The Moment When I Realized...

One day, I woke up, and I was 37. One day, I woke up, and my pants fit just a little tighter, and I realized that the stretch marks on my belly were probably not going away. One day, I looked at a picture of myself and realized how many gray hairs were poking around my face. One day, I painted gothic eyeliner across my eyes and smiled in the mirror... And the eyeliner sneakily hid behind my crow's feet. Instead of gothic, emo cute, I achieved graceful wrinkles. One day, I sat in a room for my career, and I wasn't the youngest person there. One day, I woke up, and my face was dry, and I needed $40 night cream to keep my skin from getting flaky. One day, I woke up, and I realized I cannot handle more than 2 beers in one night anymore. One day, I went to the OBGYN, and I read that I am considered geriatric, somewhere along the slope toward the sunset of my fertile years. And on that day, when I turned 37, when my body began to remind me of its temporal nature, I was also still the mom of a 2 1/2 year old. A 2 1/2 year old who runs and shouts and fingerpaints with my $40 night cream. A 2 1/2 year old who seriously does not understand that my old ass needs 8 hours of sleep...ha, okay, just maybe 6 1/2...or just whatever I can get. A 2 1/2 year old that is precious and curious and thoughtful, who was so deeply wanted and loved before she even entered this world. And honestly, being 37 and a mom of a 2 1/2 year old and trying desperately to have another child... This isn't what I planned. I thought it would be easy to make a house full of children, That in my early 30s this would all be settled, And that somehow I would feel this graceful peace as my hair faded to gray, And the wrinkles marked the ages and roads of my life. I thought that I would feel more settled, more complete. I thought that I would be a young mom, or at least not an old one. And while being 37 isn't exactly old, I definitely feel my age and generation, When I meet the moms of other 2 1/2 year olds, who still Listen to Taylor Swift and Never grew up with out a cell phone and Don't know who the Counting Crows are and Were too young to see the Titanic in the theaters and probably use some slang terms I don't know. I guess I thought I wouldn't feel this alone. But truly, I love everything about momming. Even midnight diapers and fighting with a toddler over the potty, Even when she insists on sleeping in my bed with her head buried into my neck, Even when it seems like maybe she's temporarily deaf as she sprints to do whatever it is she wants to do right now, Even when the days are. so. long. and I can't wait for bedtime. I love it. I relish it. I drink in every sunsoaked minute of momming Because I waited for 34 years to be a mom, And maybe I won't have 68 years of being mom, like my Mimi did, And maybe I'll miss her retirement or even her children, So I don't want to miss today. Being a geriatric mom isn't what I planned, but I'm learning to find humor and joy in it. I'm learning to be grateful for this bull shit plan that is also super beautiful and fun and wearisome and... ...maybe it's not even a plan but a pivot from the plan, and I'm just trying to stay on the ride. I guess no matter what this is, it's mine. I know I'm not the only geriatric mom out there, so cheers to us...managing gray hairs, aging parents, and potty training all in the same day. I hope this blog slaps for you too.