learn to cope.

Whether you’re a guy or a girl, you know that once you hit that straightaway into your forties, something cataclysmic happens—things on all different levels start to radically change.

Body parts that used to respond to some gentle coaxing from hand weights and a few super sets of side planks stop responding altogether. Foods that used to go down easy and stay down, (or should I say in) want absolutely nothing to do with us anymore. (Yes friend foods, I’m talking to you.) Or when my brain tells my legs to go out and run five miles and my legs are like, Nah, we’re good for three or four, maybe even two. Or when I’m trying to thread a needle and my eyes are like, Needle? What needle? I don’t see a needle? And the overall effort it takes to maintain the status quo reaches a level that mere mortals like us just can’t generate.

This is a problem for me. A big problem.

Now I have to admit that it’s been interesting to watch how this body mutiny has happened all at once.

Ironic because I’ve lived inside this body for the last four-plus decades and it seems just a little unfair that now that I’ve finally got a handle on how the damn thing works everything goes haywire in like a matter of months. Ridiculous.

I mean, as much as I hate to admit that my body is evolving again, I’d just rather assume that the entire pharmaceutical industry decided to simultaneously reduce the size of the print on their labels just to mess with people. But I know that’s not the case. It’s not them, it’s me. And that’s a hard pill to swallow.

Here’s what I’ve been used to: When my brain tells my body to do a forty-five minute speed circuit of weightlifting my body has always complied and responded accordingly. For instance, I know what I need to do to drop any unwanted winter weight and tighten up for the summer. A tweak here, an extra push up and squat there, and I’m right back to my sweet spot just in time for Memorial Day.

Unfortunately, though, my once fool-proof routine of diet and exercise just isn’t cutting it anymore. At least not like it used to. And I’ve talked to enough people out there struggling with the same challenges that I know it’s a legitimate problem for most of us.

So what do we do? How do we fight back against the body rebellion and ultimately win?

We don’t. And I’ll tell you why. Because this isn’t about winning the fight, it’s about staying in the game.

The more I think about it, the more I realize that we just need to come up with a new plan. We just need to adjust. We lift different kinds of weights, but we never stop lifting. We run a little slower but we never stop running. We still eat the things we love, we just eat less of them. We resolve to do the very best we can with what we have. And yeah, doing all that takes real commitment, but I don’t like the alternative and that’s to stop altogether. That I won’t do. And I’m guessing neither will you.

We can’t lower the bar to make it easier to grab, the trick is to raise it higher to ensure that we’re always on our toes reaching for something. (I believe we call that goal setting.) Because when we keep pushing ourselves we keep unearthing new potential we never knew we had.

So I guess that means that aging is really more or less a state of mind—the numbers themselves are actually irrelevant. We’re as young and as capable as we believe ourselves to be.

I’m glad we talked this out. It made me realize that we always have two choices in life: we can give in or we can aim higher. And that as long as we maintain a positive attitude, we can pretty much combat anything, including the breakdown of muscle tissue and a slower race pace. The key is to be willing to shift gears a little as we go.

Lisa Sugarman lives in Marblehead, Massachusetts. Read and discuss all her columns at facebook.com/ItIsWhatItIsColumn. She is also the author of LIFE: It Is What It Is available on Amazon.com and select Whole Foods Market stores.

The Fruits of Honest Labor are Mighty Tasty

By Lisa Sugarman

I can still remember the moment like it was this morning, the day I transformed from little girl to young adult. The day I left my little-girl self behind and took one big step closer to becoming a woman.

It was a huge moment for me, one that left an indelible mark in the back of my brain that’s still there today.

You remember those profound moments. The ones that pull you out of one stage of your life and drop you into another almost seamlessly. Well that’s what this moment was for me. And it’s always stuck with me.

I’ll never forget that sense of pride I felt when the camp director gave me my clipboard and my whistle and my attendance list and pointed to my very first group of campers. They were all mine and I had never been prouder or more excited. I was finally The Counselor. I had arrived.

