Pfizer's rally cry for women: 'Return to You'

As I venture into life’s second act, the effects of the inevitable transition mount. Many of you likely know the drill: I get cold more often then I used to, then I get hot, then cold again. My weight has increased while my memory has decreased…or disappeared altogether at times. I’m a wee bit more crabby, or weepy, some days. And periods by which I could once set a clock are now the most undependable event on my calendar. My mind has become undependable, too, or at the very least, foggy with occasional moments of zero visibility.

I’m pretty sure I’m not alone in such things. Women my age are destined to have such experiences, I’m told, as well as the need to focus on our hearts and all things that keep it healthy. The concerns can be overwhelming.

One of the perks of such menopausal or perimenopausal unpleasantness is that it forces us to accept that we’re getting older, which is a good thing. For while there may be no way to ignore our age, no way around it, there is indeed a way to embrace it.

As we accept we’re getting older, we realize time is relatively short for doing exactly what we want to do, being exactly who we want to be. A lucky few may have succeeded at being themselves all along, but I wasn’t one of them. Maybe you weren’t either. Many of us weren’t—and now is the time for us to connect with others facing the same challenges in reaching our full potential.

Pfizer is encouraging women to share our “Return to You” stories, our tales of circumstances causing us to refocus on living healthier, happier, better lives. Here is mine:

Once upon a time I was a boss. I ran a department. I managed staff. I was a newspaper editor. An editor who edited and rarely wrote—a far cry from the writer I’d always considered myself to be. But hey, I was the boss, and for a short while that made me happy.

Then the economy tanked, my department was cut, and my staff and I joined the ranks of the unemployed.

I searched for jobs, applied for jobs, finally came within inches of an awesome new job—as a boss. There’d be decent pay, great benefits, staff to boss. But no writing. Again, a far cry from whom I really was, who I really wanted to be.

The day before the final interview for that great job, my head ached, my stomach churned. My gut was telling me the great job wasn’t all that great. At least not for me. I had to make a choice: go for the job or listen to my gut and get back to being myself.

I listened to my gut and cancelled the interview. So much for decent pay, great benefits, staff to boss around. But that was okay because none of that mattered, not to the me I was returning to.

What did matter was writing and making at least a smidgen of money at it, of course, as the balance in my bank account mattered, too. It was a risky choice to make, but it was the right one for me. My husband thankfully agreed and supported it regardless of how tight it might make our finances.

And tight it has indeed been. Yet despite the stress associated with making ends meet, I feel less stressed than ever before. Sure, there's still that whole perimenopause thing going on, but by returning to being me, I feel younger, more vibrant, more vital, more healthy. I readily accept challenges and opportunities I’d let slip by in the past. I eat better, and I exercise more.

Making a conscious decision to return to me led to me being better than ever—physically, mentally, spiritually. In turn, I’m better for everyone else in my life. I’m a better wife, a better mother, a better grandmother.

I’m also a better writer, a more productive writer. This post? It was my fourth completed article of the day—with not even a wee bit of being crabby or weepy in the process. At least not that I can remember.

What about you? Have you had the chance to Return to You? I'd enjoy hearing about it; feel free to share your story in the comment section.

Want to read other Return to You blogger stories? Visit the Pfizer page on BlogHer.com and prepare to be inspired!

15 things you may not know about today's grandparents

• The majority of today’s grandparents—53% of grandmothers and 54% of grandfathers—are Baby Boomers under age 65.

• The average age of becoming a grandparent in the United States is 48.

• There were an estimated 65 million grandmothers and grandfathers in 2010. By 2020, they are projected to reach 80 million, at which time they will be nearly one-in-three adults.

• The number of grandparents is growing at twice the overall population growth rate.

• A majority of those with grandchildren are women, in part because on average women age 45+ live approximately seven years longer than men. At the time the 2010 Census was conducted, there were about 124 grandmothers for every 100 grandfathers.

• Today’s grandparents are more likely to be college graduates (37%) and fully employed than at any time in the past.

• The grandparent-age share of the nation's income is 60%.

• The mean annual income of grandparent-age households was $68,500—about $500 above the mean income for all U.S. households. Among all grandparent-age households, about one-in-four had an annual income of $90,000 or more.

• They spend$52 billion a year on their grandkids.

• There are an estimated 4.5 million grandparentheaded households that include one or more of their grandchildren. That means approximately one in every nine (11%) grandparent households includes at least one grandchild.

• Three-quarters of grandparents are online. Forty-five percent are on social networks, and six percent have started a blog.

