The Irony Of Time

I’ve often wondered what a midlife crisis would look like—and when it would happen.

As a young adult, I pictured an abrupt, bold, seemingly catastrophic event during a specific time in one’s life—somewhere around the 50-year mark—that comes roaring in like a lion, wreaks some sort of havoc, and then goes out like a snarling snake (ain’t no lambs around here). Now I realize that in fact the opposite is true: It’s a creeping series of circumstances that slowly builds to a raging boil and then stays at a simmer until you are able to bring it back under control. And that’s assuming it can be controlled.

I’ve been dwelling on this topic for some time now, but current events have really hammered it home, probably because this pandemic/quarantine has resulted in the one thing so many of us find ourselves ill-equipped to deal with: time. It’s challenging and scary as hell to be left alone with our thoughts because those quiet, lonely moments are when our fears and insecurities attack, with no escape.

I’m the type of person who generally enjoys solitude and ruminating on life. But not at a pounding, never-ending pace. And as these desolate months drag on, I find myself struggling to cope, maybe not outwardly but definitely on the inside. Suddenly the measly little concerns I had just over a year ago—namely, what’s on the horizon for me once both of my children are in school full-time—seem like a pipe dream. Instead of focusing on my next steps, I’m right back in the thick of 24/7 child-rearing. Only this time I’m adding full-time teacher (to a preschooler and a first-grader) and children’s therapist (their mental well-being is more important than ever now) to the mix. I appreciate I’m in this situation because of the choices my husband and I have made, but that doesn’t make it any more palatable or less nerve-wracking.

So, what qualifies as a creeping series of circumstances? I hesitate to paint a picture of where I’m coming from—not just because I can barely make out the faint bursts of color seeping through the sweeping, streaking brushstrokes of black, but also because I’m terrified of being judged or pitied or seen as playing the victim. But the brushstrokes here are crucial to the canvas of my life and I’ve never run from being vulnerable before, so …

This story begins almost seven years ago, when I became a first-time momma and left my autonomy in the dust on the bustling, exhilarating, romantical streets of Manhattan (the Manhattan of then, not today), along with my personal and professional identities. I didn’t appreciate it at the time, but this decision would come to haunt me later. My husband and I met in late-2011, got engaged in early 2012, got married in 2013, and immediately after moved from a small condo on the outskirts of the Big Apple to a one-acre property in the suburbs—taking on huge responsibilities we didn’t even realize existed until becoming homeowners—all within two years. That’s a full plate right there!

We got pregnant right after our wedding (given our ages, we didn’t have the luxury of waiting to have kids). A pregnancy that quickly went to pot at the end, when my waters broke two months early, forcing us—bewildered, scared, and completely unprepared—into the hospital for two (in my case, bedridden) weeks before delivering a preemie into the NICU, where she stayed for an additional week. As if that weren’t bad enough, our baby contracted RSV-pneumonia one month after we brought her home from the NICU and ended up back in the hospital, where we almost lost her when she turned blue and stopped breathing in the middle of the ER. Worst day of my life, man, and one I have yet to write about—maybe one day. That was also the first time I’d ever been in the back of an ambulance; I was 36.

Unfortunately, it didn’t get any easier from there because our daughter struggled with many health issues that first year: a hiatal hernia, severe acid reflux, projectile vomiting (many times she couldn’t keep her milk down), rugged gastrointestinal issues with little to no relief, a nut allergy that also put her in the ER. Our only saving grace back then was that she was a rock star sleeper. And thank goodness for that. It’s impossible to put into words what we went through during our experience as first-time parents. It was … horrible.

In fact, we were so scarred by it that we almost didn’t have a second child, but it was important to us that our daughter have a sibling. So, we tried again and got pregnant immediately, which ended up being a blessing because I went into perimenopause within a year or two of my son’s birth. (That brought on a slew of weird symptoms—physical and mental—that also impaired my ability to parent effectively, but that’s fodder for another blog.) Anyways, because my first pregnancy ended prematurely, I was forced to take weekly hormone injections during the entirety of my second pregnancy to prevent that from happening again. Not great, but a small price to pay. And pay off it did because my son carried to full term, which we assumed meant smooth sailing from there. After all, “normal” full-term babies don’t come with a laundry list of obstacles, right?! Oh, how naïve we were.

Instead, we were pitched into more health issues. Come to find out, our son had a severe tongue tie (a condition some babies are born with that restricts the tongue’s range of motion) on the top and bottom of his tongue, which prevented him from nursing properly. By the time we realized and corrected this (with a dental surgery I had never even heard of), he had already sworn off breastfeeding, and that was that. He also had rugged GERD issues, though not as bad as our daughter. But the worst part was his sleeping habits. They were atrocious. Nothing we tried worked for the first nine months, at which point we were so desperate for sleep that we sought out sleep-training regiments and eventually brought him around. To this day, though, he often has issues sleeping through the night (not that we parents sleep all that great anyways).

