I threw myself a girls only party last week and I invited my 50 friends. Not all of them could come, because they either live too far away, or they had other commitments, but I can’t even begin to describe what it felt like to be surrounded by so many wonderful, intelligent and loving people whom I have come to cherish, love and respect all of these years.

My dear husband Paul, the only male in attendance, acted as our host, pouring drinks, serving food and entertaining. Toward the end of the evening, after we cut the cake, he asked everyone to speak about how they got to know me. My friends responses moved me to tears because over the course of the years, I’ve often only considered what my friends have meant to me, and not so much what I have meant to them.

My best friend told me how much she loved me because I was always so kind to her daughter. We met when our girls were in kindergarten and her daughter had a difficult time making friends and I invited her over for a play date. Another friend, who is going through a nasty divorce, said she was inspired by my ability to “always keep going.” And my newer set of friends, the ones I made through Paul, told me how much they appreciate me for how good I am to him and his children.

These are accolades everyone needs to hear once in a while, because believe me, I’m not always so upbeat. I have my moments of self-doubt, regrets of what I should have done etc.But there is one thing I am assured I always got right– I surrounded myself with the best group of girl friends anyone  could ever hope for.

To Cindy, and to all of the wonderful, creative, loving people who died too young…

I miss my children being young and I miss being young with them. I have age spots. Some of my parts are wearing out and starting to sag.  I used to scoff at the aging process by reassuring  myself, “I won’t mind looking old so long as I don’t feel old.” I was delusional. Getting old sucks. I’d have a midlife crisis about this if I had time.  My second greatest fear after  getting and feeling old is becoming a cliche, like an aging movie star with way too much “work”. I am here to tell you that the  alternative to getting old is dying young, and that sucks more.

My best friend Cindy and I met in the park when our oldest children were babies. She was my first friend here in California and my savior when I went through my divorce. We clicked immediately and from the first time  we met, we either saw each other or spoke on the phone every day.

One of the many things we had in common was our birthdays , which were only  a few  days apart, except she was three years older. What we didn’t have in common was that I always looked forward to my birthday and celebrated for days before and after. Cindy, on the other hand, did not. When our birthdays rolled around I would always call her and say, “Hey, let’s go our for lunch and celebrate our birthdays.” She would always decline.  She never wanted to go. At first I thought her hesitance was due to the fact that she didn’t like being the center of attention, which was true. She was a very private person.  Over time I realized the true reason for her reluctance. Cindy saw birthdays as an acknowledgement that she was getting old. Once I realized this, being the sensitive, compassionate friend that I was, I mocked her. Every year, a few days before her birthday I would call her and say, “So, your birthday is coming up. How old are you going to be? Let’s see. I’m 37 so that must make you 40!” She’d groan, “Don’t mention it.” With persistence, I’d eventually convince her to have lunch with me and I would chuckle when she held the menu at arm’s length so she could read it, since she  refused to be seen in public with reading glasses.

When Cindy was 43 she was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor and a year later, after an horrific fight to live, she died. She was 44. She left behind her only child, Molly, who was 10. A few months before she died I went to visit her. I remember thinking  that in spite of her illness, how beautiful she was. She had been  reading a women’s magazine and it was opened to a page with ads for Botox. Gesturing to the magazine and with profound irony she said, ” All of this fear of getting old stuff is such crap.  Botox, liposuction, plastic surgery. It is all such crap. I’m never going to have wrinkles. I will never experience the luxury of getting old.” Later, upon reflection, I was  taken aback by her choice of words. The “luxury” of getting old. Who knew getting old was a good thing? A luxury. I was so relieved. It was a defining moment in my life and one I promised her I would always remember. When her next birthday rolled around Cindy wasn’t up to many visitors. I bought her a bouquet of flowers and card and left them on her doorstep. I wrote in my note: ” Dear Cindy,  I want to see you get old because for as long as I live I want to take pleasure in knowing that no matter how old I am, you will always be older.”  She called me later that day and said, “So do I.” We had a good laugh. A few months later she was gone.

As a tribute to Cindy I made a vow to myself to not only age gracefully, but to accept it with pride and gratitude. Now when I look in the mirror I no longer bemoan my wrinkles, age spots or bulging middle. Instead I am grateful that I have lived long enough to experience them in the first place. To Cindy– the most beautiful,  natural beauty there ever was.

I’ve decided to mark the occasion by celebrating all month. This weekend Paul and I are headed up to San Francisco to stay at our friend’s boat in South Beach.

Love it. Can’t wait.

And then next weekend I am throwing myself a party. I’ve invited all of my girlfriends to a girls only potluck. I think we are going to play pin the tail on the donkey or maybe punch a pinata, which should all be very entertaining after a few cocktails. And the following week, my sisters are flying in from the East Coast and we are headed to Monterey for a spa weekend.

I deserve it. My sisters feel they deserve it too, which is why they are coming. Lucky us.