• 70 percent of grandparents see their grandchildren at least once a week.

• Forty-three percent exercise or play sports.

• Thirty-eight percent report having sex at least twice a week.

• Ten percent have a tattoo.

Sources: US Census Bureau, MetLife Mature Market Institute, Grandparents.com

Today's question:

What on the list surprises you...and what would you like to add?

This post also published as a guest post on Family Home and Life.

Hard to believe

Happy birthday to Andrea McArdle, the ultimate Annie:

Hard to believe Annie is old enough to be a granny—although I don't believe she is one. She is indeed old enough, though, as she's older than I am, and I'm a grandma twice over.

Hard to believe on both counts, to be honest.

Today's question:

Tomorrow, tomorrow...what are your plans for tomorrow?

Gramma's wake-up call

When I visit Bubby, he loves to wake me in the morning. I'm supposed to stay in my bed until he creeps in and tells me "Good morning, Gramma!" Then he usually crawls into bed with me and we chat for a few minutes before heading downstairs for breakfast.

If Bubby happens to sleep late and I get up before he does, he chastises me with, "I was supposed to wake you up, Gramma!" I then either return to my bed and we go through the motions of how things were supposed to go down, or we agree that I'll stay in bed the following morning until my wake-up call from Bubby.

Bubby's alarms of choice include simply whispering "Good morning, Gramma," shaking a jingle-bell adorned dog collar, or blowing his harmonica. The first is a sweet way to start the day; the second two are mildly alarming. One morning this past week, though, there was this—at about quadruple the decibels of this video (or so it seemed):

Although not the way I typically rise and shine, I can handle bells and I can handle harmonicas rousing me from a deep sleep. A psycho hip-hop reindeer rocking the house—and my brain—right outta the REM stage not so much.

Actually—and this is no joke or exaggeration, folks—I thought I was having a heart attack. Honest. I didn't remember the psycho reindeer from previous trips so hearing it go off at 6:03 in the morning was the trippiest experience I've had in quite some time. And the scariest. And the closest I've come to my heart going into overload and exploding right there on the spot.

Bubby didn't know to what degree he freaked out Gramma because instead of screeching my instinctive response of "What the <cuss>? <Cussing> stop that <cussing> <cusser> <cussing> NOW!", I simply said, "Turn that off now, Bubby. It's morning and that's too loud for Gramma."

Then I sat on the edge of the bed and tried to calm my thunderous heart.

An hour later I was still trying to get my heart rate back to normal. And wondering what's up with the near heart attack. Then wondering if I'm getting too old for this grandma gig. Followed by wondering if "too old to be a grandma" is an oxymoron of some sort.

It didn't matter because my racing heart likely just means this grandma is simply way outta shape.

And way not into the hip-hop reindeer thing.

Especially as a morning wake-up call.

Today's question:

What serves as your morning wake-up call? (Bonus points to those who say whether or not they use the "snooze" function.)

A grandma by any other name?

Unique boys, normal namesMy name, Lisa, was the No. 1 name given to baby girls during the '60s, according to the Social Security Administration. Which means there are a lot of Grandma Lisas out there. Or soon will be.

The decade before, Mary was the No. 1 name for females. One glance at the list of Grilled Grandmas confirms there certainly are a lot of Grandma Marys — as well as oodles of variations on the name — out there, too.

For both decades as well as the decades before, names in the top 1000 — which according to SSA make up 73 percent of all names for a given period — included more than a few handfuls of Rebeccas, Debras, Patricias, Katherines, Karens, Lauries, Susans, and others (you know who you are), along with variations on all of the above.

Which means, as folks of those decades make up the current generation of grandmas, there are lots of grandmas going by all those names.

Pretty normal, common, reasonable names ... for babies as well as for grandmas.

What I've wondered of late, though, is how normal, common, and reasonable today's crop of names may be ... for babies as well as for the grandmas — and grandpas — they will eventually become.

Take a look at a few of those in the top 1000 for 2010 (which, like I mentioned above, are 73 percent of names given for the year):

For little girls and future grandmas, you've got the basic names such as Isabella, Ava, and Abigail. But then there's Yamileth, Xiamara, Milagros, and more unpronounceable monikers. And those aren't even the ones at the very bottom of the list.

Little boys and future grandpas don't fare much better. Sure, there will always be Jacobs, Daniels, Michaels, and more. New additions, though, include Yair, Keon, Pranav, and Legend. Legend? Are they kidding?

I just don't get it.

