I was recently vacuuming (I do it so often that it must be an illness) when I realized that I have developed a self-preservationist quirk.  I leave the vacuum running even when I have to move furniture, let the dog out, pick up marbles. And I do this because it protects me from my children.

Long ago, when the girls were smaller, I realized that if I turned off the vacuum midway through my process, they tackled me. I never finished cleaning the floors because, when the vacuum motor died down, the girls came out of the woodwork like bedbugs crawling out of the covers.  So, I learned to leave the vacuum running no matter what. Stop for a glass of water? Leave it running. Need to pee? Leave it running.

This has also translated into my hairdryer habits.  I leave that sucker running constantly. As soon as I turn it off, I hear, “Are you done?!”  Why oh why do they follow my every move so closely?

What do these habits say about me? Is it that I will do anything to achieve a moment of privacy, even if it entails vacuuming?

So maybe I don’t have a vacuuming illness. Maybe I have a vacuuming addiction because it provides me with a wee bit of alone time. OK, now THAT is sick…

Remember the “pencil test” for perkiness? As in, if you could hold a pencil beneath your breast, it was time to invest in support bras or a talented plastic surgeon. I remember, at 13 or 14, being totally confused by this. How on earth could a pencil stay in place there? With my perfect youthful bosom, it just dropped to the floor.

Now it is my boobs that drop right to the floor. Given a lack of storage space, I could probably cart around a box of pencils without anyone ever being the wiser. A useful trick at a standardized testing facility, perhaps, but not particularly helpful otherwise.

Or, maybe this sounds familiar. Sometimes when I get dressed in the morning, the button of my pants snags on the loose stretched skin of my belly— and it doesn’t even hurt.  I just go along, tuck the little overhang of elephant skin back into my waistband and move on with my day.

There are other subtle (and not so subtle) changes I’ve collected along the way, too.  I have hips now, after spending the first part of my life in a straight line down from my ribcage, with bird legs to boot. The freckles on my face, once a delicate sprinkle, have begun to join up into that lovely phenomenon known as the “mask of motherhood”.  It’s not so obvious to other people perhaps (thank you Cover Girl!) but, to me, the increased pigmentation stands out like Gene Simmons in full makeup.  I now own a collection of cotton panties that would put my grandmother to shame, but are way more comfy for the, shall we say, post-birthing vicinity.  As for matching lingerie… does dishwater grey, from dozens of mixed-load washes, count?

My kids, though… my kids are smooth, supple, fresh.  Their little bodies feel like ripe plums beneath my hands. They can run like gazelles all morning and then, after a refreshing two hour nap, do it all over again.  I need more recovery time, say, a weekend on the couch with my special coffee blend firmly in hand (my secret? Irish Cream instead of half-and-half).

Without doubt, I gave up a few things when I handed over my feminine dignity beneath that glaring, strategically aimed spotlight in the delivery room. Nothing I can’t live without, but certainly things that I miss. I take comfort in the fact that what I lost my kids now enjoy- while they can.  Someday, my two little girls will relinquish their own suppleness in the name of the next generation.

And, quite frankly, that gives me some comfort, too.  That, and my stretchy pants. 

Tonight the training wheels came off of my daughters’ bikes.  There was hesitation, anxiety, fright, and some tears…but then I grabbed a tissue and I felt a little better. 

They did AMAZING!  Eva, my little ‘Eva-Knieva’, jumped on her bike without fear (oy) and took off.  Meanwhile, the elder girl, Annika (Miss Sensitivity America 2009), cried because the bike wasn’t ‘listening’ to her.  But, they did it!  The wheels came off, and they went flying down the street.  My heart did flip-flops worrying about them crashing into the curb, a parked car, a bystander, my car…(watch the PAINT, girls!)

I don’t think I can handle much more.  First my eldest is leaving the nest in a mere three months, then I registered my youngest for Kindergarten, then my middle child was playing ‘Truth or Dare’ on the telephone with her friend, now THIS. 

It’s so hard letting go.

At 48 I am considered ‘peri-menopausal’.  I’ve been having hot flashes and mood swings, which isn’t surprising considering that I have almost bled to death once a month for close to half a century.  I was nearly turned inside out 5 times delivering my 5 children.  My body is weathered and worn with not even the slightest hint of it’s former glory.

I remember lying on a hospital bed after the delivery of my second son.  I had blossomed into a DD over night.  When my husband entered the room, his eyes went straight to my chest and he asked ‘Can I keep them?’ 

Motherhood giveth and Motherhood taketh away.  I breast fed all five children and they sucked me down to an A cup.  Now, a couple decades later, my husband barely even notices the ‘twins’ whom have migrated south for the past decade. 

I bought a corset the other day and hoisted the ‘twins’ back up to their original position.  The garment lifted and squeezed in all the right places.  The perky girls pointed gloriously westward.  I had a waspish waist.  I easily fastened the buttons to a fitted blouse and blushed appreciatively when the guys at work remarked on my ‘nice shirt.’ (?)  I didn’t dare breath for the first 2 hours.  I couldn’t breath even if I wanted to for the next 6 hours.  The corset, aka the Anaconda, would not allow me. 

And my dear sweet husband didn’t even notice. 

When I removed the corset I felt as if I was being re-born.  As I released the tiny hooks one by one , my body expanded little by little until suddenly all constriction was gone and I gulped a deep breath of fresh air, filling my lungs.  The twins succumbed to the gravitational pull of the Earth once again.

Never again!  If my husband wants perky breasts and a waspish waist, he can wear the damn corset himself!  I have finally accepted who and what I am.

I am a 48 year old mother of 5 and it’s okay to be weathered and worn.

Tomorrow is the last day of school before the summer vacation.  Oddly enough I don’t dread the almost 3 month break from school the way I used to when the kids were younger.  Back then I would have to find some way of entertaining them all day.  I actually had to plan and prepare 3 meals a day, 7 days a week, all summer long!  And forget about any ‘me’ time.

It was like being on House Arrest!

This year promises to be different.  There are jobs,  girl friends, boy friends and marching band camp.  The white board calendar that nobody ever remembers to read is covered with psychedelic entries.  Graduations, birthday parties, sleep overs, road trips, picnics, camp-outs, and band competitions.

Suddenly I feel like a wallflower holding an empty dance card while everyone else dances around me.  Summer vacation hadn’t even started and the kids are already booked up.  Their calendar is completely full and I’m not any where on it.  I suppose I should have made an appointment at the beginning of the year.

This was no longer House Arrest.  It’s more like Solitary Confinement.

Time to start erasing some of those entries and adding a few of my own.  

“June 4, Dinner and a movie with Mom (mandatory!)