“Mom,” she said, “When I’m an old lady will you be dead?”
Alas, that’s probably true because I was at an “advanced maternal age” when I gave birth to her after a quick labor. (She was born at home, a fact I am inordinately proud of, a fact that does not come up in casual conversation, so I will just casually mention it here. In fact, both of my younger children were born at home, in rented birthing tubs. One labor lasted 43 hours; the other lasted 6 hours.)
They were also unplanned pregnancies, little jolts of surprise. So, when she was born, I was 37 years old, almost 38. And I just may be the oldest kindergarten mom. Funny, because 10 years ago when my twins were in kindergarten, I was also the oldest kindergarten mom, almost.
One of the weird things about aging is not feeling old. I feel like the same person I was when I married my husband twenty-one years ago. And then I will see the face of a professional football player on Monday Night Football and I will say, “Boy, he looks young,” and my husband will say, “He’s twenty-three,” and I said, “I could be his mother!”
But I’m not because my children came along when I was getting old.
Do you have those days when you cannot believe how unattractive you look, when you curse the unkempt mop of hair on your head and wonder at how fat your face looks when you gain twenty pounds? Or is it just me? I would have just stayed under the covers today and eaten ice cream if I weren’t such a responsible (OLD!) person.
Being old is inevitable. Unless you die.