But then again, I'm of the year that Cyril and Consuelo were at the bottom of the list. While likely seemingly odd way back in the day, those are now pretty much accepted and common names in the general population. So maybe fifty years from now, when today's newborns become tomorrow's grandparents, Grandma Xiamara won't seem all that strange after all.

Of course, after school years plagued by having to correct others on the pronunciation of her atrocious name, little Xiamara just may change that name the very second she becomes an adult. To something that rolls a little more easily off the tongue, something more pleasant to say and spell and hear.

Something simple.

Something like Lisa.

Today's question:

If you had the opportunity to name a newborn entering your family something completely of your own choosing, what name would you choose?

I've gone and done it

I've always known it would happen, but I've gone and done it, long before my time. I've gotten old. And here's how I know that for a fact.

Well, first a little back story.

When my girls were young, I swore I'd never get a minivan. I didn't care how much simpler it would make life with three daughters, there would be no dubbing me a soccer mom or minivan mom or any of those other stereotypes. Especially since my kids didn't play soccer anyway (at least not when they were little; Andie did play in high school and college and was a rockin' goalkeeper who sported her bruises and bangs with pride).

Anyway, the minivan-mom life was not for me. I was determined to steer clear of that, and I did. The closest I came was purchasing a Ford Explorer, which was kind of the same, only cooler. Like me. Or like I thought I was. (The fact I'm still driving that Ford Explorer makes me very uncool, I know. But it's very paid for, and that's what matters most at this point.)

Fast forward to the empty nest phase. My dad, a younger sister, and another younger sister (neither named Daryl) all own RVs. Recreational vehicles. A monster recreational vehicle at one point, in my dad's case. The kind that are obscenely decked out, obscenely long, and require obscene amounts of gas to get anywhere. And that require cameras at the rear and monitors at the dashboard so you can see what's going on in the event one's actually crazy enough to try backing that thing up. A monster motorhome so huge my stepmom, the navigator to Dad's driver, had to use binoculars to watch for exits ahead so they'd have time to change lanes without disastrous effects when traveling the interstate.

The RV owners in the family have great stories to tell of their road trips and camping excursions with their motor homes. Yeah, they look nice, travel well, and are a nice place to visit, but I certainly wouldn't want to own one. I prefer flying. Get on the plane, get off, get a hotel. That's my kind of traveling.

Until now. I'm a little tired of wasting the hours that lead up to the getting on and off of a plane, hours that could be spent getting somewhere. In an RV. A mini RV, to be exact. I'm not interested at all in owning or driving or sleeping in one of the monster RVs owned by many a grandma and grandpa. No, like the minivan aversion, I'm too cool for that.

But I recently admitted to Jim my desire to possibly one day own a smaller version, one that's 25 feet long or less. A Class C motor home, is apparently what they're called, according to a little searching I did online yesterday. A Class C mini RV that might look something like this with a cooler paint job, of course, as this one looks rather '80s to me (I did find more awesome ones online, but the photos were not copyright-free):

Yep, I could handle that. I could drive that, sleep in that, bring the dogs along when we go out of town in that. And I could imagine the thrills Bubby and Baby Mac (when he's grown a bit more) would get out of playing in that when Gramma and PawDad visit.

Of course, by the time we can afford such a thing, Bubby and Mac will be older, wiser, and more likely to think such a thing is very not cool, and very much for old fogies. Which, as I noted at the outset of this post, is apparently what I've become, long before my time. That's the only explanation I have for fantasizing about owning such a stereotypically old and uncool automobile...and hotel...all rolled up into one. With air-conditioning and a well-appointed sound system. And a DVD player, a refrigerator, and a bed. And most important of all: a bathroom.

Which sounds to me like a pretty cool way to travel.

Yep, I'm old.

Photo: flickr/The Motorhome & US RV Show

Today's question:

What's the most UNcool vehicle you've ever owned?

Back in my day

I had my youngest baby, Andrea, nearly 26 years ago. Listening to Megan talk about pregnancy, labor, and newborn care, it's clear there have been some important — and some not-so-important — changes in the whole process since back in my day.

Back sleeping: Back in my day, pregnant women generally slept on their back. Or at least I did. Apparently sleeping on one's back during pregnancy is a big no-no. Something about pressure on the spine, circulation problems, hemorrhoids and drops in blood pressure. Plain and simple, it's not good for Mom, it's not good for baby, say the experts.

