One of Many Names

Shortly after my mother died last May, I began to re-evaluate my life.  A few chance remarks and a sense of emptiness led to what I choose to call "reinvention".  I had always been Joe's daughter, Steve's wife, Nick's and Paul's mother, then on to be someone's Grandma.  Even my husband's boss calls me "Mrs".  No wonder so many of us women lose ourselves!  We have so many names, most of them not our birth names. 

I like to remember the past, much of it with fondness.  The people still have familiar names and faces, the music still makes me want to dance.  The embarrassment over my less-than-stellar moments has become merely a memory with a lesson attached.  The choices I made, poor or fair, I have learned to live with.

I am changing.   I've grown more in the last nine months (is that significant?) than in many years before. I'm no longer afraid of my feelings.  I can cry again.  Errors in judgement are just that--mistakes.  Some can be rectified, some can't.  That's OK.  I welcome people from my past back into my life now.  Some will come, some won't.  That's OK, too.  Those who only know me as "Mrs" or "his Mom" might be surprised to hear I have a name of my own.

I have become more aggressive, much to the chagrin of some; more outspoken, much to the dismay of others.  More creative, too.  Delightful.

Many years have been, while not exactly wasted, misused.  Many of my generation were caught between Donna Reed and Betty Friedan.   We lost ourselves trying to be all things to all people. We are someone's daughter, someone's wife, someone's mother.  There's nothing wrong with that, unless we forget that we were given names of our own at birth.

Sometimes we forget that "Mrs" or "Grandma" is just one of the many names we are called in a lifetime.  It is not necessarily who we really are inside.

Please call me Marilyn.