Standing On My Own Two Feet…How I Did It With a Broken Leg

Although this incident happened 20 years ago, I’d like to share my story with other women who may recognize the feelings of self-doubt, intimidation, fear of failure, and inability or refusal to “stand on your own two feet” as I felt all those years ago.

I’m here to share with Women Over 50 that It’s Never Too Late to start. You have great value in your uniqueness. You don’t ever have to take a back seat to anyone. And you are good enough to do whatever you choose to do in life.

Here’s my “life-altering” story. I hope you can learn something from my life lesson.



They say that life can change in an instant, and at 37, I thought I already knew what that meant. I had been through a crap-load of life-changing events – love, loss, birth and death – so I was positive I was ready for anything. In the instant it took to slip on my office floor and feel the agonizing pain of a shattered leg, I realized that life’s lessons had just begun.

I’ve always been the leader, the strong one, the one that took charge and definitely the one to fix everything. Taking on the multiple responsibilities of wife, mother and administrative assistant was invigorating most days, and I was good at it. Of course, that didn’t mean I didn’t have my weaknesses. The day started out like any other with me rushing to get to work before my boss arrived. My tardiness had been his favorite reprimand of late, and no matter how much I wanted to conform, I just couldn’t get my ass in gear to get there by 8:30.

The managers had their annual strategic planning session that morning. I had been preparing for that meeting for several weeks before, assembling volumes of statistical data and documentation for the critical goal-setting process. “Burning the midnight oil” would have been a welcome relief as most nights I had worked into the wee hours of the morning to get everything done. I guess you could say I was obsessed with getting every detail perfect. I really suck at math, and I wasn’t any better at it back then. Of course, my boss was a genius with numbers, so making sure every report was 100% accurate seemed critical at the time. While a typo or incorrect percentage may seem insignificant to some, I was also the stenographer (aka note-taker) and had already taken flak during past meetings for mistakes I’d made. The man intimidated me, and the only way I knew how to avoid confrontation was to not piss him off.

I had to set up the conference room before they arrived, so that day I had a plan. I actually got up early, but a stop at Tim Hortons for a pack of Timbits and coffee put me behind anyway. Luckily, when I arrived at the office on that clear September day, the parking lot was empty. My heart was racing, but a quick calculation of the set-up time I had left assured me that I had dodged a bullet and would avoid another scolding that day. As I hurriedly walked into the building, through my boss’ office toward mine, I was juggling all the supplies for the day. As the heel of my pretty little black pump met the over-waxed ceramic tile floor in my office, I slipped. I threw my body forward to try to catch myself, but my leg was overextended and the bone cracked in half.


To say that it was the most excruciating pain I ever experienced in my life is a colossal understatement. Even a difficult childbirth with no pain meds was a walk at the beach in comparison. My bloodcurdling screams resonated through the hallway and one-by-one my coworkers came running to see what happened. As I lay on the floor writhing in pain, I felt an unbearable vulnerability, and I was terrified that I would have to surrender control. Focusing all my energy on managing my emotions, I didn’t cry. Instead, I gave orders. I’ve always been pretty good in a crisis and this definitely qualified. As long as I was taking care of everyone else, I didn’t have to delve too deep into how I felt, and I could still hide my weaknesses.

As I fought the shock that was quickly setting in, I actually apologized for not being able to attend the meeting. When I think of it now, I realize how ludicrous that must have sounded. Part of me really thought the doctor would throw a cast on my leg, and I’d be back at work the next day. Instead, I had come to one of those crossroads in life where no matter which path I took, my life would be changed forever.

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The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach wouldn’t go away. I couldn’t help but cry out in pain as the ambulance found each bump in the road. And even though I tried hard to concentrate on what the paramedic was asking me, confusion started to set in and a thick haze enveloped me. The next few hours went by with a blur of anxious faces, reassuring voices and pain so unbearable and relentless I would have done anything to make it stop. I desperately wanted to erase the terror I saw in my husband’s eyes when he looked at the damage I had done.

