when you grow up

you know the age-old question we ask when family is gathered around and our kids have been exposed to just enough of the world to begin to articulate the answer.

“what do you want to be when you grow up?” we wait with baited breath, reveling in the notion that our child dreams of someday becoming a doctor or a veterinarian (swoon) or perhaps even a chef (double swoon!). we think it simultaneously adorable and terrifying if their response strays from the standard fare: an actress (gasp!) or…wait for it…a professional bowler (yes, this is my youngest son’s current career aspiration).

we ask the question in a light-hearted way, knowing that the answer will change umpteen times as they grow, all while reassuring them that no matter what they choose, we will support them. “we just want you to be happy, fulfilled and successful.” that’s all…no pressure. 

but the weight of that question stays with us long after we reach the supposed conclusion. our answer to the question kicks off a lifelong trajectory toward the end goal. it’s as if, when they reach it, the stars will align and balloons will fall from the sky in a congratulatory wave of affirmation that “you’ve made it.”

pushing forty, i think it’s safe to say i qualify as a “grown up.” what did i want to be when i grew up? my answers ranged from psychiatrist to MTV veejay to lawyer to travel writer to publicist to advertising pro.

“hey wait a minute…i do work in advertising now! doesn’t that mean that someone should be rolling out the red carpet now? where’s the champagne? the streamers? the hearty pat on the back for a job well done?”

“anyone there? …bueller?”

as you get older you realize that what you are—your profession—is only a sliver of who you are as a person. work success can yield a tremendous amount of pride and personal satisfaction, but it’s hardly the measure of a life. contrary to what society holds up as the ultimate goal, achieving career success, there’s so much more to the equation. just think of all the relationships you have and all the roles you play on a daily basis. in fact, i believe we’re asking the wrong question altogether.

at the end of the day, the real question is: “WHO do you want to be when you grow up?” what kind of person? friend? spouse? parent? at the end of your life, when they’re rolling out the dirt carpet, how do you want to be remembered? odds are those gathered together aren’t counting the campaigns you’ve launched, papers you’ve written, patients you’ve seen, contracts you’ve signed. no, it’s more likely they’re reflecting on the lives you’ve touched, the memories you created, the times you helped out, listened, cried or laughed together.

when you teach your kids (and even yourself) about life’s possibilities, root their identity in something real versus a title that may or may not provide fulfillment. surely they’ll find a path toward a career, but remember that an occupation is but one line in the story of a life. what’s more essential is character—the stuff that lies beneath. deep down, are they kind, sincere, witty, compassionate, generous, adventurous, creative, loyal? do they feel empathy? value relationships? genuinely care about others? in my book, those are the things to strive for—the true mark of success. 

letting go

when you reach your mid-30's, you start to experience what i call "grown up" moments. times when you're struck by the blinding realization that the light, carefree days of your youth are over, and the constructs by which you live your life have changed.

buying a home. landing a job. having a baby. losing a parent. facing an illness.

when you experience these moments—whether good or bad—you are reminded that life can be heavy. lightness, optimism, invincibility give way to responsibility, uncertainty, fear...of the future, what comes next, and where it leaves you.

my recent "grown up" moment happened on a trip home to visit my parents. after living in and taking care of our house, alone, for six years after my mom's passing, my dad informed us that he was ready to sell the house. the house that he and my mom built from the ground up. the house that embodied who they were as people—warm, casual, welcoming, and most often the centering point for both friends and family. the house that i spent 26 years calling "home."

rationally, i completely supported the move. too big to maintain, too full of clutter, and too much of the past to allow my dad to fully move on. he needed—and deserved—a clean break.

but it was strange that this would be my first time "home" since he had moved all the furniture out of the house. how would i feel? sad? betrayed? empty?

teary-eyed throughout the weekend thinking of this monumental change—of letting go of something that was so much a part of my connection to my mom—i dreaded stepping through the door.

"ok, brace yourself."

i took a deep breath. when i walked in, i felt...shockingly...nothing. the a/c was off. the air was dank. the rooms were empty. there were dust bunnies strewn across the floor.

this lack of emotion wasn't stoicism, an unconscious barrier that my psyche constructed to protect me from the trauma. instead, it was the discovery that this house was no longer "my home."

my parents had picked out every brick, every tile—and each texture was seared into my brain. i looked around and could remember vividly the times spent in each room.

the large blue family room: friends and cousins crashed out on the couch, only to be awakened by my dad, clanging pots and pans while drumming up a delicious breakfast. my brother, banging out off-kilter melodies on the piano while i tried to watch soaps. the room packed to the gills with family members belting out christmas carols before opening presents at midnight.

the kitchen: filled with songs and aromas and good old home cooking sprinkled with secret ingredients that only my dad knew. never clean enough for my mom, who would get down on hands and knees to wipe away the oil splatters surrounding the kitchen stove. untold hours spent, knives in hand, peeling, dicing, marinating, gossiping—until we all sat down to share the meal.

outside: the garden lush with vibrant fruits and vegetables, sunny flowers surrounding the entire perimeter, and my dad outside watering, perspiring, but always with a smile on his face. and our sweet, fluffy, loyal, ever-grateful-to-be-rescued dog, "penny patawaran," following behind my dad in complete contentment.

upstairs: hilarious memories of screaming matches and doors slamming as my brother and i duked it out during angst-ridden teenage years. hiding under my bed with my cousins (all 5 of us) when our alarm accidentally went off, armed with kitchen utensils, preparing to meet our doom. laying in bed and wondering where and how we'd end up someday.

and here i was saying goodbye to this house. so why did it feel so natural? my "grown up" revelation was this: try as we might to hold onto things—especially physical ones—so tangible, in our sight, in our grasp—they aren't where meaning lies. the memories reside in our heads, in our hearts. they stay with us long after we say goodbye to the physical.

we can't prevent circumstances from changing. we all must move on. move forward. but things like "home"—they're not a place in the physical sense, but rather a place within—that anchors us, gives a sense of history, makes us who we are.

...before we left, we took one last walk around the yard. as we stood there, taking it all in, a striking blue butterfly fluttered by our heads. she landed on a branch of evergreen, and even when we moved close to snap some pictures, she didn't move. she just sat there, perched in the tree, as still as can be.

when i think about home, i realize it's not about letting go at all. it's about clinging to and cherishing that place.