The Best Kept Secret Blog - Things My Husband Told Me On Our Anniversay

Yesterday, my husband and I celebrated our 20th anniversary.

Feeling pleasantly chummy and mildly looped as we shared a bottle of wine, our conversation meandered through our days together so far and climbed into "What next?"

Of the many things we discussed, three threads stand out.

He said, "You only get one shot."

Translation: You make choices when you're young - about a partner, about a career, about how to live your life - and they had better be good choices. They had better be right. Because you only get one shot.

I don't agree.

I think you get two shots. How many women (and men) do I know who are starting over at this stage of life? Who are divorcing or remarrying? Who are becoming parents for the first time? Who are starting a business or changing careers?

Now is the time for the second shot. And I like to believe, Pollyanna that I am, that this time, we will get it right. Because we know better. Because we've been around the block a few times.

And if we do screw up, so be it. We'll go into it understanding there is risk but knowing we're better for trying.

He said, "You look good for your age."

Translation: Ahhh, the age thing. I look good for an almost 46 year old woman but not simply "good".

"But no", he clarified. "You look good for someone who's lived these years. You're not supposed to look like a 20 or 30 year old. You look good for who you are now." (Clever man!)

He said, "You look better now than you did when you were younger."

Translation: Husband has left his glasses at home again.

But wait! As I wash my hands later in the Ladies Room, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and darn, I do look good.

Oh sure, it may be the Merlot, but I like the way I look.

All the "life" that happened in the last 20 years has made me look interesting in a way that I never could have when we were starting out. And I've got to tell you, I wouldn't trade places with that young bride for anything. As far as I'm concerned, this is the best place to be.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - The Jig Is Up

Some women are passionate about shoes. For others, it's jewelry that turns them on. Me? Lately I've become obsessed with cleaning products.

These days it seems that nothing can get my attention more than an ad for soap scum remover. I stare, transfixed, as the woman of the household (always the woman), smartly clad in loafers, a crisp button down shirt, and what I am sure are freshly ironed jeans, wipes away grime in one turn of the wrist.

I want to be that woman.

Like most people, I don't really enjoy cleaning my house. Certainly not to spit and polish perfection. But the problem is, I feel as if I should. And I'm convinced those little bottles hold the key.

Throughout my 30s, I carefully crafted my Suzy homemaker image. So much so that at times, I went to extremes.

The cookie exchange incident immediately comes to mind. Overjoyed at being included in Christmas festivities with friends, I temporarily forgot that I'm not genetically programmed to produce edible cookies.

After three failed batches, I ran to the grocery store for a rendezvous with the Pillsbury Dough Boy. After carefully splicing 10 rolls of pre-fab chocolate chip cookie dough, I passed the finished product off as my own. Everyone marvelled at how uniform they all were.

On some level, I knew I was never really any good at this stuff. Nor did I enjoy it. But it went with the life I was living. It's taken me until now to accept that I'll never channel my inner Martha Stewart. Heck, I don't even have an inner Martha Stewart.

I'm in awe of the friends who never seem to suffer from this particular problem. ("That's what cleaning ladies are for, silly!") But I suspect that if you pressed them, they'd reveal a skeleton or two in their own closets.

Like the friend who has made it big in business but admits she still feels like an impostor. She masks her insecurity by spending money on big ticket, luxury items she admits she doesn't really need. Or the devoted mom who has put every ounce of her energy into her kids but secretly worries about what she'll do with her life once they leave home.

We spend so much of our younger years carefully constructing who we want to be. But then you reach a stage where you realize that the final product isn't reflective of who you truly are. Or if it once was a good fit, it no longer is.

Maybe that's part of the work of this stage of life. Like our first adolescence, we once again get to discover ourselves. And like those teen years, we need to find the courage to be true to the person we find.

So let the dust bunnies party under the sofa. It's time to come clean. I mean dirty.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Tattoo-Table Ephiphany

I had an epiphany while working the tattoo table at my children's schools Welcome Back Barbecue last week.