He urged me not to look at my leg and that telepathic connection between husband and wife told me it was best to obey. Still, I clung to the last remaining morsels of hope that once the surgery was over I would be able to get back to normal. Reality hit me like ice water in the face when I had to sign the hospital waiver stating that I could die during surgery. Of course, the doctor’s prognosis wasn’t much better – an open fracture such as mine would require immediate surgery or risk severe infection and possible amputation. It was then that the light at the end of the tunnel went out. I knew normal was out of my reach.

The surgery was successful to repair an open, compound fracture of the tibia (the bone was sticking through the skin), a fractured fibula, a spiral fracture of the tibia that extended into my ankle and nerve damage into my toes. A titanium rod and four screws were inserted to stabilize the bones and start the healing process. After four days in the hospital, I met with the doctor and an occupational therapist who said I was ready to go home. I was sure they were joking because I had the strength of a flea and even the slightest movement felt as if I was breaking it all over again.

My homecoming was filled with equal parts of relief and anxiety. The six-inch porch step loomed in front of me like a concrete mountain. Navigating the obstacle course I easily managed just 96 hours before was now agonizingly slow and painful. Feeling anything but settled in my new home on the first-floor, my husband and six-year-old daughter did what they could to make me comfortable. Day and night blended together over the next few weeks, only separated by four-hour reminders to take pain meds. From my vantage point behind invisible bars, I watched my family manage without me.

The phone calls stopped from concerned co-workers and friends as they returned to their own routines. Over the next few months, doctor appointments became welcome distractions from the monotony that had become my life. As the pain began its unhurried retreat, there was an unforeseen void left behind. Depression and apathy were common expressions in the foreign language I now spoke. Somewhere along the path to healing, I was robbed of my desire to fight. Managing my pain had become so encompassing that I became a willing accomplice in my fall from power.

It was almost easy to let go. Before I broke my leg, I had defined my value as a person by my ability to take care of others. I was the “go-to gal” at home and at work. When I broke my leg, I became totally dependent on others, and I felt useless. My husband was amazing. Thankfully, he took care of everything – me, our daughter, the household chores – and still went to work every day. Unfortunately, he took care of everything, because then I didn’t have to try. I could see how exhausted he was, but he never complained or got upset. Secretly, he feared I’d never walk again and so did I.

Our daughter, Lanie, was only six, but she understood that things were different. She helped her dad and took on household chores that were once my responsibility. I loved her for the effort, but it pushed me further into the abyss.

Occasionally, my boss would check in to see how I was doing. I know now he was trying to reassure me, but his “we’ve got everything under control” did little to make me feel needed or missed.

While I’d always been an optimist and never one to give up without a fight, my lack of mobility and medicated state were easy excuses to feel sorry for myself. As I sat in my recliner day after day watching nonsense television, I began to convince myself that karma was finally setting things right. Even though I had the skills necessary to do my job, I always felt I was one mistake away from losing it. Even at home, I never thought I was a good enough wife, mother, friend, lover, cook, housekeeper or anything else for that matter. The pressure to be perfect was totally on me, but I had lost the will to change it.


Three months after that fateful day, my 93-year-old grandmother fell and broke her hip. My sister called with panic in her voice to tell me that Gram needed surgery. My parents were out of the country on vacation, and the doctor needed a family member’s authorization to do the repair. Gram had always been a feisty lady, but her advanced age and worsening senility meant we’d have to decide what to do for her. There was a risk of death with or without the surgery, and my first instinct was to close my eyes and let Sis handle it alone. “What could I do anyway? I couldn’t even get to the hospital in my condition.” As I hung up the phone, a little voice inside me begged me to reconsider.

Depression is a powerful foe, but family trumps it every time. I called my sister back that night and together we decided to let Gram have the surgery. True to her nature, she was sitting up in bed a couple days later when I went to visit. She and I compared “war wounds,” and she even challenged me to a walker race. She seemed to have better clarity that day than she had in ages, and I shared my emotional struggles with her. As she had done many times before, she reminded me that “Nothing worth having ever came easily” and that if I didn’t take care of myself first, I’d never be any good to anyone else. Who was I to argue with an old lady?

