On turning 35

Having less than 12 hours and counting of being 34, I've been waxing reflective on aging. I have to say, I haven't minded getting older thus far. I don't think I was ever one of those kids who looked at people in their 30s and thought, gosh, they're old! Thirty-five isn't old. Who knows though, maybe I'm in denial.

So I'm not alarmed that I'm about to turn 35. What does leave me gobsmacked on a near-daily basis, however, is how quickly time passes. I mean, I've been driving for 19 years, been out of high school nearly 17, been able to legally drink alcohol for 14!

Lately I've been contemplating the last 15 years. Why the last 15? Well, I guess it's sticking in my mind because Mark and I have now been together 15 years, and what a life-changing stretch of time it's been. I graduated from college, got my first real job, got married, had three kids, we bought our first house, sold our first house, bought another house. We've celebrated the greatest joys - our wedding, the acquisition of four sisters-in-law, the birth of our boys and several nieces and nephews. And we've endured some hardships - two miscarriages, the loss of loved ones, my mom's health difficulties, leading to a staggering seven surgeries for her. When I think back on all those times, I cannot wrap my head around the fact that 15 years have passed so quickly. Thinking about the next 15 years is dizzying.

I have to say reaching my mid-30s has brought some surprises. Gray hairs, anyone? I can feel already how bodies begin to betray as they age, how soreness begins to creep in a little more easily. And last time I shopped for a new night cream, I reached for the age-defying variety, as it seemed about right that 34 1/2 would be the point at which one should begin to defy her age.

All in all, though, I like being in my 30s. I exercise more and eat more healthfully than I ever did in my 20s. I've reached a lot of my goals and become a more rounded person on the way. Most of the time, I'm truly content. In fact, I think I'm delighted to be turning 35 tomorrow. You'll have to catch me again in 15 years to see what 50 (!) is looking like for me, but I'm planning on taking my time getting there.

It's a swing and a miss

Like many other 9-year-old boys, Ben has long professed his desire to be a pro baseball player. The pro athlete dream is a rite of passage for boys. I wasn't about to squash the boy's aspirations to become the next Ryan Braun.

However, looking at the situation realistically, with the athletic genes that Ben received from Mark and me, it's never struck me as particularly likely that my oldest would achieve his goal. What are those genes, you ask? Well let's just say that on the Ceman side, I took home the most improved trophy for the swim team as a freshman. And my brother, Mike? He took home the same award for the tennis team just four years later. Yeah, you read that right: one family, two most-improved athletes. Of course, the most improved award probably is a euphemism for not so good at first, marginally better at the end of the season. (For the record, I was tickled when I received my trophy, but now the Ceman family most improved awards are a running joke with my clan.) For his part, Mark warmed the baseball benches alongside the likes of Eric Hinske. I tease only because I love, my dear husband!

To my surprise, though, with much determination, Ben has turned out to be a decent athlete. He's a terrific runner. Ben ran the Sole Burner with the running club from school. His goal was to finish before Mark and me, and he did - by a good four minutes. As for baseball, Ben wasn't an outstanding player on his coach-pitch teams, but he was solid, a decent hitter, probably one of the better players. Ben's destiny was not in the major leagues, but maybe he could play ball in high school.

With a switch to kid pitch this year, everything has changed. If you've read The Art of Fielding, you'll know what I mean when I say that Ben is going through a Henry Skrimshander moment. The game has gotten into his head, and he's lost all of his confidence. The change to using a harder ball in this league has freaked him out, and Ben has an almost-paralyzing fear that he'll get hit with the ball and be seriously injured. I've watched with a mix of frustration, sorrow and empathy as my boy has stepped into the batter's box again and again and refused to take a decent swing at the ball. Frankly, he looks terrified, like he's hoping to get walked each time. Kids Ben's age aren't great pitchers, but still, he strikes out about half the time, and he's not striking out swinging.

Of course, this isn't a huge deal. It's hard for me to watch Ben struggle so much, but if he's content with how things are going, I'm OK with it. Mark, as his dad and assistant coach, will help Ben work to get better, but maybe baseball's just not what it used it to be to Ben. Like 99.5 percent of boys, the baseball dream isn't destined to come true for my oldest. He'll join most of the rest of us and end up participating in sports for the pure joy of it, not millions of dollars. That's been more than enough for me. I'm nowhere near the fastest swimmer or runner, but I genuinely enjoy doing both. I hope Ben will find that same contentment.

