RESISTANCE IS FUTILE
The bulk of the unsolicited commentary you receive when you are pregnant amounts to: “Life as you know it is over!” Being obstinate, I did not believe it. I, clearly, would be the exception. I maintained this fiction, night after night, as I binge watching Star Trek Enterprise during baby feedings.[1] Long after the baby had fallen back asleep, I would keep watching, gripped by the storyline of Captain Picard being assimilated by the Borg.[2] And then - as though speaking on behalf of the newborn in my lap - ‘Locutus of Borg’ spoke Truth to me:
“Resistance is futile. Your life as it has been is over. From this time forward, you will service us.”
The grocery store life coaches, and the Borg, were correct. Resistance was futile. And dumb. With the wisdom of one who thinks about bone density and the ramifications of using Hawaiian Tropic Dark Tanning Oil in the eighties, I can see the longer story arc. The perspective from the Empty Nest aerie reveals that parenthood-induced life changes were not just in service of our children, but also in service of our mid-life selves. The Force Majeure of parenthood necessitated adaptations that turned out to be essential for survival to - and of - middle age.
There is the monumental shift from a diet that over indexed on Ramen noodles, pizza slices, coffee and alcohol in the collegiate and prove-yourself-at-work eras. From the outset of parenthood, you must navigate a complex matrix of how/when/what to feed your child. First, there is the system shock of the ~1,000 baby feedings a day. This numbs you in preparation for the years of multiple young children with conflicting guidelines: This kid can’t have strawberries yet; that kid has outgrown the sippy cup; the other kid won’t eat green things; the first kid hates cheese; the second hates apples; the third will only eat cheese and apples. There are the aspirational attempts to sneak vegetables into their meals - congratulating yourself on the tablespoon of zucchini in the brownies, the quarter cup of carrots in the Bolognese. The destined to fail “you will eat what you are given” approach, and the psychological warfare over the consumption of a single pea.
Just when you figure out how to keep your kids inside the pediatric growth chart bands, you hit the ideological challenges of the teen years. Dairy products are suddenly the nemesis of clear skin. Gluten, refined sugars and food colouring aggravate their ADHD. Then comes the vegetarianism, veganism, pollotarian-ism, pescatarian-ism, and other isms I never figured out. Layer in environmental boycotting of water hungry produce like avocado, almonds and soy. Eliminate anything mass produced, packaged in single use plastics or individually wrapped. Top that off with ethical standards demanding foods be free trade, single source, hundred mile, organic, “happy” and sustainable. (Forget “affordable” - that got eliminated at “Hello” (Fresh)). Add in allergies to preservatives, nightshades, pitted fruit, nuts, seeds, eggs and shellfish.[3] None of which takes into consideration their basic preferences. Cooking a single meal that meets all parameters and still hits base level nutritional requirements is next to impossible. The short order cook/parent wins points for supporting the kids’ development into free thinking, conscientious beings…if only they weren’t at risk of developing scurvy.
What you don’t know as a parent scouring food labels for red dye #40, is that learning to accommodate your children’s eating stages is preparation for when YOU are the one needing all the accommodation. The day will come when the eaters in your midst turn 50, and suddenly gluten, dairy, coffee, red wine, raw onions, spicy foods, garlic, sugar… (this list is starting to depress me) … are off the table. Hosting a party requires consideration of a myriad of autoimmune and gastro issues: Fred’s lactose intolerance, Wilma’s rheumatoid arthritis, Barney’s type 2 diabetes and Betty’s celiac disease. I have long since stopped plating meals, opting instead for buffet style service with every conceivably triggering ingredient safely offered on the side. And forget about alcohol! As I wrote about in The Long and Winding Road, getting your kids out the door in the morning is hard enough - doing so hungover is impossible. In middle age, recovery from a moderately tipsy evening can extend into a multi-day affair. We have, by necessity, become Cicerones of non-alcoholic IPAs. And this before even factoring in the impact on sleep…
Of course, parenthood involves sleepless nights and early mornings. Getting up multiple times a night with an infant, or before dawn for team practices, or waking at 1am to drive teenagers home from parties. It’s all part of the bargain. Turns out that these are just waypoints along a road to a time when uninterrupted sleep, let alone sleeping in (where “in” = 6am), is physically impossible. The average middle-aged night will involve multiple pee breaks and reading 13% of your kindle book. You might get 8 hours of sleep, but it will take you 12 hours to do so. Slowly you take on the early parenthood sleep schedules you once felt constrained by. Back then, you followed the “nap when the baby naps” advice, now napping “like a baby” is something you schedule into your Google calendar. Once, the night started after you got the baby to sleep. Flashforward a few years and you find yourself in bed before your teenagers even leave for the evening. Likewise, with sleeping arrangements. As a new parent you are often playing musical beds or making space in your own bed for little stowaways. These years of accommodation prepare you for a future that involves making space for sleep apnea machines, body pillows, “life transition” pets, and “get these covers off me!” Super Nova hot flashes.
