Melissa Anne Cohen

I don’t eat a lot of oatmeal, as a rule. I’m not a big fan of breakfast, and make a strawberry banana smoothie most mornings. But every now and again, I have maple and brown sugar instant oatmeal, and every single time I do, I flash back to being Jessie’s mama. It was one of the first real foods she had, and sharing breakfast with my baby was one of my very favorite things to do.

There were major bright spots for this year. Jessica Mary graduated from college. We celebrated a full year in our own house. A full year of having Zozo. Julianna Ruth had a summer full of statehouse tours and political internships. I started taking courses at Quinsig and got preschool certified. And it looks like Sam might actually be healthy for the first time in forever.

But mostly, I’m looking back at 2025 and realizing that this has probably been the hardest year since Sam’s accident. It was just hard. Gary and Yvonne’s decline happened so fast and it was like getting hit by a bus for most of the summer. I mean, last summer wasn’t an walk in the park, because Yvonne had broken her neck and that was a hot mess. But that seems almost easy compared this year.

Everything with Gary and Yvonne has been impossibly hard and sad. And when you layer Sam’s health struggles on top of it… I can’t believe it all happened at once. Sam wasn’t well to start off the year, but then getting the celiac diagnosis, then the refractory celiac diagnosis, the months of it not getting better despite everything we were trying, topping it off with a crohn’s diagnosis. Only to be followed by weeks of the fistula getting worse, getting better, getting worse, getting better, getting worse, getting the seton drain put in, then getting the absess. Finally starting to get better, only to be slammed with the flu.

I can’t wait for 2025 to be over.

I don’t know that’s malaise, precisely. More exhaustion and frustration. And most of the frustration, now that I’m really looking at it, is stemming from a lack of sleep. It’s just been a really hard year.

Marc’s parents are not doing well, and it’s been brutal, figuring out how to manage their care. It could be so, so much worse, and I am infinitely grateful that we aren’t dealing with financial concerns when it comes to finding solutions for them. They can afford the best nursing home, with care that makes me feel as though they’re safe and happy and in the best situation possible for them. But the impacts on us, on the kids, all of that – it’s been really hard to manage. The kids are facing the slow decline of both of their grandparents, at the same time, and it’s so hard. The impact is so long lasting, and it never goes away. It’s this heavy weight that’s always there, not just for Marc, but for Jessie and especially for Julianna.

Sam’s illness has taken up a lot of oxygen this year. He has been so sick all year long, and while I can see light at the end of the tunnel, it does seem as though he keeps getting slammed with complications. First it was a celiac diagnosis in May, then refractory celiac, then the fistula developed, and then got worse, resulting in the seton, and then the complications there. He’s finally starting to really, really improve, only to get the flu.

I’m just ready to say goodbye to 2025.

Is it worth resurrecting this blog to chronicle this stage of my life? I don’t blog any more about the kids, although they still occupy most of my time and thoughts. But as they get older, their stories are theirs and not mine. My role isn’t front and center any more, I’m just along for the ride.

I mean, there’s still active parenting being done. Sam is adapting to a brand new life altering diagnosis of crohn’s, and there’s still a ton of doctors visits and school administration that I have to do. And Julianna is fifteen, so I’m definitely still in the thick of it with her.

But most of the time, I’m not in the trenches with parenting. My schedule doesn’t revolve around theirs, and more and more, I’m working on my own stuff. I started taking classes this past semester and now am officially certified as a preschool teacher, although I’m not at all sure that’s actually what I want to do. Marc’s parents are safely in Dodge Park, where they’re getting fantastic day to day care. While there’s still a lot of focus on their care, most of it ends up on Marc’s plate instead of mine, as it’s financial and dealing with doctor’s, as opposed to day to day stuff.

We’re in the holiday season now, and things are hectic and busy and most days I feel like I’m a few deep breaths away from drowning. But I find that I like dancing on that edge – I like being busy and things being low-level chaotic all the time.

Maybe what I need is just more focused writing time. More time to think about this place in my life, which is uniquely different from where I’ve ever been before. Most of what’s come before has been sort of the same. I was a caretaker from the beginning, and moved pretty seamlessly from siblings to siblings children to my own children without any issues. It’s what I did, what I knew best, and it’s still my most comfortable place.

And while I’m not blind to the fact that I’ve essentially recreated that caretaking environment with the babysitting program at the JCC and afternoons in the toddler classrooms, it’s also different. Because none of these children are mine, and the problems are always immediate and ephemeral. But there’s more going on under the surface, it’s me getting older, and recognizing the changes that are coming. It’s watching my mother get older, and knowing that my children will do the same for me. It’s figuring out what marriage looks like when we aren’t in that place, of me at home all the time doing everything there, but trying to balance both of us being full time working parents.

It’s a new place I’m in, and it feels both natural and normal and wonderful, and also so dramatically different from how I’ve defined myself up to this point.

