Fall in love with the life you already have
Decoding the secrets of life, one firefly at a time. Also: Wonderful documentary on reclaiming our narratives.
Howdy Midlifers,
Welcome to the other side of the summer hump, with MDW and July 4 in the rearview mirror and just a long stretch of weeks before the last gasp over LDW. I heard from two of my neighbors that our little beach town was mobbed at the start of the weekend, making me more happy than ever that I had a long-planned getaway — even if it did involve navigating the I95 corridor from NJ to DC on one of the biggest travel weekends of the year.
I took the dog for a walk up to the boardwalk last night around dinnertime and the beach was still packed. On the way, we passed groups of day trippers lugging all their kids and gear home, filling the sidewalk with beach wagons overflowing with coolers, umbrellas and little bodies.
We did our usual loop up to the boardwalk, taking a right on Ocean Avenue and then looping back to the right and heading west toward home and I was impressed with the number of people I saw sitting on front porches that are usually quiet when the dog and I take our walks. There were folding chairs and tables set up alongside one old shore house with a group of boys playing beer pong and a few blocks later we walked in the street to circumvent a couple of little boys just lying on the sidewalk. The sky was still a bright blue and the air smelled like hamburgers and flags waved in the late afternoon breeze coming off the ocean.
We had hightailed it out of Maryland early Saturday morning and drove straight to Philly to drop one girl back home and I was back in NJ by lunchtime. I spent the next hour or so putting my house back in order after my youngest had people over the night before. When he had proposed having friends over in my absence, in my mind that meant a couple of buddies pregaming on my porch before heading up the summer hotspot at the top of our street.
But according to a picture I saw on my son’s Instagram story, the reality was about 20 young adults holding cans of seltzer and looking at their phones or chatting in my kitchen and dining room. Apparently, that also meant accommodating many of them for a sleepover on, and I quote, “every available surface” in the house — including my new outdoor sofa as well as my own bed.
My son had called during my drive to Philly to report that there was blood on my white sheets from a mystery cut on his leg he went to bed with and I instructed him how to treat the stain and start up in the wash before he left for work. Also, in what world would he NOT wash my sheets after sleeping in them following a night partying?
I came home and rounded up every bath and kitchen towel to throw in the laundry and vacuumed the whole house — including the very large pile of sand next to the bathtub. I wiped down every surface in the kitchen, spot cleaned stains on my new outdoor seating and lit an old lemon cake candle I found behind an assortment of about 10 Bath and Body Works holiday fragrances. When everything looked, smelled and felt back up to my woman-of-a-certain-age standards, I sat on the porch and read for the rest of the afternoon until I made myself get up for that dinnertime walk.
As the dog and I rounded the corner onto Main Street and the final stretch toward home, a car pulled up alongside us and I realized it was one of my neighbors who wanted to say hi and ask how the Beyonce concert was. He’s an older guy and I’d heard from another neighbor earlier in the day that his daughter had seen one of my son’s friends hobbling up the sidewalk in a surgical boot and had jumped in her car and offered him a ride. She then picked a few of them up later from the bar and drove them to the liquor store before dropping them back at my place to do what young 20-somethings do.
Over the years, I have caught myself daydreaming and even worrying about what should come next in my life. I remember sitting on the steps of the deck of our little cape cod to smoke a cigarette after I’d finally gotten the kids tucked into bed. After I’d mustered through the hair washing and body moisturizing and teeth brushing and lying together to read the pile of picture books we picked for the night’s reading. Wet little heads tucked under my arms, their warm bodies so close to me and their minty breath anticipating what would come next in the stories we’d already read hundreds of times. We all knew quite well what happened when you gave a moose a muffin.
We’d untangle ourselves from whatever twin bed we’d picked for our storytime and I’d kiss their soft cheeks goodnight and retreat to the kitchen to finally pour a glass of wine and be alone. The kids’ dad would be out somewhere — a work dinner or function in the city — and I’d step through the sliding screen door into the soft summer night.
I’d sit on the steps and blow smoke out into the deep back yard while the frog in a nearby pond croaked as I contemplated the future. Would I have another baby? Would we ever add onto our house? Or move? Would I even stay married? It was like I was waiting for the fireflies to blink a secret message and tell me what my future would hold. Answers to all of life’s secrets flashing like a digital billboard across the darkness that had swallowed the giant wooden swing set and a shade garden with its arbor that had dripped purple wisteria flowers just a month earlier.
I wish I could go back in time and talk to that young mom sitting on those wooden steps so many years ago. First, I’d tell her to stop smoking and cut out those nightly glasses of wine because those habits would snowball as the kids got older.