Most of the seismic lifestyle shifts parenthood ushers in are non-negotiable (you know, like feeding your children). This is why, when faced with a voluntary transition we resisted the most. To quote pre-Borg-assimilated Jean-Luc:
“The line must be drawn, here and no further. This far, no further."
That line for us was the physical manifestation of our lost youth, of our irreversible arrival into fuddy-duddy-hood, the ultimate symbol of surrender: the minivan. Instead, we just kept adding boxes and hitches and trailers and racks to our mid-sized car until it was basically just a minivan turned inside out inside out. This exoskeleton meant that our belongings were stored in a car coffin that I couldn’t reach; the hatch trunk was blocked by the bike hitch; the array of racks barred you from the car wash; and forget about entering a parking garage. Inside, the three car seats didn’t fit; the dog was on the floor (which made him car sick); and you couldn’t participate in reciprocal carpooling for any activity that involved equipment, or even a backpack.
We resisted, and resisted, and resisted…until we didn’t. The fact is that if you are going to spend that much time in a vehicle, it should feel like a living room.[4] And here’s the thing: After all the initial resistance, now, as empty nesters, we need even more cargo space. Never mind a minivan, we need a Sprinter Van to transport the gear for the activities we do to fill the void made by our flown hatchlings. Plus, it turns out that having accumulated 10,000 hours of driving during the carpooling years makes one a Van Life expert, who thinks nothing of driving cross country “for fun”.
The most important life shift that came with parenthood, the one that pays dividends later, is taking on the role of teacher. As a parent, you (try your best) to lead by example. To show your children how to be their best selves and live their best lives. Turns out that this has the side benefit of training yourself to live life to its fullest. Of reminding yourself to appreciate the family, experiences, opportunities, beauty, friendships, community, laughter – and the challenges - in the world. All the while that we were preparing our children for life independent from their parents, we have also been training for ourselves for a new life independent of them.
Once, in an early Star Trek movie, Wrath of Khan, Canada’s National Treasure, William Shatner, aka Admiral Kirk opined:
“Galloping about the cosmos is a game for the young.”[5]
I respectively disagree, James T.!
We have been preparing for our ‘Free Bird’ cosmos galloping era for the past twenty-five years.
We are all trained up.
Charge up the EV VW van, strap on the bikes, load up the skis, and Giddy Up. We are going galloping.
…Just don’t feed us garlic or keep us up past 10, please.
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[1] Star Trek was on air every hour, of every day, in those pre streaming times – which provided a continuum of entertainment through the 24/7 infant feedings. Law & Order and Iron Chef served this critical purpose for our subsequent children.
[2] Should you truly not know what I am referring to, I quote another hive mind, Wikipedia: “The Borg are an alien group that appear as recurring antagonists in the Star Trek fictional universe. The Borg are cybernetic organisms (cyborgs) linked in a hive mind called "The Collective".”
[3] Full disclosure: when it comes to dietary restrictions, I am the canary in the all-you-can-eat-buffet coal mine. I am the reason why our children grew up in what they called an “ingredient house”. I came by my auto immune issues early in life. It’s refreshing to finally have my peers join me in a world where one must add caveats to RSVPs.
[4] My concession to my bruised, and ill-placed, sense of “coolness” was to get a black one so I could pretend I was a member of the A team.
[5] I guess the writers hadn’t anticipated that decades, and multiple movies later, deep in his middle age, Kirk would still saving the intergalactic universe.