Now be honest, did you think my coming-of-age-moment was going to involve sex or getting my period for the first time or maybe shot gunning my first beer? You did, didn’t you?

Nah. To me, getting a job and being responsible for something, or, in this case, someone, is what marked that moment for me. And now that I’m watching my youngest daughter, almost fifteen, about to get her own first clipboard and whistle, it’s bringing all those memories back to me.

See, from the earliest I can recall, all I ever wanted to do was work. I know, it sounds sort of ridiculous, but it’s true. When I used to watch that paperboy pedal up my driveway with that neon orange Boston Globe newspaper bag over his shoulder, I couldn’t help but fanaticize that I was the one being weighed down by all those Sunday supplements and that it was my shoulder straining under the weight of that clumsy bag.

Because to me, having a job has always seemed so glamorous, so alluring. There was just this special quality about those waitress aprons and order pads or those chintzy newspaper sacks or those flimsy particleboard clipboards. I’m practically drooling just sitting here reminiscing about them. And I guess that’s because I always equated those things, and being old enough to use them, with independence and with being able to make a valuable contribution to something and get something in return to show for my hard work.

I know, this isn’t necessarily your typical fourteen-year-old mindset, but I was never exactly your typical fourteen year old. I was always a bit of an over-thinker. What can I say, I have very thinly coated emotional wiring, so I really feel the impact of this kind of stuff.

In all honesty, though, working was never really about the money for me or the power that came with that cheap plastic whistle. They were symbols of adulthood for me—of being trustworthy enough to be given a job in the first place. So I always took it very seriously. Still do. It’s probably because both of my parents were such hard workers, always committed to doing the best job they could at whatever job they had. They both had about the best work ethics I’d ever seen. And it rubbed off.

For them, it was about taking pride in yourself and your work more than anything. Whatever their name was attached to, they knew was a reflection of who they were as people. Of their commitment to whomever it was that trusted them enough to hire them.

So that’s exactly what it became for me. And now, that’s what it’s become for my own kids. And that’s a beautiful thing to watch from the other side. They both want to be contributors to something in the very same way I did when I was that age. They actually want responsibility and that special sense of independence that comes from working hard at something.

For my oldest, who’s held a steady job since she was fourteen, she grew up with the same little fire in her belly to work that I had; that’s why the minute she was old enough to get herself out there and find someone to take a chance on her, she hit the pavement. Now, three years later, she still relishes in the chance to step behind that counter every Saturday and Sunday and sort through all the overnight video rental returns. She’s grown into herself and her job in more ways than I ever expected. She tasted the fruits of hard work and loved them. And now her sister is about to do the same and she’s been looking forward to it in very same way.

I guess I’m just feeling a little nostalgic now that both of my daughters are finally legitimate bread winners. Because we all know that once you’ve got a W-2 with your name on it, you’re an official card-carrying member of the American Workforce. Only now, I’m just not sure which feeling is sweeter, the pride of landing my own first job and seeing my name on that first paycheck, or the feeling of finally, after all these years, not having to write that big camp tuition check for my kids. Yeah, that one wins. No contest.

Lisa Sugarman lives in Marblehead, Massachusetts. Read and discuss all her columns at facebook.com/ItIsWhatItIsColumn. She is also the author of LIFE: It Is What It Is available on Amazon.com and at select Whole Foods Market stores.

Goodbye birthday parties, I’ll miss you.

By Lisa Sugarman

I can still picture my oldest daughter’s first birthday party like it was this morning. The weather was perfect, seventy-eight degrees and cloudless. And the way I remember it, our lawn was pristine, a lot like the front nine at Augusta, giving us the perfect backdrop for a first birthday party.

As I recall, we invited everybody. Like, everybody. And we had all the accoutrements to go along with a first-rate first birthday party. We had the grossly overpriced Winnie the Pooh and Friends cake. We had a guy dressed in a shockingly realistic Pooh costume walking around the yard playing with/traumatizing all the kids. We had cutesy little Pooh-themed goody bags. And come to think of it, we may have had Tigger there, too. What can I say, we were first-time parents.