The next morning I awoke with a new lease on life. It was time to stop feeling sorry for myself and get ready to walk again. I started slowly by exercising in my chair to rebuild my muscles. When she got home from school each day, Lanie would bring me my dumbbell weights to help strengthen my arms. Soon I was able to navigate the house on crutches, even up and down the stairs to the second floor. I couldn’t put any weight on my leg yet, but I rode a stationary bike anyway just to reduce the muscle atrophy that had taken hold.

Gram died peacefully in her sleep a month later. She had recovered enough to return to her apartment at the senior home and had spent the night before making cookies with some of the other residents. I kept my final doctor’s appointment that morning as I was scheduled to get the final cast removed. With a heavy heart, I shared my loss with the doctor. While he was sympathetic and suggested we reschedule, he agreed with her that I had to take care of myself first. He reassured me that her fall and subsequent surgery were likely not the cause of her decline, but a symptom of an underlying problem. I took great solace in his remarks and felt some satisfaction when he complimented me on my remarkable muscle tone. I attributed it to strong family genetics. Ten months of physical therapy began the next week and I learned to walk again.


Life at home took on a new normal where I asked for help on occasion and lightened up on making sure everything was always perfect. I returned to work part-time while I continued my treatments. Before stepping one foot inside my office, I insisted the company install carpeting over the ceramic tile floor. While my boss was anxious for me to return to full-time duty, I held my ground in not returning until I was ready.

My boss still intimidates me a bit, but I’ve learned to trust my skills more and worry less. I’ll soon be celebrating my 31st anniversary with the company, and I’m happy to report that I still have both feet firmly placed on the ground – all thanks to a broken leg.


Have you ever been through a trauma that changed your outlook so drastically? Were you able to recover or do you still struggle today? Exposing my vulnerability is hard to do, but I’m hoping that sharing my story will help others feel less alone.

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I’ve Got This: Don’t Worry About Me


I’m the “Queen of Cheap.”

I’m not talking about finding the best bargains, although I do love a good deal, or hoarding the first dollar I ever earned. I’m referring to the ability to put my own needs ahead of everyone else’s. While I often start out with good intentions, when push comes to shove, I almost always short-change myself.

It doesn’t seem to matter that I’m a “mature” 50-something woman who should know better, I still find myself falling back into old habits.

As I try to figure out when this self-deprecating behavior began, I honestly can’t remember a time when I didn’t jump at the chance to “help.” As a kid, my baby sister would yell “Debbbbbiiiiiieeee,” and minutes later I could be found doing whatever chore she didn’t feel like doing. My parents were baffled by my inability to say no to her, but I always shrugged it off as, “I’d rather do it myself than listen to her whine.” There was some truth in that statement, but what I really meant was, “I’d rather do it my way and avoid fighting with her.”


Things haven’t changed much since I was a kid; I’m still a bit of a control freak and like to do things “my” way. Even if it means staying up late to clean the house myself or run errands for others instead of tackling my own projects, I’ll be the one to volunteer to handle things. I also still shy away from confrontation. While no one likes to fight, I sometimes take it to extremes by doing everything in my power to keep people happy. I’d rather take the bullet or go without instead of disappointing my family.

I work a full-time day job, do freelance writing at night and yet still feel it’s necessary to do all the housework, laundry, shopping, and cooking. Until a few months ago, our grown daughter and boyfriend were still living at home. It wasn’t uncommon to find me making all the next day’s lunches and cleaning up the kitchen after everyone had gone to bed. I’d rather mumble under my breath about having to do everything myself than risk a fight.

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I tend to take on more than I can handle, so I’m almost always running late. This is a constant source of frustration for me. Physically, I’m always exhausted; and emotionally, I’m rarely satisfied with the way I’ve handled things. I get mad at myself for not letting someone else do some work (even if it’s not the way I would do it), and then I get mad at them for not offering to help. I guess they need to work on their mindreading skills too.

I’ve always envied those women who have been strong enough (aka bitchy) to convince their partners and children to share in the household chores. The truth of the matter is, things get done half-assed because I don’t have the time or energy to do them right. I’m an intelligent woman and an excellent communicator at work; but when I step through my own front door, I turn into a mouse.


