I was told recently that because I'm 70, I've lived my life and have nothing left to live for. I'm only good for babysitting. That remark was almost so subtle, I didn't hear it. But my gut did. Although I had other very valid reasons not to become a nanny (like chronic health issues that already affect my quality-of-life), that comment raised the most valid one of all.
I married young--at 20--and endured a mixed-bag marriage for the next 10 years. After a three-year sabbatical, I jumped right back in. And stuck out another and far more challenging one for 37. My heart finally forced me to abdicate my domestic role.
I brought up three boys, pretty much by myself. Oh, the hubby helped support them financially, but they were nothing more than helpers to him. As soon as they could walk, they were put to work. I fed them, monitored their education, managed the household, provided clean clothes and sanitary living conditions, and all the love a mother could give. Did I miss anything?
I gave. And gave. And gave. That was okay, really. I didn't mind it. I enjoyed being a mom. I endured being a wife. Then I was suddenly on my own. Like a kid in a Toys"R"Us with a fistful of money. I was finally done with being a giver. I was free to do whatever I desired.
Unfortunately, I still don't know what I desire beyond writing. That's okay. I was subservient for 47 years. It's going to take time to settle into my happy place. But, like I said, I'm 70. If I live as long as my mom, I have 21 more years. If I get dementia, like her, I have 7. Well, 6. I'm almost 71.
Do I want to give up on life? Do I raise the white flag and lay down to die? Do I spend the remaining fruitful years of my life babysitting?
I don't know the meaning of the word "selfish". I never was. That translates to forty-seven adult years' worth of never was. I think I deserve to do whatever the hell I want with my last 7. And, if I am lucky, I might get 21. And find someone pleasant and caring to spend it with.
Here's to life! L'chaim!
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