It has to be said that I spend most of my current headspace worrying, musing, thinking, worrying, panicking, dreaming, worrying, optimistically trying to reinvent my business, oh and worrying. The wrinkles surround me like fellow competitors at the end of Strictly Come Dancing as if I have just been voted off. I’m not sure if anyone will ever read this, so if you are a lost American who has stumbled into the dark corner of blogging which no-one reads, then welcome and please read that last remark as ‘Dancing with the Stars’.
I am indeed middle aged in body (late teens in mind), currently 7 weeks away from 45 years young, with one child at university and another to join him in 8 months. With an older, hard working, very stressed husband who is rarely not at work, my days involve running a successful albeit ripe for expansion small business. Fear, lack of confidence and an inherent phobia of employing staff prevent an increase in work, variety and indeed much needed turnover.
Now I realise that I am not the first middle aged female phobic of advancement ever to have put electronic pen to electronic paper. I am hardly in my twilight years and even though I keep mentioning age, age doesn’t actually worry me. The whole aged referencing is twofold. The children are almost both fled the nest, and just as I had a prophetic episode of writing when I first became a mother, I find myself yet again turning to put words onto paper to ‘self-therapy’ assist my path towards fifty and grandchildren one assumes!
As many a blogger wishing to vent their worries discreetly I too chose to pen anonymously.
Problem is, I feel the need to leave out key words which would immediately possibly identify me. My small business has a website, my end customer reaches quite a few thousand people per year in my home area and a twenty mile radius. It is not that I have anything to hide….except the fear of not being interesting or humorous!
The period between your children being about 9 years and maybe 14 years of age, if you are a liberal parent, good humoured, not very grown up and quite ‘with-it’, you constantly label yourself (secretly) as a ‘youngish’ parent. In fact when viewing universities with the eldest two years ago,’ leather jacket and skinny jeans’ clad (me not husband) and ‘Mr’ sporting a confident overweight yet ‘successful stockbroker at weekend look’ (he isn’t a stockbroker) – both felt quite good compared to the proliferation of oldie’s wearing velcro sandals, beards and khaki bodywarmers. And that was just the Mum’s!
Men have a mid life crisis and either upgrade wardrobe/car/hair or wife. Or all four if you are incredibly unlucky.
I do have a not-so-secret craving to one day own a sports car. I am on the cusp of possibly being a little too old. Definitely currently too chunky to pull off sporty but I live in hope still. The last two years have increasingly become about not seeming to be needed any longer by children. I am guessing this is quite normal and probably a maternal thing. The need to nurture culminated in another canine arrival taking furry ‘children’ to two. First furry ‘child’ took considerable umbrage to new addition and almost killed new arrival. A new experience to me and thankfully as far from the calculated deodorant can lobbing at newborn head incident of 18 years ago. Holding the limp seemingly lifeless furry body I felt completely unable to remain in control and the experience of raising two children felt far easier. I scowled at furry child One, cradled the semi conscious furry child Two and uttered that ‘Mummy’ was furious. Need to nurture, almost became need to administer CPR.
As I approach the end of my first blog post at high speed I wonder if I will indeed hit’ publish’. To be fair I doubt anyone will ‘find’ my blog so maybe I will continue my self-therapy and log in and rant at myself on a regular basis. As I sit here questioning why I felt the need to start this in the first place, I realise it was probably because anything I say is unlikely to be replied to with a disapproving “oh Mummmmm!”.