Don’t get me wrong, there are no guns being held to my head or unreasonable demands being made by my husband or anyone else. This situation is all on me. I do find great joy in taking care of my family, and when they offer to help, I usually say no. At that moment when I could turn things around, I feel bad for asking. Silly me goes into “Mama Bear” mode, putting their tired eyes or plans to play in front of my own. Of course, it doesn’t end there. Even on those occasions when they insist on taking over, I silently criticize what they’ve done. Yes, I have been guilty of reloading the dishwasher after my daughter left the room – what is wrong with me?!


Although I’ve been working hard to change some of these bad habits, my tendency to avoid conflict almost led to financial disaster for our family. Instead of sharing with my husband the heavy burden of debt we were facing, I thought I could fix everything by “robbing Peter to pay Paul.” I learned a valuable lesson with that situation, so I’m not sure why I’m not dealing with this better.

Now that the kids have moved out and the house is quiet again, it’s the perfect opportunity to turn over a new leaf. I realize that I didn’t do my daughter any favors by not teaching her how much energy it took to run a household. She’s tougher than I am, though, and she’s already set some ground rules with her boyfriend about sharing the chores. Maybe she learned something from watching me after all.

As my husband and I close in on 37 years of marriage, I guess it’s time I come clean about what I need for a change. He’s actually a better cook than I am, and he shockingly really loves to do it. I know that old habits are hard to break, but maybe it’s time to let him wear the crown for a little while.


I’d welcome your comments on how to go about making a change. Should I do it slowly or rip it off like a bandage? Am I the only one foolish enough to try to handle it all or do I have company? If you think someone else could benefit from my experiences, I’d appreciate a share.

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#ItsNeverTooLate      #AgingWithAttitude

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ONLY ONE. LONELY ONE? The Regrets of Having an Only Child

Only One. Lonely One.

As a woman and mother over 50, I’ve found myself looking back to examine some of the crossroads in my life. I wrote this post a couple years ago, but I think it’s a story that many only-child moms out there can relate to. 

With only one child to focus on, my “empty-nest syndrome” arrived quickly and hit me hard. As crossroads go, this one was pretty significant. As I look back, though, I remind myself that being a mom (to one kid or many) continues to be my greatest joy.



With only a few remnants of my daughter’s childhood remaining in her Barbie-pink bedroom, it’s hard for me to find the right words to express my feelings on this night before she literally moves into adulthood.

It’s so unlike me to get all teary-eyed at the thought of Lanie growing up and moving out, but here I am with tears on my cheeks.

Every mother, at one time or another, worries that they haven’t given their child all the tools they need to lead a happy, successful life, away from her protection. My cross to bear is buried a little deeper in the regret that I never gave her a sibling.

My mom always warned me that if I was going to have children, I had to make sure I had at least two. She was an only child herself, and she hated it. Whenever my sister and I would fight, Mom would step in and remind us how lucky we were to have each other. My mom was right, I don’t know what I’d do without my sister today.


At two, Lanie came running into the room to demand, “I want a baby sister, and I want one now!” My hubby and I laughed at the time, but deep down, I was anxious that she’d hate me forever if I didn’t comply.

I had planned to have more children but, as it so often does, life got in the way. Troubles in my marriage, a financial hardship and a serious injury thrown in for good measure pushed that dream out of reach.  Instead of a sibling, I’ve spent most of her life trying to mold her into a strong, independent woman who was as comfortable being alone as she was in a crowd.

It was tough when she was young. Even though she had a lot of friends, there were days when there was “no one to play with.” I’d remind her that she was lucky to choose her friends rather than be stuck with a younger brother or sister she was constantly fighting with, but she wasn’t buying it. She was sad and lonely, and I was pretty sure she thought it was all my fault.

I’ll admit to overcompensating by spoiling her a little. What would it hurt if we bought her that video game, just because? Who was harmed if we took her on expensive vacations to Disney, just because? I often reminded her that we couldn’t have done any of those things if she had siblings – we just wouldn’t have been able to afford it if there were more kids. As I think back, I’m pretty sure I was trying to convince myself that being an only child was good for her.