Looking back, it was like we were subconsciously auditioning for the old MTV reality show My Super Sweet Sixteen. But in our defense, we just wanted her first birthday to be something special—the same kind of special that every new parent wants for their baby.

The irony is, the kid never remembers any of it. In fact, they probably don’t remember their first four or five birthdays. But we still go out of our way to make them memorable. Kind of funny when you think about it. We go through the motions of pulling together an unforgettable party for a kid who’s only ever going to remember it through pictures and stories, not from their own actual memories.

But I’m wandering from my point.

What really got me thinking about birthday parties is that my youngest is about to turn fifteen in a few weeks and I’m realizing that the days of planning birthday parties for my kids are over. And that makes me sort of sad.

Now don’t get me wrong, I won’t necessarily miss all the moving parts associated with a kid birthday party, like the invitations, the goody bags, the set-up, the decorations, the favors, the thank-you notes. (Ok, fine, I’ll miss them because I’m a detail-oriented person and I love that stuff.) But even more than the planning and the executing, I’ll miss the look on my girls’ faces when it all comes together. And that look is the exact reason we all jump through hoops to make their birthdays special.

In our case, we’ve done the princess tea party, the American Girl party, the pool party, the Snip-Its hair styling party, the petting zoo party, the hibachi dinner party, the fondue party, the sleepover party. If you can think of it, chances are good we’ve done it.

But now, sadly, our girls have aged out of the traditional birthday party. Once they hit thirteen-ish, there was a seismic shift in how they wanted to celebrate. Gone are the Disney princess parties where the only color allowed was pink. (Sorry, with two girls I never learned to speak boy. Pink and lavender are all I know.)

Suffice it to say, nowadays birthdays pretty much involve Dave and I dropping a group of girls off at a sushi bar and coming back to pay the bill. Or, in the case of our oldest who’s turning eighteen this summer, dropping her and her crew off at the train so they can spend the day in downtown Boston shopping, food-stand hopping at Faneuil Hall Marketplace, and then pulling an all-nighter in our basement watching horror movies.

Fortunately for us, though, we’ve managed to retain our annual tradition of secretly decorating the house the night before every birthday so our kids wake up to signs and balloons and streamers and birthday crowns. So we’ve still got that going for us. And those are the things, as your kids grow older, that you find a way to preserve. Because those special traditions are what your kids carry with them into their adult lives and ultimately recreate when they have children of their own.

Here’s a tip, instead of taking it on the chin when the days of helping them blow out their candles are over, think of it as a hiatus—a vacation from all the party planning and stressing over a houseful of seven year olds. And enjoy the break while it lasts. Because it’s really only a brief pause that allows you to catch your breath just in time to help plan their wedding—the mac daddy of all parties.

So consider this as you anticipate or mourn the loss of The Birthday Party… for probably close to thirteen years you put your heart and soul and paycheck into planning the perfect birthday experience for your kid and now all they really want is a wad of cash and you to make yourself scarce. And while it seems cold and sterile to give your kids an envelope full of gift cards, it’s more or less what most of them really want. And that’s because they’re growing up. A fact that, whether we like it or not, we have to accept. It’s the natural order of things.

But remember, at the end of the day you’ll always be the one they turn to when they need a wire transfer or their debit card refilled. So you’ve got that going for you. Just think of it as a different kind of umbilical cord. Only I’m not sure this one ever gets cut.

Lisa Sugarman lives in Marblehead, Massachusetts. Read and discuss all her columns at facebook.com/ItIsWhatItIsColumn. She is also the author of LIFE: It Is What It Is available on Amazon.com.

The importance of the pick-me-up

By Lisa Sugarman

Let me just say, before we really get rolling here, that I’m not what you’d call a girly girl. On the contrary; I’m actually way closer to the tomboy end of the spectrum than the girly girl side. I’m the girl who’d rather be digging in the garden (no gloves, of course) or running on trails or walking around in a trucker hat. That’s just how I roll.