After I watched them pull away, I went into the house, shut the door and cried. Tears of joy, sadness? Not sure. Probably  both.  It was like my whole maternal life flashed before me. As I pondered my feelings, I realized my sadness wasn’t just because I was going to miss her, (I am) it was more because I was grieving for the loss of time that has passed that I can never recover. Sophia will never be a little 3-year-old excited about her new doll for Christmas. I reminisced about all the happy memories. Those American Girl Doll collections, the  family vacations and the look of wonder and awe on her face that time when we visited the lorikeets at the zoo.

Did I enjoy them enough? Did I savor the moment? I was at a loss as to how to come to grips with my feelings. I knew I had to accept the inevitable and move on. My baby was no longer a baby. She is a mature adult, excited and happy about her own future. I have to let go, but how?

I busied myself with mindless tasks — laundry and housework ( I vacuumed under her bed and dusted all of her knick knacks.) I needed to get a grip.  I decided to go into work for a few hours. I knew my coworker was going to bring in his 2-week-old infant son for a visit. I walked into his office and watched while he changed his squrimy baby on his desk. Poopy diaper. Lots of tissues and baby wipes strewn about. Oops. Not fast enough. Projectile pee straight up in the air. All over him. All over the baby. All over his desk.

My coworker looked up at me in distress. “I don’t think I am cut out for this!” he exclaimed in exasperation.

“It’s too late now. There’s no turning back. You’re a parent. Get used to it.” I reminded him.

I thought to myself, “Maybe Sophia going off to college isn’t so bad after all?” And it was in that epiphanous moment that I was cured. My empty nest doldrums evaporated in a snap. I finally remembered the not-so-good times– the fevers, the runny noses, the tears over acne, the mean girl dramas at school, and yes, those occasional mind numbing temper tantrums.

I finally rejoiced that it was all over. I survived.

Sophia is an adult now. When she has a child and it screams from colic, I can hand it back to her mommy.

I can’t wait.

It’s time. Not just for them, but for me too.

As much as I have feared that I would be struggling with this issue, I am happy, surprised and relieved to say that I am not. I’ve had my reminiscent nostalgic moments when I hark back fondly on when my children were adorable and sweet (and I was thinner didn’t need bifocals), but I am also looking forward to getting my life back.

The growth of my children has been a natural progression for me. As they’ve matured, so have I. When they were little, it was all about them. I met their needs, and was by most people’s estimation, a power mom. I was the room parent/fundraising/field trip driving/dance chaperone for as long at they and I could stand it. But even in my super parent hey day, I never really got my sole identity from being a mom. I guess it was because I had a full rich career long before I had children and I remember what that was like. And I want it back.

As I approach life’s half-way mark, (I’ll be 50 in October) I’ve gradually settled in to a time of rediscovery and reinvention.  I went back to school and I got my master’s degree, something I’ve always wanted to do. I returned to my early roots with a new career in theatre and in a few more weeks, I will be launching a new business that I have been developing all year. I continue my writing with this blog as well as JustImaginate and SeaweedArt. And … I’ve started work on a novel.

I wonder why this transition to  children-not-living-at-home has been so easy for me and I have to say it is probably because I have been slowly getting used to if for years. I can still feel the palpable loneliness I experienced as a newly single mom and my kids were spending the weekend at Dad’s. The silence was deafening. I filled the void with my writing, my art, a new business and classes at the local community college. Similarly, my darling husband Paul and I have had a lot of kid free weekends and our relationship has grown and flourished as a result of our private couple time.

I am confident that when my children are ready to leave home, I will be ready to see them go. I may throw myself across the bed and sob, but I’ll get over it.

It was a fun filled, busy and joyful occasion filled with lots of activities during the day with  surfing, sailing and  kayaking, and in the evenings at each other’s homes playing charades, board games and reminiscing over old photos of Pop Pop in the army and on his wedding day. Those were the moments when I looked at my girls blending in with their “step” aunts, uncles and cousins, enjoying themselves and feeling included, even though they don’t share the same heritage, history or genealogy. After Sophia and Eva left for the wedding in New Jersey, where I heard reports that they ripped up the dance floor with their East coast cousins, we had one final big party at our house on the last day of the reunion.

I had planned a menu of grilled chicken kabobs, homemade potato salad and coleslaw. It was  a pot luck and everyone brought their contribution. Paul’s older brother decided he wanted the family to take a trip down memory lane and asked his wife to prepare “bun burgers,” a dish their mother made for them as children. It stirred some fond and not so fond memories. (Apparently not everyone liked the bun burgers.) I didn’t quite get the recipe, but I watched them being prepared. Basically, you prepare ground beef like you are making hamburgers. Throw in some spices and some chopped onions, but instead of adding bread crumbs, pick out the bread from the tops of hamburger buns, which leaves a big O, tear it into pieces and add to the mix. The top of the bun is placed on the bottom half of the bun and then on a cookie sheet. Next, scoop up a  generous dollop of hamburger meat and place inside the opening of the top bun. Bake in the oven at 400 degrees and just before they are done, top with strips, in an X shape, of Kraft processed American cheese. Place back in oven until melted.