Ultrasounds: Back in my day, parents-to-be didn't automatically receive baby-in-utero photos to show grandparents, friends, and strangers. Ultrasounds were typically only done in emergency situations, and you didn't get a souvenir photo after the process. Nowadays there are a series of ultrasounds and a series of pictures, starting with those in which the babies are unrecognizable blobs. Megan and Preston announced their first pregnancy to Jim and me with a framed photo of a Bubby blob. And the pregnancy yielding Baby Mac was announced to the family via a text message photo. (Although, the photo being of a blob and all, Jim actually thought it was a B&W photo of Megan's carved Jack-o-Lantern, not our second grandson.)

Sprinkles: Back in my day, new mothers were given a baby shower to honor Mom and outfit baby and nursery. With the first baby, that is. Second babies and second-time moms weren't celebrated in such a fashion. Consensus was that it just seemed wrong to solicit more gifts when Mom should have hand-me-downs from the first. Nowadays, second-time (and third- and more-time) moms still don't usually get repeat showers, but they do get "sprinkled." It's a lighter version of the full baby shower, I'm told, more of a sponge-bath o' love from the closest friends and family.

Strep B: Back in my day, mothers were tested for various things upon learning they were pregnant. I can't remember exactly what those things were (like I said, that was 26 years ago), but I'm pretty sure Strep B wasn't one of them. Apparently the Strep B test is a pretty important one nowadays, one given to every pregnant mom, one whose results may alter the delivery plan. Or it's supposed to. As long as you get to the hospital in time to get some antibiotics pumping intravenously as precautionary protection for the little one. Which, ahem, was supposed to happen with Megan and Mac but didn't because the newfangled procedure next on this list worked far quicker than expected. (Mac fortunately ended up okay and aced the tests that proved it.)

Induction: Back in my day, pitocin was the drug of choice for bringing on labor. I never had to be induced, but it was the go-to method of getting that baby outta there when needed. Apparently drugs aren't the only option anymore, there's also the option to insert a balloon — up "there" — to get things moving. Which just seems weird to me. But it clearly worked for getting Mac here ... again, far quicker than expected.

Swaddling: Back in my day, I learned rather quickly that swaddling a baby could save the day, as well as Mom and Dad's sanity. The technique made millionaires out of entrepreneurial folks who marketed swaddling blankets. Swaddling was in vogue for years and years, even through Bubby's birth and early months. I have pictures galore of the newborn bundle wrapped tight into a precious little Bubby burrito. I won't be doing that with Mac, though, and neither will Megan, as the experts now say swaddling is out and letting the baby's arms flop and fling to help them awaken themselves is in.

Push presents: Back in my day, moms pushed their way through labor and delivery and were rewarded for their hard work with a precious bundle to take home with them, to love and cherish forever. That's not how it works nowadays, at least in some circles. Yes, moms still get the precious bundle and the hope is that they'll love and cherish it forever, but they also get a special gift from Dad for the performance in pushing out the kid. It may be jewelry, a new bag, a fitness membership, but whatever it may be, Dad better have thought long and hard — and opened his wallet wide — to show his appreciation for the pain and pushing Mom endured in the name of growing the family tree.

Some of these changes make sense to me. There's certainly no harm done by not swaddling a baby, especially if it keeps the SIDS fears at bay. But push presents? That one leads me to wonder how many times moms will expect gifts throughout the years to make up for the pains of parenting. Because as those of us with adult children know, in hindsight, the pushing during delivery is by far one of the easier parts of parenting.

Today's question:

If you were to be given a gift for enduring a recent challenge, for what challenge would you like to be rewarded and what would be a fitting gift?

Old enough to be a grandma

I often come across women who eschew being called "Grandma." As they put it, they're "not old enough to be a grandma," the distaste heavy on their lips, on their words as they offer the disclaimer accompanying the label.

Well, I am old enough to be a grandma, and it doesn't bother me one bit. Having accumulated the number of years necessary to have borne children who in turn grow, mature and bear children of their own comes with many perks, many privileges, many insights younger women may not be privy to.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I no longer feel it's necessary to sort out my past for the sake of my future. What's done is done, what will be will be. I'm living my future ... and it's far better than I once expected.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I can delight in my daughters as adults, not just worry about them as children.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I know it can happen to me. Invincibility is an illusion of youth; reality rings harder and louder as you age. Which means I always wear my seat belt, take vitamins, look both ways. And I savor the moments granted by my precautionary measures.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I trust my gut instinct more. I finally realize it's right more often than not.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I more deeply appreciate and more thoroughly understand the importance of "I'm sorry." And "thank you."

