If you have spent any time with me in the past decade you have likely heard one of my snarky observations on parenting middle school girls:
“There is a special place in hell for 8th-grade girls.”
Hopefully, you have read enough of my blogs to also know that I have three awesome daughters and they were terrific even as dreaded middle school girls. However, the issue with 8th grade is that even wonderful girls (I have limited male experience) feel like aliens in their own bodies and this makes them …. let’s just say, challenging. I have also extolled Chuck’s virtues as a stay-at-home dad and it is all true but even he would tell you that there were a lot of 8th-grade moments that were his kryptonite.
One of the benefits of twin girls is we got the second round of misery done with all at once (or, in my case the third round … because I had to live through 8th-grade myself to get to the point of parenting 8th-grade girls). I have friends who have already become grandparents who are advising me that all the trite sayings about it being ‘better’ than parenting are absolutely true. I am 100% sure part of that is you can go on a long around the world trip or something if you have granddaughters in 8th-grade.
So my epiphany this week that my personal communication skills have regressed and led me to feel about as well-adjusted and comfortable as an 8th-grade girl was not a welcome discovery. Grief: the gift that keeps giving. THis observation came about because without a lot of planning or thought, I dipped my toe a little more fully into socialization this week. Through a series of delayed plans, last-minute additions, and maybe just the nice weather, I went to a SoulCycle class with a buddy, ate an honest-to-goodness family meal with her household, and took walks with working mom friends.
One of the oddest things about the last year - at least for me - has been my increasing lack of desire to socialize. For those who are not aware, this is akin to Michael Jordan deciding he hates basketball or Julia Child up and giving up on cooking. I mean, I was the social chair of my sorority - two years in a row! Elected the second time when I wasn’t even in the country. When new acquaintances ask me how I got elected at 25 to the Massachusetts Senate and climbed the ladder quickly - an accurate version of the story absolutely includes my ability to socialize & plan parties. (see: new legislator orientation late night at State Street Tavern, late fall/early winter 1990)
So, last summer as the world reopened and we began to receive invites to events that it was clear Chuck could not attend I was surprised to discover I did not have the heart for it either. Surprised because throughout our marriage Chuck was, at best, a grudging (if charming) attendee at those parties I persuaded him to go to with me. I had quite a system down. Because he was hard of hearing, a side effect of kidney disease, I realized early in our relationship that there were times I would tell him about events (or lots of other things) and while he would nod and pretend to have heard me, he later admitted he had not. Eventually, I realized this could be used to my advantage (note: I have acknowledged we had a great, not perfect marriage & he absolutely was on to me & this tactic). Generally, I would wait till the Wednesday or Thursday before the weekend event (regular readers will remember we had a standing ‘date’ & sitters on Saturdays) when he would inquire where we should go to dinner. I would then do the, “Don’t you remember? We have XXX party/wedding/event on Friday/Saturday/Sunday!” He, of course, would not remember. I would swear I had told him. Now, lest you think me completely devious - this developed quite innocently when on several occasions I was sure I had told him about an event, but who can really be sure?
Anyway, sometimes (usually if it was a Saturday) Chuck would come with me - but often he would convince me I would enjoy the X thing more without him. Many times he actually came but negotiated to wait in the car. Because he never drank alcohol this was a perfect solution. So, in addition to my time as a candidate, I have ample experience as a spouse navigating social events unaccompanied (never mind sorority rush!). That is why it came as a complete surprise to me that I dreaded doing social events alone. And why I am just now inching my way back.
Perhaps I knew that I was going to revert to an awkward, uncomfortable in my own skin communicator in these situations? There are two things that cause this: One: talking about Chuck. Two: talking about me. It is hard to avoid both of these topics in social situations, particularly if you walk through the door as a Black Swan. And my challenge on these topics is also two-fold: I am still challenged to control my emotions, which makes me uncomfortable. But more so, I have a bunch of thoughts in my head that I have no one to share them with - minuscule, trivial stuff. And when I do start talking … my social communication skills are, at best, rusty.
The emotional reticence is self-explanatory regarding its equivalency to 8th-grade hormonal behavior. Like all of us, moms & parents, know much of the drama by 8th-grade girls is driven by hormonal fluctuations that drive a wild emotional roller coaster. I have no idea if grief has an impact on hormones but the inability to control my most intense emotions is galling. I spent most of my time in public office priding myself on NOT crying in public and apparently I have made that a critical part of my persona. So this crying with no warning is not welcome at work. Thankfully, I have largely succeeded in putting topics of Chuck & my well-being strictly off-limits. Remember - master at compartmentalizing!
The ‘safe’ social events that I took on this week were places I felt comfortable trying to have some of these conversations and if a few tears leaked out, so be it. What I was not prepared for was babbling on and on and on telling all my pent-up stories, observations & insights on all the trivial shit that has been building up in my head for five months (at least) with no one to share it with. And worse, because many of these stories have limited interest with context, but zero interest without context, I have to preface each soliloquy with the context that of course I never had to share with Chuck. Safe to say the point of these stories never lives up to the length of the build-up. Babble, babble, babble. Blah, blah, blah. OH MY GOD. I have always been a little long-winded (never mastered the 30-second sound-bite) but this is out of control. So because I am living alone and avoiding a lot of social/non-work interaction, when I do go out and talk to people I sound like a pathetic, rambling lonely 8th-grader. Yikes.
The good news is that at least I am becoming self-aware. The bad news is I am back in 8th-grade - but with lots of experience. This blog obviously is one way to off-load some of the insights. My posts on social media are a form of ‘sharing/socializing’ as well. And, what I do realize is that while I feel as awkward in my skin in these moments as all those hormone-driven 13-year-old girls walking the halls of middle school, I am truly blessed to have a huge cadre of family and friends who are more than happy to walk along quietly as I unload a bunch of verbal nonsense. And ultimately that is the big difference between my Black Swan self and that awkward girl I was - the enormous gratitude I can now remember to feel in these moments for the circle of love and friendship sustaining me and those other three girls I helped usher through that other unavoidable transition phase. I also guess I have a good answer now (maybe even a short one!) to that ubiquitous question: “What would you tell your 13-year-old self?”
13-year-old Jane: “You are building some skills in navigating tough times that will serve you well in the future. Breathe, Move, Pray, Sleep. Write more & Talk less.”