The Moment I Learned to Just Accept My Age

Never going to grow up

I’m not old. When I make that first step down the stairs in the morning, and my foot protests by cramping up, I certainly feel it. But according to the latest life expectancy statistics for Americans — it’s 78.64 if you’re wondering — I’m not.

I put this out there as a disclaimer because if you have a chance to chat up my 8-year-old, she will tell you, in no uncertain terms, that her mother is ancient.

In the past two weeks I have been accused of wearing “granny pants” (no, this is not too much information about my underthings … she’s 8 and thought baggy sweatpants qualify). I have been referred to as “old woman.” And, in case the aforementioned were not clear enough, she flat out, to my face, announced, “You are old.”

I thought I’d get around it when I asked, “But what does that make your Dad?”


She didn’t even blink before responding, “Old …. er!”

Well, at least he and I are in this thing together.

I’ll admit this whole being old thing is confusing. I’m too used to the opposite.

I was the child who skipped a grade in high school, making me the youngest in my class throughout school. I was always “the kid.”

I married young too, and though we’d been married for nearly five years when we decided to have a baby, the growing number of moms waiting until their 30s — or later — to have their kids has often left me feeling like the odd mom out.

Even my young face, which I’m coming to appreciate more and more, has made for some uncomfortable moments over the years as I’ve been pre-judged as a teenager doing adult things when in reality I was a grown up just being, well, a grown up!

Suffice it to say, I’ve always yearned to be older, if only to fit in.

Yearned to be older, that is, until lately.
Because now, I am. 
 

Good thing the husband is old …. er.

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