Lanie begged for a dog for years, but as a full-time working mom, I really didn’t want the extra burden of caring for an animal. Besides, she wanted a BIG dog. I did concede to getting an aquarium filled with beautifully colored tropical fish. Looking back, the dog might have been easier as we killed off more than 34 fish before learning how to keep their environment healthy. As Lanie and I struggled to keep her fish “siblings” alive, we both learned a valuable lesson – life doesn’t always work out the way you plan it, so you’ve just got to do the best you can with what you’ve been given.


The middle school years improved a little. Lanie had a close-knit group of friends that would take turns going on family vacations with us. Those six girls were inseparable, and after a while even started to dress and look alike. These friends helped Lanie feel a little less lonely and my girl quickly emerged as the leader of the pack.

By high school, Lanie had all but forgotten that she was “different” because she was an only child. In fact, she became the “lucky” one. While all her friends had to share everything with their brothers and sisters, “Lucky Lanie” had everything to herself.

I think the ultimate sign, for all of us, was that being an only child brought great rewards appeared three years ago. Lanie was in her last year of college, and on her way to becoming a nurse. Her boyfriend was living an hour away in a rural community. With limited job opportunities and no real options in sight, we invited him to move into our home. While that may have been unconventional, Lanie got it; and I think I finally did too. Had we had other children in our home, this invitation would never have been extended. Because we were able to open our home to someone my daughter cared so much about, we were able to make a positive impact in both of their lives.


Lanie is now moving into her own home and creating her own family. Ironically, she’s a nurse at a fertility clinic where many of the patients struggle to have even one child. We’ve had many conversations now that she’s an adult, and I believe she recognizes the benefits of being an only child -like getting all the attention, all the presents, all the money and all the love.

As for me, I think I’ll always wonder what it would have been like to have more kids, but I’ll never regret having just one very special one.


Do you have any only child? Were you one yourself? Are you closer to your child or parents because of it? I’d love to hear your perspective.

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Old Age? Don’t Take It Lying Down!

We’ve all heard the phrase, “You’re only as old as you feel.” Well, don’t let yourself feel old.

For as long as I can remember, my Dad has told everyone he’s 29. He may be two weeks shy of 80, but that’s not how old he looks, acts or feels.

Take a few pointers from Jacqueline Obyokocho at A Cooking Pot and Twisted Tales with her recent post. She’s got some great tips we can all try to “not feel our age.”

The Invisible Value of Experience


Susan Williams from Booming Encore gets “me.”

Well, she actually gets people “like me.”

The people that have lived life for more than a few minutes. The ones that have “been around the block” a few times and have a wealth of knowledge and experience that is just bursting to be shared.

Why is it that so many younger executives or business-minded people are so keen on recreating the wheel (sorry, way too many cliches)? 

While it’s true, things are very different now than they were when I was moving up the ranks, there are still so many things that are exactly the same. 

Why not pick our brain and use us to our full potential? You’d be surprised at the lessons you can learn.

Take a look at Susan’s latest post and let me know if you agree. Are we 50-somethings (and older) has-beens or is the value of wisdom something you would want to tap into?

The Invisible Value of Experience

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DWI: The High Cost of Having Too Much Fun


It’s interesting that as I get older I re-visit some experiences and recall those memories with total clarity—no matter how long ago they happened. This life experience was one that made such an impact I’ve carried it with me for almost 40 years.

Getting a little tipsy used to be fun.

Even though the legal drinking age was 18 when I was growing up, sneaking a couple beers from the fridge for my friends when we were only 16 gave me as much of a high as actually drinking the stuff.

I remember how my heart raced with anticipation whenever the “gang” got together. I was a “closet rebel.” To most of the adult world, I was sweet, innocent and a bit of a geek. I was the trustworthy one and always did the right thing. Of course, when no one was looking, my wild child side came out. It was amazing to hang with the “cool kids” and stealing some booze from a dad that would never notice elevated me to a position of admiration among my rowdy peers.

It was ironic that I never really cared much for the hoppy flavor the boys seemed to crave. And even though I wasn’t the prettiest or most sought-after girl in the group, I earned their respect as the risk-taker.