There I was, leaning awkwardly over a four year old, trying to get a Darth Vader tattoo stuck to his forehead. The darn thing wasn't sticking and the line-up was getting longer and longer. After four full minutes of pressing a sopping sponge to the boys head, only half of Darth was staying put. The other half curled into a nasty little ball.

Now, if I had been like my more accomplished colleagues (a.k.a. The Good Moms), I would have taken the time to coax that little ball back into shape. But not I.

Quickly scanning to make sure his parents weren't looking, I flicked the bad piece off and told my pint sized customer that he was now proudly sporting a rare Darth in Profile tattoo. Lucky boy!

I thought I had gotten away with it only to straighten up and meet the disgusted gaze of one of the other mothers. Caught!

And that's when it hit me - I don't want to do this anymore. I'm ready to move on. (Reproductively, that is. Not as in now becoming a bouncy castle monitor.)

This comes as a particular surprise to me when I consider how desperately I wanted children and what measures I went through in order to have them.

I never thought past what would happen when those children got older. It's as if I thought I would be in a perpetual state of motherhood, singing "Wheels on the Bus" every day for the rest of my life. (I can still do this but now my children roll their eyes and ask me to stop.)

Having young children is like diving into a deep lake. You are totally immersed and there's very little opportunity for anything but managing to get through the days.

But when your kids get a little older, it feels like you've finally come up for air. You take a look around and there's a good chance you're not at the same place you were when you started that dive.

I'm pleasantly surprised by the wonderful sense of "What next?" that I feel at this point. It strikes me that this is what nature intended - to feel this sense of liberation at a time when my body is shutting the door on baby making.

Now I know women in their 40s and even 50s who still want children and more power to them. Every situation is unique. But speaking strictly for myself, the thought of going back to baby days makes me shudder.

Where once all I could think about was how to get pregnant, now I worry about how not to conceive. (Interestingly, this coincides with our daughters going through their teen years and perhaps having the very same thought, further supporting the theory that mid-life is like a second adolescence.)

Sometimes it takes women a while to get their bearings, to figure out who they are now. And while that can be daunting, it's also fraught with possibilities.

I for one like to focus on the positive aspects, even if it's the little things.

For example, I have room for martini glasses in the cupboard now that I no longer have to house plastic cups and plates. I haven't walked out of the house with Cheerios stuck to my shoulder for several years. And my ability to put two coherent sentences together has returned, albeit at a time when perimenopause is threatening to take it away again.

I imagine I'll go through something like this all over again when my children leave home for work and university. I have many friends who are empty nester's and they report a mixed bag of feelings. Some can't wait to renovate the kids room while others miss their children so much they cry every day.

For now, I like this time of transition. So much so that I'm thinking of getting a tattoo that symbolizes and celebrates this stage of life. Perhaps a rare Darth in Profile.

The Best Kept Secret - Me and Terry Fox

I did my first Terry Fox Run when I was in my early 30's. While never what I would call a serious runner, I had run off and on since my teens and figured "How hard can 10 km be?"

That first run was in fact pretty easy but by the time I hit 42, I knew I was in trouble. Years of running on pavement in so-so shoes were taking a toll on my joints. I kept things up for another couple of years until I heard an orthopedic surgeon speak about all the knee and hip replacements he was doing on baby boomers who had spent too much of their youth running on pavement in so-so shoes.

With my children now making it a group event, and the thought of aching knees weighing me down, I decided this year to ride my bike.

So yesterday found me with thousands of others all doing our thing for cancer research. After stopping for a drink at one of the water stations, our family soldiered on. My husband and eldest daughter zoomed ahead and I was left watching our seven year old try to weave her bike through the crowd.

So intent was I on watching her that I only noticed a group of walkers immediately in front of me as I was about to crash into them. I veered off the pavement and onto the dirt path that runs alongside.

As luck would have it, there was a large puddle exactly at the point where I began my detour. As I carefully tried not to get too wet, I inadvertently splashed the large group of walkers.

