I realized with some alarm last week that it is 2008.  This probably should have registered, oh, say, in January.  But suddenly, as I looked at the number 2008, I realized that this year was a … let’s say… noteworthy anniversary of my high school graduation.  This will undoubtedly be feted with some lavish reunion organized by those in my class who actually enjoyed high school.  All both of them.

I have only attended one reunion thus far.  It was our fifth.  I felt positive about attending because I was young, thin, married and happy.  Oh, I looked *good*, people.  I wore a white-tassel flapper dress.  Hey, it was the 80s.

After that, well… I had begun the mantra that would haunt me all the way to my late thirties: “What do I have to show for my life?”

After losing my husband, weight fluctuations, floundering with a career direction, no children, nickel-and-dime-ing my way through college… I didn’t feel like going back and reporting to my peers.  I’d had so much going for me; surely I should have accomplished something “by now.” 

I think the only person that could possibly make me feel better would be fellow classmate Linda Ayers.  Or, she could make me want to jump off a bridge.  Linda and I had so much in common that I felt like we could have been two “compare and contrast” lab rats.  We were both born on the same day, we both skipped the same grade; we were both pale, scrawny, bespeckled and tended towards nerdosity.  However, only one of us was valedictorian – and it wasn’t me.  I always thought that, eventually, I’d see Linda’s name in the news about how she’d found a cure for cancer.  Meanwhile, her potential-doppelganger was fronting a cover band and wondering why she couldn’t keep a successful relationship going.

I thought that if I ran into Linda and she was just a normal housewife with a boring job, too (not that my job now is boring, but I’ve certainly had decades of ennui), that maybe I would feel some personal acceptance of my perceived lack of output.  But that never happened.

I was still meeting with a counselor about my self-imposed “what do I have to show for it” failure obsession when the Second Act of my life started.  When that tiny cell divided inside me, my life divided into “that was then” and “this is now.”  I let all the past detritus slough away.  I had a whole new life to contend with – figuratively and literally.

If I do end up getting an invitation to a class reunion this year, I just might go.  Hello, my name is Kathleen.  And I have Something to Show For It.

Some of my co-workers were recently discussing their older children, and were smiling ruefully as they recalled the years gone by, and how quickly they’ve flown.  David said “I already have anticipatory nostalgia” about his youngest, as he watches his child’s childhood disappear.

I can totally dig that.

My kid is only two (and a quarter, but hey, who’s counting?  Oh, right – that’s the point of this blog), and already I’m saying “HEY!  Let’s put on the brakes here!”  I see a newborn and I can’t believe my 31 lb. toddler was once only 8 lbs., 5 oz.  I look at her little bald baby pictures as I stroke her downy blonde hair.  I think about how she was so small, it was awkward to hold her.  Now she’s so long, it’s awkward to hold her.  I remember mouthing the vowels to her as I changed her diaper; now she says “thank you, Mommy!” as I change her diaper.

I now understand why people have more than one child.  Once the first baby hits two, you’re like, “wait, that went by too fast!  Let me try it again!  I’ll pay better attention this time!  I’ll revel, I swear!”  Of course, the second time you’re doubly exhausted, because now you also have a toddler vying for your time.  But people manage to do it.  Over and over.  God bless ya.

I think having my baby at a later point in my life has really driven home the need to live in the Now with her, to savor it, to be present as much as possible.  I don’t have the luxury of time, or the possibility of having another one (let’s be realistic; my last date was… when?).  Sometimes I get razzed for taking so many photos of her.  But I already see the months and years flying by, and with the quality of my short-term memory, I’m gonna need some visual aids to jar things in a few years.  HA!  I’m not kidding.

Over a decade ago, my friend “Sharon” had her first son.  She told me early on that she was already fretting about “empty nest syndrome,” imagining his eventual departure.  I think he was under a year old at the time.  As a single, self-absorbed person at the time, I couldn’t fathom what she was talking about.  I thought it was bizarre.  “She’s already crying at the thought of him leaving her… someday?  Like, eighteen years from now?”

I get it now, Sharon.

Anticipatory nostalgia isn’t as bad as retroactive nostalgia.  Because knowing ahead of time that you’re going to miss these current times helps you recommit to cherishing them now.  There’s no regret yet, no woulda/coulda/shouldas.  There’s still time to craft and perfect the experience you’ll be rerunning in your mind ad infinitum someday.  There’s still time to make the precious memories you’ll be smiling about in your dotage.  Or in my case, my fifties.  HA!  I’m not kidding. 

I think I’ll go make some Play-Doh animals with my daughter now…

It’s non-existent. 

Wow!  Short article!    

So.

I’ve been thinking about dating lately.  (Yes, let’s say “dating,” since this is a family newspaper. HA!)  I’m in such a quandary about it, though, I am paralyzed into inaction.  There are so many things for me to consider before re-entering the dating pool, I can’t even dip my toe in without freaking out.  I get as far as doing the free search on match.com (motto:  “It’s OK to look”); when I actually find a profile that piques my interest (and at last fishing expedition, it was a whopping total of three – out of 100 profiles) and am prompted to “take the next step and set up a profile,” I shut down the page faster than if it was porn and my mom was coming into the room.  I justify this reaction with “well, most of these guys list ‘sarcasm’ as a turn-off, so clearly…”  And don’t get me started on the “desired body type” requirements of the average male.

