First Person: High School at Sixty

Karen and seven-year-old Tess on the beach. Photography courtesy of Karen Carlo Ruhren

“Sixty-two.” My doctor shook his head in the obstetrics exam room, slightly amused. “That’s how old you’ll be when your second baby graduates high school. I don’t know how you’ll do it,” he told me.

Not the reaction I expected … because we were thrilled. Now, as I approach sixty-two and my precious younger daughter is seventeen, I enter her senior year of high school with gratitude and awe. High school in my sixties has been a re-education. I see things through a lens I didn’t have a decade or two ago. Step by step, we’re schlepping through adolescence and menopause together — and it works.

Karen reading to one-year-old Tess. Photography courtesy of Karen Carlo Ruhren

Take varsity girls tennis, for example. Tears, grit, roster switches, rivals, besties — all in neat white skirts and navy-blue singlets. My husband, my older twenty-five-year-old  daughter and I never miss a home match and each season I insist that my blood pressure can’t handle tiebreakers anymore. But we persevere.

Tess got the lead role in “The Nutcracker.” Photography courtesy of Karen Carlo Ruhren

Then there’s “Nutcracker” season. Vying for leading dance roles. Sugarplums, candy canes, waltzing flowers and a rat queen. I love volunteering backstage and pretend not to mind when I overhear a group of young “cool” moms sighing with relief that they haven’t yet hit the big five-o. I slither away into the wings. A quick throw-back of my shoulders and a reality check keep me going — grateful I can still move props without a hernia.

When I’m not learning how to apply contour to my cheekbones (“Mommy, it will help your drooping jowls.”) or highlighter beneath my eyebrows (“Mommy, it will disguise your sagging eyelids.”), I’m also developing a new vocabulary. I can dish out the “lore” and recognize “niche” actions without being “sus.” On a good day, I might be able to pull off some serious “rizz” … and that’s no “cap!” We’ll keep that on the “down-low.”

From a fashion standpoint, I admit to cringing while in line at the trendy Brandy Melville. “Why is everything one-size-fits-all in this store?” I ask my daughter. “Because it’s Brandy, Mommy.” Oh, of course. I knit my brow hard — further deepening the eleven
marks on my forehead. I scan the racks of low-cut camisoles and off-the-shoulder sweaters, assuming, “If you’ve got it, flaunt it.”

Not having “it,” I can’t relate. My older, more subtle daughter consoles me: “You might be able to wear one of the plain long-sleeve shirts.” That’s OK, I’m good. But I must say, the simplicity of the clothing is pretty. And those little black bags are reusable.

Shopping included, I cherish any time with my daughter. I taught her to play tennis and the piano, and we still share those passions, along with dance, which I discovered in middle age. Both my girls and I take ballet. While they perfect their pirouettes, I humbly strive to maintain my split and ward off osteoporosis at the same time. Granted, my level is nowhere near the level of my teenage daughter, on pointe five days per week. But our shared love and appreciation of dance have forged a new bond that I value.

Karen and daughters Tess, age five, and older sister Faith, age thirteen. Photography courtesy of Karen Carlo Ruhren

Sometimes, however, things spiral out of control. I’ve rushed out of the house wearing my leggings inside out. Yes, tags and seams showing! I’ve driven to pick up my daughter after school with my forearm deep in a peanut butter jar — a pathetic attempt to ingest protein before dinner. I’ve fallen asleep, contact lenses stuck to my eyeballs at 11 p.m., while quizzing my daughter for an anatomy test. Ouch! And then there’s teaching her to drive. Actually, aside from one white-knuckle ride while wearing a heart monitor for post-menopausal palpitations, the whole experience went quite well.

I’m also starting to better understand young relationships. I’ve ridden the roller coaster of romance alongside my daughter. Misunderstandings. Mishaps. A breakup. “Keep love in your heart,” I advised afterward. She did.

Sledding with twelve-year-old Tess. Photography courtesy of Karen Carlo Ruhren

I try to guide like a coach from the sidelines, but it’s hard. I’ve learned that sometimes it’s best to be nonchalant, unlike the eager-to-please teenager I was. I’ve found that laughing and crying are therapeutic and can occur simultaneously. In fact, I read recently that a good cry releases cortisol stress hormones. I guess I benefit from each catharsis.

Karen celebrates her sixtieth birthday with her two daughters. Photography courtesy of Karen Carlo Ruhren

I’m still figuring things out, unlike most of my friends who are already grandparents. (I admit I’m not ready.) I know I’ve lived through adolescence with my older daughter, but so much has changed in eight short years, including me. It’s a new decade and I continue to reinvent myself.

Being sixty-something in high school doesn’t mean hiding my age. I’m still out there doing my own thing: teaching, writing and working a fantastic side gig as a fitness instructor. Thanks to teen input, my class playlists are the perfect fusion of Phil Collins and Olivia Dean.

Being sixty-something also means having to be honest with myself. Will I see both my daughters’ weddings? Will I meet my grandchildren? My younger
daughter never knew my wonderful mom, whose personality helped shape me and, indirectly, my children. But she was blessed with fourteen years knowing my amazing dad. How many young girls can say their granddaddy served in World War II? I like to think she gained a sensibility from loving a member of the Greatest Generation.

Tess, at sixteen years old, in front of South Kingstown High School. Photography courtesy of Karen Carlo Ruhren

Do my daughter and I ever argue? Sure, we know how to push each other’s buttons. Do I sometimes throw in the 1982 comparisons? Yes, big mistake! But we meet in the middle, and I think she appreciates the cusp of Generation X and where I’m coming from. In turn, along with her older sister, she keeps me relevant.

Overall, my heart is full in high school. Our experience has been totally open, real and a gift from God. I look at my daughter, and I see a lot of me, and I realize that even though almost forty-five years are between us, we are one. I pray she’s a better version of myself: more modern, more “aesthetic,” more comfortable in her own skin — which I confess took me until almost sixty. I followed my heart and I will be joyful at high school graduation … at sixty-two.

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Karen Carlo Ruhren, of South Kingstown, is a journalism, public relations and public speaking instructor at the University of Rhode Island. She dedicates this essay to both her daughters, Tess and Faith, who have made “mommy” her favorite word.