Soon all I could hear was the sound of their squeals and their cries of, "I can't believe she did that!". Despite repeatedly calling out the Canadian national slogan to them - "Sorry, sorry. I'm so sorry." - they continued to stare daggers at me.

Realizing this was a no-win situation, I turned forward again, just in the nick of time to avoid taking out a father on his bike. He was towing two young sons in a wagon and he didn't look too happy either.

My daughter had nicely navigated the quagmire of runners and was now half a kilometre ahead of me. I figured the best thing to do was catch up to her.

At the finish line, event organizers offered food, free massage and music. I was enjoying these festivities when I spotted one of the walkers. Fearing she'd want to give me a further piece of her mind, I knew I needed a disguise. I quickly took off my windbreaker, kept my water bottle hoisted to my face and made for the exit.

I limped home thinking, "What a sad, sad woman I've become." I'm no longer capable of participating in a community charity event without injuring myself or others or revealing my true identity.

My daughter tried to cheer me with, "Don't worry mom. At your advanced age you shouldn't be running anyway. Maybe next year you can collect the pledge forms."

She might be right. I wonder if I'll need a disguise.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Come Hither, Not

I had a business meeting this morning.

As it's now mid September, there was a nip in the air so I decided to wear my new fall things - floaty blouse, brown suede boots and a grey knit skirt that is so au courant.

There I was, strutting down Bay street and I've got tell you, I felt good.

As I stood at a corner waiting for a light to change, a sudden gust of wind lifted my skirt and suddenly there I was, doing a Marilyn.

Only instead of looking sultry and sexy, a look of horror crept over my face as I realized I was flashing my dimpled thighs and black Spanx bodywear (bo-dy-wear, noun: a modern day girdle) for the entire brain trust of the Canadian financial district.

I recovered quickly enough but it got me thinking how far I've fallen from my fresh and frisky youth. It gave me a new appreciation for how hard the dating scene must be for my single, mid-life friends.

How, for example, is one expected to dance the night away in sexy, strappy heels when orthotics and bunions now rule the day?

In our youth, an aloof toss of the head used to scream seductress. Now it yells, "Help! I've put my back out."

Where before an enigmatic smile conveyed, "Will she let him get lucky tonight?", it now makes observers wonder, "Is she having difficulty remembering where she left her house keys again?"

And where once a rosy flush indicated interest and excitement, it now says hot flash.

It's so much easier when you've been married for a while. Expectations are so much less. My husband thinks I'm being romantic when I agree to sit and watch This Old House reruns with him.

If I were out on the prowl again, I don't know what I would do. Since my physical assets are in decline, I guess I'd have to rely on my mental agility. But given my perimenopause mind, that account is a little low these days too.

I guess the trick is to do the best with what you've got.

I admire the women who use the imperfections of age to their advantage. One friend who has been plagued off and on for year with muscle spasms in her right eye recently told me, "It gets me noticed by men at the bar. They think I'm winking at them."

So if I should ever find myself suddenly single, I'll sew lace on my Spanx, get out there and do what a girl's got to do.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - They're Small, They're Real, And They're Spectacular

I cried when I had my first mammogram

Not because it hurt. Though I had been warned that it's a painful procedure for less well-endowed women like myself, it wasn't that bad.

I was just secretly thankful I was big enough to offer something up to squish between the plates. I was well into my 20's before I stopped considering myself a late bloomer still waiting to flower and that this was going to be it.

And I didn't cry because I expected bad news. There were no lumps or reason for worry. Just a routine mammogram for a woman in her 40's.

But as I sat with the other women in our flimsy blue gowns, waiting our turns, I knew that not all of us would be lucky. That odds were, for one or two of these wives, mothers, friends, the news would be bad.

And I thought of my daughters. What if I did have cancer? My mother died when she was 51, leaving her 11 year old daughter behind. I couldn't do that to my children.

When I asked the technician how everything looked, she smiled and dismissed me with, "I'm not supposed to tell you but everything looks fine."