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I find contentment more often in the small things, have stopped pining for the big things. For the most part.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I no longer stifle my feelings simply to keep others comfortable.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I find truth — sometimes ugly, sometimes freeing — in discomfort. Mine and that of others.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I forfeit the beauty competition, having accepted that I will never again look like I did at 18 nor will I ever look like a moneyed celebrity. (One of those freeing truths mentioned above.)

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I put more effort into accepting others for who they are, less effort in trying to make them who I want them to be.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I like my siblings more than I used to.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I say "I love you" more often ... without hesitation or embarrassment.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I am a grandma. I'm proud to say so, proud to be so.

Now that I'm old enough to be a grandma, I feel thoroughly, thankfully blessed and will gladly take the title — and the years — over the alternative.

Today's question:

Fill in the blanks: Now that I'm old enough to _______, I ___________.

Please step aside, ma'am

My pretty teen daughters — June 2003I recently started reading "29" by Adena Halpern. It's the story of Ellie, who, on her 75th birthday, wished while blowing out the candles on her cake to be 29 years old again — and was magically granted the wish.

I've so far enjoyed the amusing story of the cantankerous grandma made young again and her exploits with her 29-year-old granddaughter and 55-year-old daughter.

Ellie's desire to be young and attractive like her granddaughter reminded me of the pivotal incident that led me to realize I was getting old. Or at least deemed an older woman in the eyes of others and involuntarily required to step back as a female garnering male attention and watch as my daughters moved forward.

Yes, it was one incident, several years ago, during what would have been an otherwise ordinary trip to the grocery store.

Now, let me first say that I would never claim to be ravishing, a head turner, one hot mama, or any one of a million adjectives describing a gorgeous woman. Yet I admit to getting a fair share of looks from males throughout the years, as most females of a certain age do. It was never a big deal, nothing I put much stock in. Until I was no longer that certain age, until I witnessed in one fell swoop the move of male attention from me to my daughters and remain that way going forward.

On the day of which I write, one of my teen daughters and I ran into the grocery store to pick up a few things. As we reached the register, I expected cheerful banter with the cashier, a man in his mid-30s. So I opened my mouth, about to say, "How are you today?" But he looked right past me ... and started up the "Did you find everything you need?" conversation with my daughter. It was as if I wasn't even there, except for a cursory glance my way when it was time to pay.

The cashier, clearly closer to my age than my daughter's, didn't talk to her in any smarmy way that had me pegging him a pedophile and wanting to rush my little girl out of there. No, he was simply interacting with who he apparently considered the most vibrant, most conversational of the two customers before him. My daughter pleasantly rose to the occasion; I stepped aside.

It was the first time I'd experienced such an obvious shift — outside of the times I'd watched boys in their teens and early 20s fumble to impress one daughter or another while conducting business with mother and daughter(s), times that don't count. But from then on, it was the norm when in public together, be it dining out at a restaurant, attending performances, shopping in the mall. No matter which daughter was with me, my daughter was the one males smiled at, struck up conversation with, held a gleam in their eyes for. Eyes that dulled when they turned to me to take my order, my ticket, my money. No matter the male's age, no matter the reason for interaction.

I didn't cry over the matter, harbor ill will or animosity. I honestly was okay with the transition from front and center to a supporting role. My lovely, vivacious daughters were coming into their own, and the attention, well, most of the attention wasn't sexual or predatory in any way. (There are always a few creeps outside the norm, of course.) So I didn't mind stepping aside, didn't mind watching my daughters shine. I just found it interesting. And surprising. I always thought age crept up on you, as is the case with crow's feet, hot flashes, and inability to read past 9 p.m. at night without falling asleep. This, though, was sudden, immediate. And it caught me off guard.

I was — and am — completely and wholeheartedly accepting of my age, of the need to step aside. Funny thing, though: Now, years later, I've started noticing more and more looks coming my way. It's surely — and thankfully — not because I'm some cougar in the making.

No, I'm pretty much chalking up the increased attention to the ever-increasing, ever-impossible-to-conceal collection of age spots unattractively converging across my face. It's understandably difficult to tear one's gaze away from the artful display.

Just one more aspect of aging that has caught me off guard. One more I'll surely, eventually, come to terms with.

Disclosure: I received a copy of "29" by Adena Halpern free from the publisher for participation in the From Left to Write book club, with no obligation and no compensation for this post.

Today's question:

If you could magically be 29 again, would you want to be or not? Why?

Good intentions

Recently discovered in my craft room: projects I intended to do with my daughters but never did.

I plan to hold onto them.

To do with my grandkids.

Really.

Today's question:

What craft project(s) do you intend to do ... but haven't yet done?