The hardest part about our son’s birth, though, wasn’t even our son. For the most part we were ready for the normal newborn struggles. What we weren’t prepared for was our daughter’s reaction to having a new baby in the house. I’ve mentioned before that our daughter is very cerebral. Well, she’s also precocious, sensitive, and emotionally mature for her age, which sound like positive characteristics—and they most definitely are—but they’re also mentally and physically taxing (on all of us). We spent the first two years following our son’s birth trying, and mostly failing, to “convince” our daughter that we didn’t favor her baby brother. Even thinking about it now drains me. We still confront these jealousy issues today, but thankfully to a lesser extent.

Then enter our son’s more severe health issues, which began when he caught the double-whammy RSV-pneumonia at 15 months old and ended up in the ER. Every year following that illness, we’ve dealt with terrifying circumstances whenever he catches even the mildest of colds. One time it was croup, then some sort of severe asthmatic attack, which put him back in the hospital, then bronchitis, then repeated occurrences of barking, incessant coughs so severe they caused the veins in his neck to distend, a result that won’t ever go away. Our most recent bout with this incessant cough was at the end of February, right before the world went to hell in a handbasket. So, really, it’s no wonder our anxieties over sickness ripple throughout every decision we make (hence the aforementioned homeschooling), essentially crippling our lives, particularly during this pandemic. Maybe that sounds a little dramatic, but it sure doesn’t feel that way when you’re in it.

And, of course, let’s not forget the other relentless crap you don’t think about before you have kids, which also take a severe toll on a parent’s psyche: nutrition (and the power struggle that comes with convincing your children to eat healthy foods when they don’t want to even try them), mental well-being and phobias (understanding and alleviating your children’s fears and anxieties, some of which truly come out of left field), 24/7 parenting with no village (I severely underestimated how hard raising children would be with no family available to help), and the lack of your own self-care (which consistently takes a back seat to your kids’ needs). I’m sure I’m missing others but those are the biggies for us right now.

On top of all that comes the loss of self, the personal and societal pressure to rediscover a career outside of homemaking, the constant one-upness and competition among parents, the panic and stress over re-entering the workforce with professional skills dating back almost a decade, and the guilt over wanting something for yourself irrespective of your children. Throw in my choking incident (a day I honestly thought my number was up), menopause, a worldwide pandemic, and a months-long quarantine and it’s amazing I’m even standing at all at this point.

Phew! Do you think that qualifies as a slow-burning midlife crisis? If not, I would hate to see what does. Some days I’m steady as she blows, but others I feel like the slightest breeze could send me into a frenzied spiral from which I won’t be able to come back.

OK, I’m pausing here to breathe, just breathe. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

I admit this post is heavy, depressing, and negative, but that’s the point I’m trying to make. They aren’t called midlife crises because they’re happy occasions. I don’t even know if I’m currently in one; maybe it just feels that way right now. In any event, it’s not my intention to solicit pity, play the victim, or express regret. I’m well aware my life is filled to the brim with blessings beyond measure—they are my lifeline when my panic over the future and all this wasted time get the better of me—but they’re also material for another post.

As I mentioned above, I’m writing about this now because I’ve had a lot of time to reflect on these circumstances during quarantine. And it has fueled this panic, this urgency in me that life is passing me by while I sit here stewing in my anxieties and allowing my hysteria over illness, and especially the coronavirus, prevent my family from enjoying their existence. But where do I go from here? Do I even have a “path” anymore? How do I fix myself and my doubts?! What if my life circumstances these past seven years jacked me up so badly that I can’t come back from them? How can I chase my dreams and make each day count and show my babies what life has to offer if I can’t get a handle on myself and my burning, irrational desire to keep my kids in a bubble? Will I ever feel comfortable venturing out into this world again? And if I do, will it be too late? Am I running out of time? Is this how I’m going to spend the next half of my life—living in fear? There’s still so much I want to do and time’s a wastin’:

• Hug my parents and see our families again
• Have a full Sunday dinner at my in-laws
• Take my kids back to Disney
• Go back to Italy, or anywhere in Europe
• Write and publish a novel
• Buy front-row tickets to every Josh concert (I see you cringing, husband!)
• Host get-togethers at my house
• Go on a date night or even a short vacation with my husband
• Plant a garden
• Go out for drinks at a rooftop bar in Manhattan
• Take another writing or even a painting class (in person)
• Read the last two books from A Song of Ice & Fire!!!!!

Speaking of Game of Thrones, there’s a quote from an episode (yes, I’m currently rewatching the series—don’t judge!) that really hit me the other day and I think it’s the perfect ending for this post: “Nothing fucks you harder than time.” #Truth.

It’s ironic, right now all we have is time. And yet, that clock just keeps on ticking.

Tick tock
Tick tock
Tick tock

I suppose all any of us can do is make these days count to the best of our ability and pray for the chance and the courage to outrun and outlive the time we do have. It’s scary as hell, for sure, but it’s the only option we’ve got. And I’ve never been more ready to see it through.