The Best Kept Secret - I'm Worried About The Dog

I'm worried about the dog. She's an intelligent dog and I don't think we're giving her enough stimulation.

What does the dog have to do with me and my midlife? Too much, unfortunately.

The problem is that I worry too much about everyone else's needs - the dog's, the children's, my husband's, the hairdresser . . . For goodness sake I was worried about a gay couple I was introduced to at a wedding recently. For some reason I really wanted them to feel comfortable dancing the Macarana with the rest of us.

It wasn't always this way. Ahhh, the life I led when I was young and single - blowing my pay cheque on clothes and frequently dining on popcorn and wine, my favourite McSingle Woman's Happy Meal.

But as life went on and I was blessed with a household of my own, I somehow morphed into the hub that keeps this wheel turning.

I don't need to tell you what I mean. All of you can relate your own stories of bringing crayons and animal crackers to your annual physical because you had no one to babysit little Johnny and goodness knows you'd rather have him colouring in a three year old copy of Readers Digest than explain why the stirrups on Dr. Jones' examining table were not for horses.

Let's not even talk about how many hours you've spent agonizing over what you hope will be the perfect Christmas gift for your mother-in-law whose response when she opens it is, "Do you still have the receipt?"

Our generation of women, for the most part, puts other's needs ahead of our own. But there's one little wrinkle that rears it's ugly head at mid-life. We've had enough. We want to take back our lives and do something for us.

I suspect that this feeling had something to do with the women's movement in the 1960's and '70's. These women - our mothers - just couldn't take it anymore.

My own mother's awakening, while pretty tame (she started wearing pant suits and professed a crush on Pierre Trudeau to all who would listen) still spoke of her restlessness and the sense that she needed to do something for herself, the husband and children be darned.

So where does that leave me? A woman who would rather read than run errands? Who would rather work than worry about everyone getting their four food groups? Who would rather drink a glass of wine with friends than drive children to lessons?

Not being given to rocking the boat, I'll probably mix things up slowly. Just know however, when we next meet and I profess my love for Stephen Harper, that I am taking a stand.