But even in spite of the fact that I love getting down and dirty and prefer being what I call lumberjack casual most of the time, there are definitely times when I need to feel pretty or polished or together, just for me. And I think there are a lot of women, and men, who feel the same way. Unfortunately, though, we all lead busy lives, filled with husbands and wives and kids and jobs and crazy-long to-do lists, leaving very little time left over to dote on ourselves.

Because time in general is a commodity and for most people, free time to pamper yourself is, well, more or less nonexistent.

So while there’s definitely a part of me that would actually love to have a standing appointment to have my nails expertly painted and my hands luxuriously rubbed, the reality is that I just don’t have the time to commit to it every week or even every month. There are just too many other priorities that are higher up on my list. And I think that’s the case for most people.

What I’ve learned, though, is that the older and busier we get, the more important it becomes to indulge ourselves once in a while. And that’s because, the fuller our lives get with friends and family and commitments, the more our focus tends to be on them rather than on ourselves. In other words, we end up shoving ourselves to the very bottom of our own list. Right or wrong, it’s just what most of us do.

But the downside of focusing our energy and attention on everyone else is that our own emotional and physical self ends up neglected and weak. Our roots get gray; our cuticles get overgrown; our muffin tops get poochier; our muscle tone gets flabbier. And that’s just the exterior.

Chances are good that if you’re letting your exterior go because you’re focused on everyone else, your interior probably isn’t feeling so hot either. And we all know what that feels like—tempers get short, self-confidence shrivels, and critical thinking gets cloudy because you’re so pissed off about all the other stuff going to hell. Vicious, vicious cycle.

So the other day when my daughter Libby dragged me by the hair to get our nails done, I actually forced myself to drop the other forty things I was doing and put myself (and her) first. It was only an hour but it was a long, slow, quiet, lazy hour that culminated with the most exquisite gel manicure I’ve ever had. And let me just say that that hand rub and fresh coat of A Grape Fit elevated my mood and my confidence in ways that I’d forgotten a simple manicure could.

Funny how powerful doing something for yourself can be, isn’t it? Even something as little and quick as a manicure. I mean, it’s been like a week since I had it done and I still find myself staring at the shininess of the lavender and smiling. Indisputable proof that the little things really do matter. Especially the little things we find the time to do for ourselves.

Now I’m obviously not just talking only about manicures here. I’m talking about carving out the time to do whatever it is that makes you feel a little special or empowered. Maybe it’s treating yourself to highlights or lowlights or buying yourself a new pair of platform heels or a sassy lipstick. Or maybe it’s making a tee time for yourself and a buddy and grabbing a couple of Cohiba Sublimes and playing the back nine.

What I’m talking about here is prioritizing time for yourself. And how important that really is. Even if it’s not something you can swing on a regular basis. All that really matters is that you don’t forget about yourself entirely.

Whether it’s an hour or an afternoon or, if you’ve won the lottery, maybe even a whole day. And it could be for a mani or a pedi, a run or a walk, eighteen holes or a novel and your couch. Or maybe it’s just an aimless walk up and down the shoe aisle with nothing more to show for it than a new pair of pillow-soft insoles. It really doesn’t matter.

The bottom line is that it’s ok to be decadent every once in a while. Really. In fact, it’s highly recommended by me and by other super-credible professionals whose names escape me at this moment, so you’ll just have to trust me.

So put yourself first every once in a while, because, as the great Ricky Bobby once said, “If you ain’t first, you’re last.” (I’m sure he was talking about NASCAR racing when he said it, but we can pretend it’s more profound than that.)

Lisa Sugarman lives in Marblehead, Massachusetts. Read and discuss all her columns at facebook.com/ItIsWhatItIsColumn. She is also the author of LIFE: It Is What It Is available on Amazon.com and at select Whole Foods stores.