I find myself fascinated with the idea of identity. What separates us into groups, and what makes us feel like we belong. I started reading this book on Indian culture in the United States – what constitutes membership in a specific tribe and what doesn’t. I see the parallels to Jewish culture – this tribe that I’ve inserted myself into – sometimes easily and sometimes kicking and screaming. I converted to Judaism for my kids, absolutely. Would I have converted if I didn’t have Marc? I don’t know. But once I knew that I was having children with this man, I threw myself into learning everything I could about Judaism. The more I read, the more it resonated with me, and the more I thought it made sense to convert. I wanted to raise them within organized religion, to give them a base and a sense of identity. Judaism was just organized Church of Melissa.

I’m looking at the tail end of childrearing. My oldest is 22 (which is an entirely different post that still freaks me out), and my youngest will be 15 in a few months. I’m not done, but I’m a lot closer than one might imagine. And their sense of identity is Jewish. Completely. But it’s also one that, if I can speak for them, is an identity that encompasses their history, my history. The history they inherited from me. The frustration with rules, the desire to make their own way. Yes, they love challah and high holidays, and lighting Shabbat candles is second nature for Friday nights. But they also love Christmas carols and the beach (which is the closest thing to a holy place for my mother).

In the end, I secured their identity. They are Jewish, and they know that both their parents are Jewish. Their identity isn’t anything they question – which feels so incredibly right, given that I spent so much time questioning if I was doing the right thing, enough of the right thing for them.

Periodically, I remember that I have a blog, and that I should write. Initially, when I started blogging, it was because my “good morning” emails to my mother and Becky were too long, and I liked having a format where I could write and write as much as I wanted. Then I realized that what I was doing was capturing a time when my kids were little, and there were things happening that I wanted to remember. To think about, to process, and to be able to have as a memento for my kids and grandchildren.

But then it started to feel like a violation of their privacy. As the kids got older, it was harder and harder to write my story without feeling like I was sharing more than they would want. So I took a break. Even now, when I look back, I can clearly see stuff that was going on but it doesn’t feel appropriate to write about them, but it’s not just my story anymore.

But I still need to write. It’s how I process my life. And the reality that my life is one of being a caretaker. In reality, I feel like I’ve been doing it since I was a toddler. Being an older sister occupied probably the first 30 years of my life – it was certainly the most significant part of it. My relationships to my siblings and their kids – it took up an enormous amount of time and emotional energy. It wasn’t until I met Marc and had Jessie that all of that changed – and it’s absolutely safe to say that those relationships never recovered.

What I’m doing now feels like a new reiteration of that caretaker role. I’m moving out of the intense mothering stage. Jessie is starting her senior year in college, Sam is 18 and healthy enough to really engage in education at Perkins, and my focus is on Julianna and high school. I work part time, also in a caretaker role, at the JCC in the babysitting room and the preschool – where I really just function as a mom. It doesn’t feel like work – because it’s just my life.

The “caring for your parents” thing that I’m doing now is new. And hard. It’s a lot harder than caring for the kids in my life – because that’s predictable and understandable, and kids know they need help. Adults don’t always, and the transition to needing me is complicated and crisis filled and even when you get them to agree that you might be helpful, on occasions, when the chips are down, they’re still going to refuse to actually let you run things.

Because I’m starting to wrap my head around the idea of being middle aged. Fifty is middle aged. I mean, assuming that all goes according to plan and I live to be 100, I’m about midway through. And things are different now, than they were. I’m tired. A lot. I’m in the middle of caring for my children and my parents, and feeling frustrated and powerless by one half of the sandwich and excited and relieved by the other. My body is changing, I don’t sleep as well any more, my sister is becoming a grandmother and I still sort of feel like i’m not quite old enough to be in this position.

Marriage is different now too – not worse, because it’s always been a good, strong relationship. But Marc is going through his own emotional turmoil, his parents are about 10 years older than mine, and I think he’s dealing with a lot of new and strange emotional weight around watching his parents. He needs a lot more from me lately, on a whole bunch of levels and I’m not always handling that as well as I could be.

I’m not at loose ends, if that makes sense. I still really like my life, value the role I play in a lot of different lives and feel good about what I’m doing and how I’m doing it. But I can’t deny that there’s a sense that everything is a little weird right now. I’m in a new place. My baby is a teenager, my oldest is off in the world and my boy is exactly where he should be.

I’m not a New Year’s girl. I don’t like drinking, and even before I had kids, I was never comfortable with the whole partying atmosphere. So I mostly ignore the holiday. New Years Eve, to me, is what Christmas is to most Jews. Not my holiday and I’m kind of confused and a little irritated that everyone expects me to celebrate.

But it’s a nice segue into this blog post, as I’m thinking about two different topics. One being the relationship between my daughters and one being New Year’s Resolutions. Because the girls vaguely recognize New Years, they decided on a night with pedicures, foot peels. The skin on their feet seemed fundamentally unchanged, until the night before last. Because now it’s peeling all the time and last night, they curled up on the couch and peeled each other’s feet.

