Just Say No!

  I'm not the R&R type as anyone who knows me well realizes pretty quickly. I hate to sit around. At the last family gathering, I was antsy before we even arrived. I wanted to know what we would be doing. The bossband explained patiently that most of the family enjoys sitting around and reminiscing and talking to each other -- for hours on end. How is that possible? Well,  I wouldn't let up. I wanted to go to the mall, at least. I was dependent on someone to drive me there. I finally got my way -- even inspired a couple of other relatives to leave the house. (BTW, I found a fabulous sweater at Free People.)
  So when I retired a few months ago, I clearly was not going to really lead a life of retirement, as in rest. I immediately signed up for everything -- neighborhood board,  school PTA, freelance assignments. Ask, and I shall say yes was my motto.
  Until this month. When my editor at the Inquirer sent me an email with a cool assignment, I knew I had to force myself to say the word: No. It was like a drug addict turning down a hit. But I'm now working -- both for pay and not -- so much, that the resident teen constantly reminds me that I'm supposed to be retired. I'm staying up way too late. I'm missing my exercise classes. I haven't been to the mall in forever. Which might be a good thing, in a certain person's opinion. And, of course, the last time I blogged, it was another season.
  So I had to do it. I said no to the assignment, explaining I couldn't take on anything new til October. It felt good, after the initial shock of turning down something that I would have liked to do. I don't like to miss out on things. But I'm headed right back to Stressville. So as soon as I finish the 2,000 word magazine story on an Updike friend, and the marketing view book for a university, and the newsletter for school, and the lawn check for the neighborhood, I plan to take a break, as I told my mother-in-law recently.
  "How long?" she wondered.
  I quickly answered: "For a week." Seven days of nothing (whatever will I do with myself?), and I'll be ready to go, go, go.

Empty Nest Musings

  A former colleague mused recently about the emptying of her nest, though she didn't care for the term empty-nester. It's a lovely piece in the Philadelphia Inquirer. Read it.
  I've got four years to go, but the impending end of a phase -- official momhood -- is never far from my mind. I think of it as the approach of my second retirement, when all the time consumed by mom stuff will no longer beckon - at least not until Thanksgiving break and winter recess. I'm not necessarily sad. It seems rather exciting to finally see the fruit of so many years of labor. But it will certainly be different. Even one child gives a house an energy, a noisy bustle that nothing else can replace.

  Of course, if he goes to a college nearby, perhaps the rhythm won't be all that different. I went to the University of Kentucky, in my hometown of Lexington. I lived on campus that first year. Technically, my parents had emptied the nest. But they were both professors at UK, so I saw them often -- even tried to get homework help with an essay I waited til the last minute to write, until Mom, in her white lab coat, said, "Sorry, it's all on you now." (Her actual words, though, were tinged with a great deal more annoyance that I, now a full-fledged college student, would really expect her to break from her research to edit an English paper.) Weekends always meant a 15-minute drive home to wash the week's worth of dirty clothes, eat a home-cooked meal and hang out for a while in my old room before going out with friends. Those early years of college  felt more like a series of long sleepovers, with family never far.

   I never really felt I left home until my junior year in college, when I had an internship at the Detroit Free Press. My mom drove me to that bleak city and deposited me there one May. As she drove away, I never felt so lonely. I think my mother had it easier. She had a home and a busy job to occupy her. By then, I had been in college for three years, so she and my dad were used to my absence from the home front. This internship didn't change much for them. Or so it seemed to me.
  I, on the other hand, had to find my way by public transportation to downtown Detroit. For a Bluegrass girl, that was huge. I had never ridden a bus before, certainly not by myself. I had to buy groceries -- no campus cafeteria. I used to walk with a wire cart to the nearby market, passing through neighborhoods still deciding which way they were headed on the socio-economic scale. My roommate, another intern, was not exactly friendly.
  But just as my parents had adjusted to the new tempo at home, I too came to at least like my time in Detroit -- new friends, new cuisines, new experiences -- if not the commute to work. I was OK. I had survived this appetizer to independence.
   Four years from now, it will be my turn to launch a child. I think he'll be OK. And I will be too.

Work, Part II: Unpaid, Is Volunteering Anti-Feminist?

  When I left work, priority No. 1 was to volunteer more at my son's school. It didn't take long -- all of a couple of weeks -- before the PTA moms homed in on me. Now that I wasn't working, how about taking on the newsletter and publicity for the various parent activities and fundraisers?
  I was all smiles on the way to the volunteer altar.
  Sunday, I worked on cutting and pasting copy for four hours straight. I was still in my pajamas at lunch time -- which caught the attention of the resident teen, who makes sure to remind me whenever I grumble about stuff I have to do that I'm supposed to be retired. It took two additional hours after dinner to fine tune the newsletter. The next day, I worked three more hours to make sure everything looked just right in the template and proofed it. The bossband was holding his tongue, but he clearly does not see the value in this endeavor. Then the next four days demanded innumerable emails and adjustments to confirm the format was set up properly. Finally, the newsletter went out -- two days late because of technology issues.

  What did I get out of it? Certainly not monetary compensation. I'm not working for pay, I'm working for free. When I told a friend that editing the newsletter was like a job, she winced. She questioned giving hours to a project that went unpaid. It was the feminist in her, I think. Why is it that we women are so willing to spend oodles of time for schools, religious organizations, community groups, extracurriculars, you name it, for zilch pay? The minute a well-educated, professional quits the workforce, or goes part time, or sometimes even if she's still doing her 40 hours, she's called upon to help out at school and usually says yes. Women warned me about this when I said I was leaving the workforce. Men certainly do their share on the athletic fields, but the vast majority of school support comes from women -- often in activities that do not involve direct involvement with their children.
  According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, the volunteer rate in 2009 in the United States was 30.1 percent for women and 23.3 percent for men. Those 35 to 54 years old are most likely to volunteer, and the higher the educational level, the higher the volunteer rate. In other words, highly educated women in the prime career years are giving time and talent to keep religious, educational and  youth services -- the top three organizations that get the most volunteer hours -- running successfully.
  What's the reward? Not money and definitely not admiration from the bossband, who thinks way too much time goes the way of the school newsletter. And he never really cared for his own Sunday mornings spent in hard labor over the Little League fields. It isn't bonding with my child -- unless you count the pleas for help with Word template issues and the irritated, "Mom!" as in how clueless can you be. And it isn't a Mother Theresa moment, either. While the newsletter is most certainly helpful, it's not saving the world or any one person.
  The satisfaction comes down to a job well done. It's my own little -- and we do mean little -- newspaper that's visually pleasing (when the pictures align with the text) and full of important information for the school community. The unsolicited compliments make the good girl in me beam. I'm helping my son's school succeed. And I'm keeping my writing skills sharp and even gaining some new tricks of the trade as far as editing and mastering that monster known as Word.
  Of course, that's part of the problem. Even in the workplace, compliments too often take the place of raises or bonuses. Women, too often, get sucked into giving away their skills for low wages or free. And ultimately, doesn't that devalue the work of women, especially in a culture where skill is rewarded in dollar and cents?
  I have to admit that my friend's unhappiness with my volunteer work has me thinking. And I don't see an easy solution.
  I'd love to ponder more, but I've got to go. Deadline for the next issue is three days away.