This one's for the moms I love

Ben

Paul

Gus

It hit me all at once, not two weeks after Ben was born, the magnitude of what parents, my parents, all parents, give to bring up their children. Sure, I had just barely become a mother, but fueled by wildly fluctuating hormones, post-pregnancy mood swings and sleep deprivation, I penned a sappy letter to my parents thanking them for all the sacrifices they'd made for me. Almost 10 years into parenthood, my appreciation has only deepened, because as veteran parents know, those hazy, sleep-deprived first weeks look easy compared to the myriad challenges that arise in the daily job of bringing up kids.

I'm a day late, as usual, giving my Mother's Day salute, but today happens to be my mom's 67th birthday, so I'm still good, I think. One of my favorite mom quotes, one I've used here before, describes moms as the place where we deposit all our hurts and worries. That couldn't be more true for me. I gave my mom a pretty hard time growing up. I was a bundle of emotions, and all of the negative ones, I seemed to heap onto her. Every time I think my kids are difficult, I remember that they're probably still nowhere near the pain that I was. I guess it says a lot about my mom. True, she didn't disown me - that's a lot, but I think she was my safe spot, the place where I could let go of all my hurt and frustration. Now, that's a thankless job. I wish I would've gone easier on her, but I hope I'm making up for it now.

I became a mom fairly young - 25, and part of that choice was a desire to have my kids really know their grandparents, to have many years to spend with them. Watching my mom with her grandsons is one of my greatest joys. She is everything a grandma should be. Sure, my kids enjoy all the stereotypical grandparent perks. They get spoiled a little bit, get more treats at Grandma and Grandpa's, but I hope what they will hold dear are memories of my mom playing games with them, reading to them, teaching Paul to sew.

So I have a truly great mom, but I'm lucky enough to also have a wonderful mother-in-law. Carol and I are kindred spirits, both moms of only sons. I came across this piece about moms of boys on the Huffington Post http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jenny-isenman/moms-of-boys_b_1320116.html (read it if you have time - it's terrific). I could relate to its description of the fear that moms of boys feel that they are destined to lose their sons after they get married. It made me think of Carol, too. It can't be easy for her, but Carol is the most gracious mother-in-law I know. She and Leon have made it so easy to become a part of their family. So, Carol, have I mentioned your wonderful cooking, decorating, and, most importantly, the incredible way you raised your sons? Also, your skin is miraculously never-aging. Seriously, the woman raised twice the amount of boys that I'm raising! She should be canonized.

Lastly, I want to thank my three beautiful boys for making me a mother. I cherish the gift I have been given in you three, and the joy and wonder you give me in watching you grow is never-ending.

A random act of kindness

Toward the end of church yesterday, I took Gus out for a walk because he was getting antsy. We were standing at the baptism bulletin board looking at photos of the babies when someone came up behind me and put her hands on my shoulders. Before I turned around, I assumed it was Mark saying, "OK, they've had it. Let's cut out of here early."

I turned to see a woman who's a familiar face at church, but I don't know her personally. She looked at me warmly and said, "I just wanted to tell you that your boys are beautiful. They're so well-behaved, and it makes me so happy to see you here." Naturally, I began to demur. You know, "They have good days and bad days ..." But she pressed on, "No, they really are well-behaved, and you are a good mom, I can tell." I told her she had made my day, and with that, off she walked.

This woman probably is about 10 years older than me. In the course of our short conversation, she told me she has two sons, 18 and 20, and a daughter, 13. I'd guess that she, like an elderly woman who had also commented on my boys' good behavior a few months ago at church, was a mom who was feeling wistful for the days when her kids were young and was observing us through rose-colored glasses.

When we're out with the kids somewhere that demands their self-control, I think I tend to view the boys' behavior worse than it probably is. Every vocalization by Gus sounds extra-loud to my ear; each time Ben slumps in the pew looks especially mopey and disrespectful. When Paul asks to go to the bathroom in the middle of Mass, I fret that onlookers are thinking, "Can't he wait half an hour until this is finished?" The reality, I suppose, most likely lies someplace between my worst fears about how we appear and the way I wish we did.

The boys' church behavior, to me, is acceptable but usually not great. The acceptability has been cultivated only through weekly exposure to the need to sit quietly for that hour. Maybe, though, I need to give them more credit, and when someone pays my family a compliment, I'll take it for what it is and let it make me feel good for a while.

The woman from church paid me an extraordinary kindness. I will remember that day, and several years down the line, when I'm feeling wistful watching a set of parents with their squirming kids, all parties doing their best in a tricky situation, I hope I will pay her kindness forward.