I’m 40. When
did that happen? I mean, I know the date
of my birthday. I know it happened, I
just cannot figure out when I got to be so old.
When I was a kid, I remember having to go to bed at
9 p.m. I remember having to be home
before dark. I remember wishing time
would pass faster so I could have my driver’s license, and today, my daughter
was driving ME around. Granted, I was
telling her to stay in her lines like she was coloring and to remember the
brake, but still, she was driving me, and not the other way around.
I used to dream of the day when I would leave
home. I would go to Chicago, live in the
big city, and never come home again. I
would be very chic and I would have lots of friends and ride in taxis. When I was a teenager, I don’t think I ever
aged in my imagination past twenty I didn’t dream of turning 21 because I was
never interested in drinking. Up until the
second semester of my senior year, I didn’t fantasize of having a husband and
children either, but that changed when I met my future husband. Then I did
dream of being married. (The children
part came shortly after we got married when he looked at me crosswise and I got
pregnant.)
I don’t think anyone dreams of what life will be
like at forty. Teenagers don’t think,
“When I’m forty, I’m going to … sail around the world.” Or “When I’m forty I’m
going to learn how to play backgammon.” It’s just not done.
This is forty.
My hair is short. My hair has
been short for a while now, but in my family when we women get old, we cut our
hair. I have now been every size between
a size 3 to a 16. There are parts of my
body that have fallen and need extra support to stay up. There is a side of my hair that grows faster
and thicker than the other and the opposite side the back tends to flip
up. I wonder if my freckles are still considered
freckles, or if they will become age spots.
My eyebrows no longer grow like they used to; only random strays here
and there that I can pluck out myself.
Spandex is my friend. I use
Clinique but wonder if I shouldn’t be using Oil of Olay (AKA, Oil of Old Lady)
instead.
I say the phrase “Well, how ‘bout that!” all the
time now. I have surpassed sounding like
my mother and have gone straight to sounding like my grandmother. I think that makes me an overachiever,
doesn’t it?
My daughter, had she had a less dramatic mother, should
have her license by now. She doesn’t,
because I have been too afraid to let her drive me around. I’m getting a little better about it. Maybe when she is seventeen, I will even let
her drive at night or when it rains… or maybe not. I may need a little longer. She may need a little longer. My middle child is right behind her; she will
have driver’s ed next summer. And she
was just learning how to ride a bike last week.
OK, I know it was a minute ago.
My baby? My
baby is going to be in double digits.
DOUBLE DIGITS! He’s my baby. I know I was rocking him to sleep just
yesterday. Today I turn around and I am
only a head taller than he is. Granted
I’m not especially tall, but still.
In the blink of an eye, it’s not me learning to
drive, and it isn’t me dreaming of leaving home and going off to college, or even
just driving to the mall alone.
My dreams are more along the lines of going up the
stairs without my knees creaking.
Wondering how long I can go between coloring my hair. If I don’t color my hair, how long until my
entire head is grey? Will I be 45? 50? 60?
Will I be doing commercials for urinary incontinence? If I work at the school long enough, will it
be “grandma hugs” I give the children, or will I still be able to give mommy
hugs when I’m old enough to be a grandma?
If that isn’t enough when I take the kids out for
recess at school I yell at them to stay off the grass and stay on the sidewalk
till we get onto the playground. I ask
my children if they were born in barns.
I have said to them to close the door I don’t want to heat/air condition
the outdoors. I have become one of the
biggest cliché’s in motherhood. This
last weekend I went on a date with my husband and I reached over with a napkin
to wipe his face. (This did not earn me
any favors. He was a bit put out with me
for that one.)
Where did the time go? When I was younger the time seemed to pass so
slowly. I thought I would never get
grown. Now I’m grown and all I want is
for time to slow down. It seems to pass
so quickly. Days run over each
other. Weeks are suddenly months that
are gone and years are gone in a blink. I
look in the mirror and I see wrinkles that weren’t there before. I look at my children and I am looking up
instead of down to look into their eyes.
Even the cats seem to be aging rapidly.
We start out and we think we have so much time to do
so many things. The fact is we don’t
know how much time we have and the older we get the less we have left. We have to decide how we are going to spend
what we have. I think I will spend mine
enjoying the teenagers telling me I’m old.
I will love it when I get to repay the favor someday. I will keep searching for the perfect hair
color, refuse to grow my hair out to wear buns, avoid skirts, skorts, and
dresses that go well with aprons. I will
keep blowing bubbles when I chew gum and enjoy every jam session when I’m home
alone. Maybe I will need depends someday
but doesn’t that just mean I get to dance longer without stopping to go “gotta
go gotta go gotta go right now.”? The
sun shines brighter when you look at every day as a gift.
Maybe forty won’t be so bad, after all I have a new
haircut, I am narrowing in on the best hair color, and I can make big bubbles
even with Trident gum. The upside is I’m
old enough I don’t have to apologize for enjoying it.