Jessie and Julie haven’t always had the easiest of relationships. They are so alike in a lot of ways, and so very different in others. They’re both competitive and intense, and empathetic and emotional. Covid – when we were all home together all the time – did not improve their relationship. What did was Jessie moving out to go to college. Now that they aren’t rubbing up against each other all the time, there’s this space and freedom to genuinely enjoy each other, and to sort of celebrate and embrace the similarities and closeness.

I don’t expect that their relationship will be sunshine and roses forever – but I do think that they have grown into a relationship that will hopefully stay this way for the rest of their lives. They know each other so well, and they genuinely love and like each other. I envy them, because my relationship with my sister isn’t anywhere near as comfortable and familiar.

I don’t make New Years resolutions – but I do make birthday ones. Sometimes. When I remember and am in the mood to think about it. I find that this year, I am. I’m in a milestone sort of place, as I approach 50. I’m still wrapping my head around that. Everything is in a new place now – I’m still actively mothering, but general caretaking is starting to take more of my time. In laws, parents, nieces – I’m still raising the kids I have, but Jessie is going to start her senior year in college next year, Sam is going to be actively going to Perkins and starting to transition to more independence. Julie is starting high school. Mothering looks different for me now.

So I’m processing things – wondering what my life looks like for the next half. I take care of people – it’s my thing. I did it as an eldest daughter, I did it as an aunt, I did it as a mother. And going forward, I’m probably going to continue along that path. Even my job – I take care of babies for other people, and then I go take care of my in laws, or pick up my kids. Caretaking is my thing – and I definitely derive a lot of personal meaning from it. But is there space for more than that now? And if there is – what do I do with it?

I suppose on some level, I should start thinking about what I want now.

That’s’ the thing with life, it keeps moving into new and different stages. Everything is different now, in a completely different place than it was last year. The past year has seen Julie’s concussion – which lasted for the better part of a year, and Sam’s transition to full time in person school at Perkins. Jessie’s in Denmark and I miss her more than you can imagine. I’m working close to 30 hours a week now, for the first time in… 17 years, I guess. I worked 32 hours a week when I was pregnant with Sam. I’ve worked part time off and on since then, but never as many hours.

It’s an odd transition, into this stage of middle aged. Because that’s where I am. My kids aren’t fully grown up – Julie’s still only 13 (and I’m in no rush – I’d like to keep her there for a while), Sam’s still got a long way to go before he’s ready to launch and Jessie is rushing headlong into her career and life, but it’s still just beginning for her. She’s got another year and a half of college once she gets back from Denmark.

I’m spending a lot more time taking care of my mother, my in-laws. I’m the sandwich generation with a generation above and below me that I’m essentially in caretaker mode. With my kids – it’s constantly easing off, encouraging them to be on their own, and often getting shoved aside as they push for more and more independence. And on the other side – it’s a lot of begging them to let us help, to tell us about doctor’s appts and diagnoses and what the hell is going on. It’s a state of weird limbo – because so much of what I’m doing is in response to their (both kids and parents) needs. And I have so little control over all of it.

I’m also tired, a lot, and getting hot flashes like it’s my job. I’m incredibly aware that in a few short months I’m going to be fifty years old, and I’m not entirely thrilled. I mean, look at the alternative, of course, but still, fifty just seems so OLD. I’ve been trying it on for a size for the past year, telling myself that I’m 50 already, and hoping to avoid a the full on freak out panic that I had when I turned 40. 50 is just.. old. I still wear cutoffs and ponytails. I walk around barefoot (and my feet hurt because apparently that’s thing that I’m old). I can’t be 50. And yet… I am.

Sam isn’t at summer camp, exactly. He’s at a UMass summer program for college readiness. He’s struggling, and I’m struggling.

There’s this mind-set of pep talking him, of being the mom in charge, of handling it, and I slipped back into that so fast. Relentless positivity, validation and breezing past the fear, focusing on the positive. And in the back of my mind, the whole time, this on-going prayer that we can do this.

He wants to do this. He really, really wants to do this. He’s also terrified and sick and throwing up and at least 49% of me wants to go scoop him up and bring him home and have him be safe. But all of me wants him to succeed. To know that he can do this. And there’s so very little I can do to make that happen.

All I can do is this. Sit at home, crafting pep talks and sounding like I’m filled with confidence and love. Send emails to directors and other staff, trying to manage his needs from half a state away.

In the end, it’s going to be Sam. If not now, than eventually. I know that. He knows that. Was two weeks too much to start? Is it unreasonable to think that a kid who has NEVER done more than a night away at a time (and even that was so incredibly rare) could suddenly go away for 13 nights? But then again… I mean, he has to at some point, right?

And this is such a good environment. He’s got so many people there, cheering him on and trying to make it okay for him. I want this to work so badly.