There are many things that we feel we should make our kids do that indeed we likely should. Teeth brushing is a good idea, doctor’s appointments come to mind. But many of these shoulds are just knee-jerk reflexes, repetition compulsions. Things we just feel like we’re supposed to be doing, even though we’re not always quite sure why, which means they’re driven by tradition, conformity, social fear, and peer pressure. Not much in that list of motivators to be too proud of really. And even though I’m a teacher by trade, I’ve gotta admit, one of the most sadly over-burdened shoulds is homework.

I don’t really have any friends who are mothers. I know a few fathers, but their kids are way younger than mine, entrenched in phases I can barely remember. Just being parents only buys so much bonding. If I ever were to develop a friendship with a mother though, I’ve always imagined her not to have girls. She would have to be stuck with boys like me. It’s an assumption based on a suspicion: mothering boys and mothering girls are such fundamentally distinct experiences that whatever common ground is shared by simply mothering gets canceled out by that difference. Ok, maybe not canceled out, that’s extreme. But dampened. Very very dampened.

I recently celebrated my 50th birthday. I had my kids that day, but luckily, my brother came to visit too. Else the occasion would surely have felt swallowed by the whims and wiles of my sons, by their age-appropriate, yet still insulting, levels of empathy. For a very long section of our lives it doesn’t actually feel like we’re aging. We’re getting older, but not aging. And then suddenly we are. It’s impossible to isolate how I feel about my aging from its constant dance with the evolution of my sons. They are getting older, but I am aging. We’re a study in contrasts cause I had them late.

If boys aren’t playing video games or eating, they’re up in your face. Hashtag not all boys. Fine. But I’m always trying to dream up quiet, sedentary, non-screen activities that my sons will do independently. A way for us to be around each other, but not actively engage. Or speak. Maybe that sounds awful. But winter is long. And my apartment is small. On a rare occasion I’ll catch us accidentally settling into a peaceful vision: my youngest drawing, eldest reading and me doing a puzzle. It feels like a scene from a Renaissance painting. Why can’t this be our life? I’ll wonder. And it lasts about as long as it takes me to ask.

I’ve always envied people who clearly have a simpler relationship to alcohol than I do. Who can casually encounter a drink, with take it or leave it flair. They always seem like elegant self-negating heroes to me. But, of course, they’re not. New weight loss drugs, like Ozempic, are fascinatingly confirming that some people deal with a lot more food noise than others which makes resisting over-eating a more complicated, challenging and draining experience. But one that has been stigmatized as a sad reflection of character. People who seem to come up with better answers in life, are usually having a very different experience of the questions.

I’m not totally sure we just had Easter weekend. I mean, I know I had two extra days off, making it a long weekend with my children, but because I’m not religious, I’m not really sure what Easter is supposed to mean. As far as I can tell, much like Halloween, it’s basically about candy. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but parenting can give you this vague sense that holidays are supposed to be more substantial or meaningful than just temporarily suspending sugar restrictions. And my confusion reminded me that, like biting into that cheap Easter bunny, events that get built up, can often feel pretty hollow.

My 10-year old recently picked out a cool new pair of running shoes. Funky bright yellow and very him. Breaking them in though, he realized they were challenging to get on, and likely wouldn’t fit him for that long. Sigh. He was depressed at the thought that he would likely outgrow these shoes faster than he would do them in. A minor reckoning ensued around growing and losing, and it took me a moment to appreciate that my feet don’t change size anymore. It was a little reminder that though things are always changing, with kids – though it never feels like it when you need it to – they’re changing fast.

Like the luddite that I am, I still use a big ol’ fridge calendar to make sense of my life. I’ve been known to even carry it with me to awkward places like meetings and the dentist’s. Each month’s page is littered with little letter B’s written in green marker. B is for boys. The green B’s mark the days I have my sons. The 50/50 custody schedule I share with my ex is simple and easy to remember, but the visual still makes it easier to plan things. It’s also a weird little testament to a strange and stark divide. I’m always a mother, but for half of my life, I’m not on the clock as one.