Second, I’d sit down next to her and suggest she stop worrying about the future and instead, enjoy what she had right in that moment. Three healthy kids who were sweet and funny and mostly went along with her penchant for libraries and show tunes. I’d tell her to maybe not resent them needing her so much because pretty soon, they wouldn’t. And at night, when they were all pressed up alongside each other and laughing so hard at the great lengths that moose would go to to get another muffin, I’d tell her to stop and try to remember exactly what it felt like. What it smelled like. What it sounded like. To freeze that moment in a hot and tiny bedroom surrounded by her children. Because in a blink, she wouldn’t remember.
Then, I’d put my arms around this 30-something woman’s shoulders and gently suggest that instead of wondering what would happen to her, maybe instead she should decide what she’d would like to have happen, and then figure out how to do it. I’d ask if she was happy and then suggest she figure out what would make her happy and the steps needed to get there.
Recently, I was TikTok’ing in bed and watched a video of a girl instructing us to stop romanticizing everyone else’s life and romanticize our own lives instead. I spend a ton of time contemplating where I’ll end up — maybe I’ll rent in the city next or try to buy a house near the beach — instead of really committing to and loving the life I have right now. The kind of life where I can walk to see the ocean every single day and have neighbors who tell me how nice my son and his friends are and offer to drive them so they don’t have to hobble a half mile in a surgical boot. And who stop you on your walk to ask how your weekend was with your daughters.
Seeing all those families on porches and walking home from the beach could have been really triggering not that long ago (like, last year). I would have felt sad that I didn’t have what all those other people did. But instead, I reminded myself of the lovely two days I’d just spent wandering around DC with my two daughters. How they were both on board with a visit to the nation’s botanic garden. Together, we explored the galleries in its big glass atrium, including the tropical garden where you can take a series of metal staircases up to the humid treetops where we marveled at the enormous fronds and wild seed pods.
For the Beyonce show that night, my one daughter slicked my hair into two low buns to stay cool while we danced alongside each other and sang Love on Top at the top of our lungs. It was moving and magical experience with my daughters.
But will I be so busy bemoaning what I don’t have and focusing my attention on what’s next, that in 25 years I won’t remember what the weekend felt like. Lying around a hotel room watching YouTube shows on the TV and laughing at stupid stuff. Sitting in the dark theater watching the latest Jurassic Park iteration and covering our eyes when the giant Trex terrorized a family. Will I forget what those moments felt like because I was busy fretting and thinking about what’s next?
What I would give to go back in time — just for five minutes, or okay, 30 seconds — to be reminded what it felt like to be in the thick of parenting young children. Like, literally sandwiched in between the deliciousness of them. What a crime not to have appreciated that time in my life more and wishing them to grow up.
Same could be said for where I am now. It’s a pretty nice life with kind neighbors and a kickass front porch. Of course, there are things that could be better and I have dreams of what I’d like more (and less) of in it. But instead of waiting for life to happen, I will take the steps to make it happen. Or I won’t. But either way, I’ll try to be more present to right now: The cool morning air coming through the window screens. Watching early morning walkers and bikers going up and down Main Street before the beach. Crisp, clean sheets on my bed. A whole Sunday to spend however I’d like. A trip to Maine next weekend to unwind alone in a cabin by the sea.
I don’t need fireflies to spell out a secret message. I already know what it would say: LOVE THE LIFE YOU ALREADY HAVE. YOU ARE RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO BE.
Friends: I am heading to Maine next Friday (GAH) so I won’t send out our Friday newsletter but will see you here next Sunday.
What I am watching
I can’t say enough about Mariska Hargitay’s documentary about her mom, Jayne Mansfield: My Mom Jayne. It’s a really thoughtful investigation into her relationship with her mom, who died when Hargitay was three, and the stories we tell ourselves about who we are. It includes a pretty big bombshell and I love how she takes us on her journey to reclaim her own story. Two enthusiastic thumbs up.
Thanks to having a Gen Z daughter, I know about things like how to present a Powerpoint deck for work and YouTube shows like Hot Ones and Chicken Shop Date. The girls and I watched the latest episode of the latter with Jonathan Bailey — whose got SO much charisma — and it was silly and delightful.
The problem with watching shows like Hot Ones is that often, you can’t stop at just one (unlike the actual dynamite-levely spicy wings the show’s guests have to eat). The recent episode with Dakota Johnson was fun and I guess was satisfying enough that I didn’t fall down a rabbit hole of old episodes. My faves are Florence Pugh and Jennifer Lawrence.
I know TikTok is the devil but …
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… sometimes it makes me feel better …
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… and reminds me that where I am in life is really okay.
Love you guys and see you next Sunday.
xoAmy
Maine sounds amazing! Enjoy.
Such a great reminder to enjoy where you are. Today is my twins’ 16 th birthday and I always feel so nostalgic for the old days of extreme cuteness. I will work on appreciating their teen selves today. (It’s 6:46 am as I post this)
Great job, Abby. I can tell you at 73, all those memories stick with you and create great fodder for gathering later. It feels rich to have all history in the bank.