I have to say they were pretty darn good and could easily be adapted to something healthy and rather gourmet if using, say, ground turkey, whole wheat buns and  perhaps some goat cheese, instead of the fatty beef and fake cheese. The culinary nostalgia didn’t end there. No. There were fish sticks too! You know, the frozen kind that comes in a box with lots of fillers and mystery ingredients. They were a  once-a-week staple in Paul’s family’s house. Paul’s brother felt that no family reunion was complete without fish sticks and bun burgers. As we were standing around the kitchen, noshing on the retro delicacies, he lamented, “Too bad we don’t have fake milk to go with them.” Anyone who grew up in a large, budget stretching family in the 50′s and 60′s would know what fake milk is. I do. My mom used to take powdered milk, mix it with water and add it to the real milk to make it last a little longer. It was gross, but we accepted it because that’s just the way it was.

As Paul’s family reminisced about their childhood memories, I reflected on my own (I’m one of five kids.) and realized that big families are pretty much the same.  It isn’t just the food, the family vacations, the sibling squabbles and competition for the bathroom that they have in common, but rather the inherent bonds, life lessons and experiences that go with the territory. I’ve always said being part of a big family prepares you for life’s greatest challenges: To be able to get along with anyone, to know how to wait your turn, to accept delayed gratification and to tolerate things that can at times be somewhat unpleasant.

My thoughts wandered to the future as I pictured myself at Sophia’s or Eva’s wedding and imagined all the guests who would attend.  There would be my family, Jared’s family and  Paul’s. It would be  a blended family wedding… and one hell of a party.

I have no guilt about this what- so- ever.

This is a very timely topic for all those 30- ish moms with young kids out there who are still killing themselves to be power moms. I recently had a conversation on this very topic with my newly found cyber mom friend,  Carley Knobloch of Mother Craft Coaching, who specializes in helping moms simplify their lives. She teaches busy moms how to apply her “ADD” formula to prioritize their daily tasks. The “A” stands for act, as in act on things you should do right away, like opening and sorting mail before it piles up. The first “D” represents those things you should delegate, like buying the cookies for the spring fair instead of baking them yourself. The final “D” stands for delete and these are all the things you really don’t need to do, like volunteering for everything. I’m in the delete parenting phase of my life right now.

As I told Carley, your lives get much simpler as you and your kids get older. First your kids start to feed themselves, then they go to the bathroom alone, followed by bathing themselves, putting themselves to bed and finally driving, getting jobs and supporting themselves. Along the way you stop obsessing over every activity. You come to terms with the fact that your child is not going to be an Olympic gymnast or professional soccer player after all,  and you eventually lose that drive to have it all, do it all and be it all. This usually happens around  middle school when your kids don’t want you hanging out at their school anyway. So all you young moms out there, chillax. Take a breather. Savor your babies now because it goes by so fast.

A couple of weeks ago I mentioned that Paul, the kids and I were all heading downtown to the Catalyst to see our rock star tenant, Johnny Prynce’s band Dirty Penny. My friend Kathryn’s twin sons’ band, Rapid Fire was the opening act. This is a video from that night. Even through my ear plugs I thought they were great. Become a fan  on Facebook.

Lover's Point in Pacific Grove

Our "rock" table picnic spot

Eight years ago, when I first became a single mom, I was in a wine shop and spotted a picnic backpack filled with all the essentials for a romantic picnic for two: plates, silverware, a cheese board, a wine opener (can’t forget that), wine glasses, cloth napkins and a tablecloth. I bought it and dreamed of a day when I would use it on the beach with a romantic partner. We’d ride our bikes along a path by the ocean, stop at a gourmet deli and pick up some local wine and exotic cheeses, find a cozy, sunny spot on the beach and enjoy the fine food and company. So romantic.

I never used that picnic backpack. I put it on a shelf and forgot about it. Until today. I spent most of the morning working on homework and when I was done I announced to Paul that is was time to HAVE SOME FUN!!! It was his idea to go for a bike ride and have a picnic on the beach. “Hey,” he reminded me, “Don’t you have a picnic backpack thing that we’ve never used?” He retrieved it from the laundry room shelf where it had been gathering dust. I cleaned it off and while Paul loaded the bikes into the car, I ran to the store to get some indulgent, decadent noshing foods like Humboldt Fog goat cheese, tapenades, crusty bread, wine and dark chocolate. Yum. We drove down to Pacific Grove to a park called Lover’s Point and rode our bikes to Monterey. The weather was gorgeous. It was so relaxing and romantic. We found the perfect spot, a “rock” table and while I set out the food, I thought about how far I’ve come since I first bought this backpack and how happy I was that I finally got to use it.

Then it  got kind of cold and windy. Paul spilled his wine all over the table and accidentally sat in it. He had this pee like stain on his butt. A homeless person wandered by and I felt kind of guilty that we were indulging and thought about offering her some food. We forgot the bike lock so I worried the bikes would get stolen. And then my lactose intolerance started to kick in. But it was very romantic. I swear. Not exactly as I pictured it, but then nothing ever is.