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Authors: Kaya McLaren
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talking about—this new era of your life? Your life is a continuum.” I have just shown her the illusionary nature of her problems.
“A),” she mocks me, “My motherhood is a continuum. I wish it weren’t. I wish it was something I could retire from. You wouldn’t know anything about this kind of parenthood because you spent about a total of twenty minutes with the kids the entire time they were growing up.” She is too angry to regret this comment yet. “B) You also don’t know anything about menopause, or womanhood in general, so don’t presume you do. Don’t patronize me with your male approach to life. It doesn’t work for me.”
I stare at her angry face and listen to the clock tick fifteen times. Fifteen seconds seem like fifteen hours. I’m shocked by her insults directed at my well-intended attempts at problem solving. She stares right back, cold. What did I do to deserve this kind of hatred? Will someone please tell me? It’s got to be some misunderstanding that can surely be cleared up. I try to explain myself. “I wasn’t patronizing you. I was just trying to show you the illusionary nature of your problems.” Her eyes widen with disbelief and fury.
“Oh? Menopause is an illusion? I’m just dreaming this up? Go to hell, Phil.”
She storms out the kitchen doorway, and in a couple seconds, the front door slams. What just happened? I cannot come up with an action plan until I truly understand what the problem is, and I clearly do not truly understand what the problem is. I do not know that my marriage would survive another mitigation of the problem. Maybe it would be better just to not say anything for a while so that I can evaluate without making things worse. Maybe it’s just a phase that will pass on its own.
I take out my pocket calendar where I’ve been charting her menopausal symptoms. On today’s date, I write “anger” and “unreasonableness.” Yes, if I can only find the pattern, maybe I can predict the best times to talk to her. Yes, when I can organize her physiological chaos, I’ll be able to cope with her much better. I study the calendar and examine the last three months. No pattern yet. Not encouraging.
Anna on Cottonwoods
(May 31)
Since I don’t want to talk to Phil, I walk to the river with a bottle of Chardonnay and a glass. There, I find a place to sit, pour my wine, and breathe. I am in the natural world now. In the natural world, everything gets old, and if you study it, you find beauty in it. Here, among the ancient cottonwood trees that line the river, I find some peace. The tree feels motherly to me, sheltering me from the sun with her new leaves and providing me with a strong trunk to lean against. The humus of last year’s dead leaves creates a soft place for me to sit, like a grandmother’s lap. I lean back against the cottonwood grandmother, and wish this culture had elders who would explain to me this new era of my life. I feel overwhelmed.
I study the trees of all ages from the painter’s point of view. The young ones have little shape or form. They are not complex or particularly interesting. I would not choose to paint them. That one—that one over there is the one I would choose to paint. It has exquisite form. It’s gnarled, with swollen, knobby joints in its branches. With or without leaves, it would be a captivating subject. Is it only painters, black-and-white photographers, and wine tasters who can appreciate the beautiful complexity of aged beings?
I start my second glass of wine and wait for it to take some effect.
Olive on Packing
(June 1)
Michelle pours herself a cup of coffee in the employee lounge. “How was your weekend?” I ask as I pass by, find my coffee cup, remember I shouldn’t drink coffee, and put my cup back. Michelle always has a funny story, and I could use one.
“Oh, you know, it was a Twin Falls weekend.” Yes, I know. She’s explained it to me before. Twice a month now, she has to drive her baby down to Twin
“A),” she mocks me, “My motherhood is a continuum. I wish it weren’t. I wish it was something I could retire from. You wouldn’t know anything about this kind of parenthood because you spent about a total of twenty minutes with the kids the entire time they were growing up.” She is too angry to regret this comment yet. “B) You also don’t know anything about menopause, or womanhood in general, so don’t presume you do. Don’t patronize me with your male approach to life. It doesn’t work for me.”
I stare at her angry face and listen to the clock tick fifteen times. Fifteen seconds seem like fifteen hours. I’m shocked by her insults directed at my well-intended attempts at problem solving. She stares right back, cold. What did I do to deserve this kind of hatred? Will someone please tell me? It’s got to be some misunderstanding that can surely be cleared up. I try to explain myself. “I wasn’t patronizing you. I was just trying to show you the illusionary nature of your problems.” Her eyes widen with disbelief and fury.
“Oh? Menopause is an illusion? I’m just dreaming this up? Go to hell, Phil.”
She storms out the kitchen doorway, and in a couple seconds, the front door slams. What just happened? I cannot come up with an action plan until I truly understand what the problem is, and I clearly do not truly understand what the problem is. I do not know that my marriage would survive another mitigation of the problem. Maybe it would be better just to not say anything for a while so that I can evaluate without making things worse. Maybe it’s just a phase that will pass on its own.
I take out my pocket calendar where I’ve been charting her menopausal symptoms. On today’s date, I write “anger” and “unreasonableness.” Yes, if I can only find the pattern, maybe I can predict the best times to talk to her. Yes, when I can organize her physiological chaos, I’ll be able to cope with her much better. I study the calendar and examine the last three months. No pattern yet. Not encouraging.
Anna on Cottonwoods
(May 31)
Since I don’t want to talk to Phil, I walk to the river with a bottle of Chardonnay and a glass. There, I find a place to sit, pour my wine, and breathe. I am in the natural world now. In the natural world, everything gets old, and if you study it, you find beauty in it. Here, among the ancient cottonwood trees that line the river, I find some peace. The tree feels motherly to me, sheltering me from the sun with her new leaves and providing me with a strong trunk to lean against. The humus of last year’s dead leaves creates a soft place for me to sit, like a grandmother’s lap. I lean back against the cottonwood grandmother, and wish this culture had elders who would explain to me this new era of my life. I feel overwhelmed.
I study the trees of all ages from the painter’s point of view. The young ones have little shape or form. They are not complex or particularly interesting. I would not choose to paint them. That one—that one over there is the one I would choose to paint. It has exquisite form. It’s gnarled, with swollen, knobby joints in its branches. With or without leaves, it would be a captivating subject. Is it only painters, black-and-white photographers, and wine tasters who can appreciate the beautiful complexity of aged beings?
I start my second glass of wine and wait for it to take some effect.
Olive on Packing
(June 1)
Michelle pours herself a cup of coffee in the employee lounge. “How was your weekend?” I ask as I pass by, find my coffee cup, remember I shouldn’t drink coffee, and put my cup back. Michelle always has a funny story, and I could use one.
“Oh, you know, it was a Twin Falls weekend.” Yes, I know. She’s explained it to me before. Twice a month now, she has to drive her baby down to Twin
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