I dressed, and got to the car and that's when I started to cry - from relief, from gratitude. I may be a late bloomer but my breasts, though small, are real and healthy and therefore, spectacular.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Back To School For a Midlife Mom

The first day was awful. I didn't look like the others and I felt like they were staring at me, wondering "Who are you? Why are you here?"

They're all young, beautiful and very well dressed. Their skin is smooth, their hair silky and shiny. No grey roots or wrinkles for them.

I hate the first day of school. For the young moms, it's fun. But not for me. You see, I'm an older mom.

While they breezed through filling in the permission forms, I struggled to get my eyes to focus on the fine print. I'm braced for my daughter's teacher to call and ask why she has an allergy to our Home and School Association. (Did I get those mixed up again?)

I didn't plan on having my children later in life. It happened due to a perfect storm of one part misguided feminism ("They told me I could have it all, when I wanted it"); one part misguided, youthful self-confidence ("Things always go my way"); and one part evil fertility gods ("What's this hormone injection I'm taking today called again?").

Put it all together and you have a recipe for children later in life.

Now I'm not that old. (I'm caught somewhere between the Yummy Mummies and the "Breast feed 'em until they leave for college" generation.) At 45, I'm practically a pup compared to my friend Y. who, at her daughter's school concert, smiled at the woman in the seat beside her only to be asked, "Who's your grandchild?"

And I'm certainly not as old as some of the tabloid moms who, in their 60's and 70's, have become parents thanks to the miracle of IVF.

But I've got to tell you there are days when I feel old. Like when my seven year old begs me to get down on the floor and pretend I'm one of her Polly Pockets.

Or like last week when I took the kids to the local pool. After 15 minutes of struggling to get into my Lycra infused, one-piece bathing suit (it's black, of course), I had to stand beside the buff, belly button pierced younger moms, desperately hoping my cellulite wasn't having a bad day.

And don't even get me started on how I relate to my children's teachers. I alternate between wanting to have a serious talk about my children's scholastic achievements and wipe the teacher's noses and do up another button on their sweaters.

If I could do it over again, would I have done things differently? I'm not sure.

I know one couple who had their family ("Oops, the condemn broke!") very early in life. The parents are the same age as me but instead of grade school, we're talking university. Instead of "Not tonight, honey, the kids aren't asleep yet", we're talking "Get the whipped cream and let's do it in the kitchen."

But the bottom line is you get what you get. You play the hand you are dealt. So excuse me while I pack my daughter's Dora backpack while I register for the "Beyond Peri-Menopause Seminar". I've got some mothering to do.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Marriage Missives From My Manicurist

In one last nod to summer sandal season, I treated myself to a pedicure this week. In the middle of the procedure, my aesthetician had a hot flash. While she took a little break to cool down, we got talking and the topic turned to marriage.

A woman in her 50's and into her second marriage, she had an interesting take on what makes marriages fall apart and what might keep them together.

S. knows that after the initial passion fades and after living with the same person for so many years, things can get a little same-old, same-old. She's seen more than one of her women friends develop a wandering eye when things begin to get boring.

And some of these women, she tells me, have gone even further than looking and have begun having affairs. What strikes her is that these affairs aren't just about trying to capture passion and excitement. A lot of the time, she thinks, it's about doing something "wrong" - that the women are getting off on the excitement of doing something "illicit".

Sadly, she's known more than one friend who has taken their affair to the next level and ended a marriage to be with the other man.

While that in itself may not be bad, the sad part has come when "She left boring Bob who snored, left the toilet seat up and spent Saturday night watching hockey for exciting Enrico. Only to grow out of her excited state a year or so later to notice Enrico plucking nose hairs and passing gas." The man had changed, the situation had not.

Now, she did have a view on what might be a better fix to the boredom that occasionally rears its head in most marriages.

She suggests that these husbands and wives separate for a while. If the grass is always greener on the other side, maybe spending a few weeks or months over there will make things start to look pretty good back where they came from.

I'm not sure if I agree with her or not but I'm certainly mulling it over while I wait for my polish to dry. How about you? Any thoughts?