Age is a funny thing. With our older son who is now almost 17, I am on the middle to young end of the parents age range. Some of them have already celebrated their 50th birthday and have kids in college or maybe even out of college, and our Mimi and Pop-pop times two status isn’t so unusual. I am maybe a little more fit than a few of them- middle age sag hasn’t beaten me yet.
With our younger son who is almost 13 (and old for his grade), we don’t stand a chance. Some of those parents I could have taught when they were in sixth grade. They are creeping up on their 40th birthday and selling the crib their younger kids are finally done with. Our grandparent status automatically colors more of my hair gray, adds age spots and wrinkles to my hands and face. I can’t keep up with their trendy wardrobes, great hairstyles and firm skin.
When I think of myself and then see pictures of myself, I wonder who she is and how I don’t feel like her on the inside. Mostly, I still feel like I’m a teenager and the more teenager stuff our son does, the more I feel like I’m still in high school (but thankfully am not). I marveled when he was born that I somehow had the credentials to take him home from the hospital, and I marvel now that I’m somehow qualified to help him navigate these final steps into adulthood.
It is only by the grace of God that one of us, some of us- all of us?- aren’t dead yet.
Not gonna lie, I’m looking forward to death. Not in a depressed, get me a therapist way, but in the I just can’t wait, this is the best kind of anticipation way. Besides the greatest gift of being with God forever (!!!), heaven is the Goldilocks of time where, for all eternity, I am exactly the age I need to be. No more too old, too new, too clueless, too seasoned. For so very many reasons (faith-based and otherwise), how could I not be in a hurry to get there?
Your writing is wonderful. This is wonderful!
Thank you!
Meant to say your writing is wonderful . This is great about you.