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Reminiscent of “That 70’s Show,” I remember hanging out night after night on worn-out furniture in our basement retreat. The heavy base sound of our “too loud” music was always pounding in the background, while the guys talked about their super-charged engines and the girls shared the latest gossip. There was always plenty of cold beer and cheap wine to go around, so we all drank. It’s just the way it was.

Even though we all knew the dangers of drinking and driving, we all did it anyway. There was no such thing as sobriety checkpoints or breathalyzer tests, so as long as you stuck to the back roads, you’d be fine – or so we thought.

In addition to feeling immortal, kids seem to believe that bad things can’t happen to them— until they do. That’s how I felt, so at 18, when my boyfriend and I were hit head-on by a drunk 23-year-old and his equally blitzed friend, I was shocked. Thankfully, we had the bigger car so were able to hobble away with a broken ankle and a wrecked-up knee. The party-boys weren’t so lucky – the driver never regained consciousness and died three months later; while his friend suffered major internal bleeding that caused him to lose his spleen and a kidney.


I suppose I should have been outraged at the driver’s stupidity of getting behind the wheel that night, but I wasn’t. What I really felt was the senseless loss of two young men who were just out for a good time. If only they had called a cab.

While my dad never condoned underage drinking, perhaps watching him casually drink (and drive) had desensitized me to its horror. By the time I had the accident, I was “legal” and had stopped drinking to impress. I no longer felt pressured to chug down a beer to fit in with the crowd, so our date that night consisted of hanging out at a local restaurant, eating chicken wings and drinking pop.

While I wasn’t as angry as I should have been at the reckless behavior displayed that awful night, I did recognize just how very close to death my boyfriend and I had been. Even though the wreck happened 39 years ago, I can still see those blinding headlights barreling toward us, hear the earsplitting sounds of shattered glass and twisted metal, and feel the terrifying panic that we might not survive. Even worse than that, on any other night, it could have easily been me that had caused the accident.

Just hours after the crash, as we sat in the police station recanting the night’s events, I remember feeling a pang of guilt as the officer praised us for being so responsible. I actually wanted to defend the driver of the other car when the cop said, “Finally, the drunk got what he deserved. Usually, it’s the innocent ones that suffer the consequences instead.” I felt neither responsible nor innocent that night. However, I did feel grateful that I had been given a chance to change things.

Ironically, it was my dad who insisted that I get in the car the next day to face my fears and drive by the accident site. He was determined that I become stronger for having lived through it instead of being stuck inside my anxiety. He was right to push me to regain control and never let my fears of what “might happen” dictate how I live.

It only took me six weeks to heal from my injuries, but it’s taken a lifetime of making good decisions to make sure I didn’t waste my second chance. While kids may complain about having to wait until 21 to drink or about strict DWI laws, I’m happy they’re in place. Hopefully, by making it a little more difficult for our young people to over-indulge, they won’t have to learn life’s lessons like I did – the hard way.


I still enjoy a glass of wine or a mixed drink once in a while, and on a hot summer day, I’ll steal a refreshing swig of my husband’s ice cold beer. What I won’t do is drink and drive. I grew up fast that night. I learned that no one is invincible, that not everyone gets a second chance to make things right, and that I wasn’t willing to pay the high cost of having too much fun.

What about you? Did you experiment with alcohol before you were “legal?” Do you think DWI laws are overkill or just right? This message seems to be timeless. So, if my story inspired you to think for a moment before drinking and driving, I’d appreciate if you’d share it.

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6 Positive Mindsets That Give Your Dream Its Best Chance To Soar


Kathy Caprino, from Women@Forbes, provides amazing insight into why women don’t pursue their career dreams with the same vigor and drive as men. 

It’s critical to incorporate these positive mindsets into your daily routine. Only then will your path be clear to moving onward and upward.

6 Positive Mindsets That Give Your Dream Its Best Chance To Soar

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10 Rules We Need to Remember as We Age

Betsy Ogden gets “us.” Women Over 50 have an obligation to themselves to “Age with attitude.” If not now, When?

I agree, Betsy, “It’s Never Too Late.”

Read her post here.

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Give Them Space: How I Learned To Avoid Murdering My Adult Kids


Raising a kid is challenging. I thought I was home-free once my daughter had become an “adult.” Boy, was I wrong.