(By the way, if you ARE looking, check out the Telegraph's own personal ads in the Encore section...)

I did, in one incendiary moment, sign up for chemistry.com months ago – solely because the questionnaire was so darn fun.  And, by the way, long before the (validating) commercials about it, I too was rejected by e-Harmony after taking the LSAT they call their questionnaire.  It took longer than some dates I’ve been on.

But the next day, when chemistry.com sent me five matches in my area – and two men that had read my profile and wanted to meet me – I took my page down.  Ack!  I felt exposed, terrified.  I just wanted to look!  I wanted to see who might be out there eventually!  What do you mean, they want to meet me now?

I wasn’t always like this.

But now I’m a mother (whereas before, I was just a ‘mutha’).  Now I have to screen potential dates through a whole different set of criteria.  I can’t just consider my own druthers (“he’s a smart, funny, witty, sexy musician that cooks!”); now I have to extrapolate out much further than a few dates down the road.  Is this someone I could see myself dating for more than a few months?  Is he good and kind around children?  Is he too much of a child himself, instead of a responsible adult?  (This tends to go with the ‘musician’ portion of our program.)  Would I want this person to meet my daughter?  And of course, even further out from there, to the whole life-sharing thing – the prospect of which makes me clench up several areas of my body, and not in a good way.

When I had my baby, I made a commitment to her: that I would devote the rest of my life to her, and make her my number-one priority and focus.  As she should be.  I told my friends that I was not going to date ever again –  that I’d had over twenty years of dating, and that I could and should focus all that passion and intensity on raising a happy, healthy child.

Well, yeah.  But…

As the years of my born-again virginity start to pile up, however, I have to cop to the fact that in order to be a great mom, I also have to be a happy person myself.  And while I’m still reticent about committing myself to an online dating profile, much less a full-blown relationship, well… maybe I’d be willing to go out for sushi or a hike with someone of the opposite sex.

Who doesn’t mind sarcasm...

Not having had a lot of experience with children before having one myself, I knew very little about timelines for behavior and growth benchmarks.  I read a half-dozen books during my pregnancy, but am still surprised on an almost-daily basis at how fast my “baby” is turning into an independent little person.  Things I expected to happen around four, or at least three, are happening already.  And it’s a bit jarring sometimes.

Last week, I got home from work and was greeted by my babysitting mother, who had a bemused look on her face.  When asked to elaborate, she said “we have a new bedtime routine, apparently.”

Now, I’ve been proud of our ability to establish a schedule and routine with my daughter, from dinner to crib.  She seems to like having a plan, and will recite it for you: “Dinner, bath, jammies, brush teeth, brush hair, Mama read stories, go ni-night in the crib.” 

Well apparently, she decided one step needed adjusting.  Mom handed me the digital camera.  Pictured was my daughter, sitting in the rocking chair, reading stories to her Snoopy.  Alone.

When they got to that step, she told my mother “Baby read stories herself to Snoopy.”  (“‘Herself’?”  my mother interjects at this point.  “She knows the word ‘herself’?”)  She asked for her blanket and her binkie, and a stack of books.  Mom complied.  “Go please,” my two-year-old then instructed her, adding “close the door.”

She’s TWO!

After that, it’s been the same every night.  She “reads” a few books to Snoopy, ensconced in her blanket and the rocking chair we’d previously shared.  She’ll usually let me or her sitter rock her in the dark afterwards, as we used to do, so at least we haven’t been totally shipped out to pasture on the bedtime ritual.

There are other “Baby do it myself!” moments throughout the day – she wants to Velcro her own sneakers (I could force her to need me by buying shoes with laces, I suppose.  HA!), she takes off her own socks… Lately she evens wants to undo her own diaper.  But we don’t need that kind of mess, thank you!

Her burgeoning independence has its benefits and fun moments, of course.  She’s been helping me load and unload the dishwasher and washer/dryer since she was eighteen months old.  She shocked me months ago when she inserted her “Thomas the Tank Engine” tape into the VCR, turned it on, and pushed “Play.”  She just mastered peeling her own banana and using a straw.  She’s got the fork and spoon down pat.  And thankfully, she seems to enjoy brushing her own teeth and hair (although, Mommy gives them both a once-over after she’s done).  She is now also fully responsible for feeding the cats at dinnertime (after I open the can for her).  That’s pretty cute – especially when she calls them: “Kittieeeeees!   NUM-nums!”

I’ll take advantage of her desire to stretch her independence muscles, and enjoy her volunteering to help out with cleaning up and other menial chores as long as I can.  I know eventually she’ll adamantly refuse to load the dishwasher, will expect me to do all her laundry, and will demand “… and close the door!”

Oh, wait…