I wrote this post a few years ago, but I know this is a topic many Women Over 50 have struggled with or are still sorting through. I wanted to share my story to help others see that they’re not alone and that “this, too, shall pass.”

Take a look. I’ll bet you’ll find yourself nodding your head a few times as some of my experiences may sound pretty similar to your own. Enjoy!

Close up of a welcome mat in front of an inviting house

When my husband suggested three years ago that we invite our only child’s boyfriend to move in, I think I must have been high on cleaning product fumes, because I said, “Sure. Why not?”

At the time, our girl was three weeks shy of 21, and her guy had reached that milestone into true adulthood six months before. Lanie and Jay had been dating for almost a year and were already getting pretty serious. She was commuting to college and working toward a nursing degree. He was living with his mom and not-so-nice stepdad over an hour away. He had no job, no car and no one willing to help him get either one. While it wasn’t a parent’s dream match-up, they were gloriously happy, and he treated her like his princess.

Three days before my husband’s now infamous question, we got a frantic phone call at one in the morning. The kids were driving down a newly graveled country road out near Jay’s house, when a deer jumped out in front of them. Lanie swerved to avoid hitting it and rolled her SUV three times. They ended up in a ditch upside down, wedged between two trees. The fact that they survived with only minor bumps and bruises was my sign that there was a bigger plan for these kids and that something had to change.

I can truly say, at that moment, I probably would have agreed to shave my head and become a Buddhist monk if it meant my daughter would stay safe. The next best thing was to have Jay move in so they wouldn’t have to make that hour-long trek every other day. In hindsight, it was the best decision I ever made, but it was also the most naive one.


Did you know that boys masquerading as young men are crazy? I do now! I also found out that it’s contagious and that their love-struck girlfriends will follow them blindly into Crazytown no matter how well you’ve raised them. Our always agreeable, respectful, considerate child became an alien with entitlement issues and a major attitude. And while Jay was appreciative of our willingness to invest time and money into his future, he just didn’t understand why I went ballistic when he brought home three pet mice and a puppy. For reference, the only pet Lanie was allowed to have was a goldfish named Urkel.

Pretty quickly, hubby and I agreed that we needed to establish some ground rules, or we were going to be on trial for murdering both of them. The first rule was that they had to have separate bedrooms. We had set up our spare room with all the amenities a guy could want – a comfy futon for sitting or sleeping, a smart TV for video games or web-surfing, a dresser and bookshelf for all his “stuff”, and easy access to the bathroom just a few steps away. Lanie already had a Barbie-pink room of her own with everything she needed – or so we thought.

After weeks of trying and failing to chaperone, listening to my husband rant about them “shacking up” in his house, and enduring my parents’ snide remarks about my lack of control, I was DONE!


For me to get to that point was a monumental feat. I’ve always hated confrontation and would do anything possible to smooth things over to avoid it. That day I learned something about myself though. I learned that it was time to set aside Debbie, the mom, and bring out Debbie, the woman. I had done a great job at raising my daughter to be a thoughtful, caring, intelligent, independent woman. I was so caught up in trying to keep the peace, I didn’t notice that things had changed. My little girl was grown up, and she had chosen the man she wanted to be with. And whether I agreed with every decision she made or not, they were her decisions to make.


Photo credit: RLJ Photography NYC / / CC BY


We’ve had a lot more bumps and bruises to endure over those years, and we still struggle at times to get along, but I’ve learned that they need their own space. While we share the whole house, those two rooms upstairs are theirs. It’s funny – when I started treating them like adults, they started acting like adults.

My next job…to get my husband to loosen his grip on all HIS power tools. This ought to be fun!

Do you think I’ve totally lost my mind for continually trying to play referee to grown children or can you relate? I’m pretty sure I’m not alone. I’d love to hear your thoughts – for or against?

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Women Influencers in Data


We’ve known it all along…

Women rock in the business world, and these exceptional women have taken leadership to a new level. 

Take a look at this latest post from Forbes and take inspiration from these… 

Women Influencers in Data


Giving Your Vision a Voice.

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