Up until that moment, it had been a great day. At 4:45 a.m. my feet hit the floor and by 6:45 a.m. I had already logged two very productive hours on my work-at-home job before waking my children. Working before dawn was particularly critical that day because while school was in session for my two older children, preschool was closed. Caroline, who had just turned five, would be underfoot all day so it was unlikely that I would be able to squeeze in any additional work. So, with my most time-sensitive assignments completed, I put on my “full-time mommy hat” and started on my way.

After taking the older children to school, I stopped by the grocery store with Caroline in tow. We chatted and joked as we made our way through the aisles. “I am Woman, Hear Me Roar” rang through my mind as I considered how much I had accomplished that day before 9:30 am.

At the checkout counter, the cashier smiled at Caroline as she watched her pull items out of our cart. The cashier was a black woman who looked to be in her late fifties. She then looked at me and said “She is so cute! Is she your granddaughter?”

The music in my mind abruptly stopped.

As I drove home I went through a mental check list. My trip to the hairdresser the previous week assured me that my gray hairs weren’t visible. My extremely oily skin (the lifetime bane of my existence) had finally proven useful as I was completely wrinkle-free. I have always been a morning person, so getting up before 5 a.m. that day was not unusual and should not have caused me to look particularly tired or old. I didn’t think I was wearing a matronly outfit, though the five pounds I had gained in recent months weren’t helping matters. Still, I could not fathom what would make that woman think that my daughter (who so closely resembles me) was my grandchild. I was crushed.

Being pregnant at 40 should have prepared me for that moment. I am not sure why it didn’t. Maybe I was naïve enough or vain enough to think that I could “pass” for 39 forever. Possibly. But as I continued to ponder the situation, I realized that the real issue may have nothing to do with my appearance.

I am an African-American mother with a law degree. The majority of my closest friends are African-American mothers with advanced degrees. Most of us didn’t get married until after graduate school and almost none of us had children before 30. In fact, several of my friends had 10-year-olds when they were over 50. Birds of a feather flock together? Probably.

I bristled as my next thought took hold. That black cashier probably never went to college. She may have had a child at 20 and if that pattern continued, she was a grandmother at 40. That made it logical for her to assume that the 40-plus year-old black woman at her register was the grandmother of the preschooler who accompanied her. Further, African-American grandparents have been caring for their grandchildren for generations. There is nothing uncommon about seeing black grandparents and grandchildren together at the grocery store.

I cringed. My thoughts smacked of both racism and classism. Interesting that I would at once, be both victim and perpetrator.

In the end, I realized that there was precious little I could do to change things. (Well, I did buy some undereye cream for good measure.) As my sister-friend likes to say, “It is, what it is.” Certainly a wiser woman would have seen it coming. I just wish I had been able to come up with a pithy yet humorous reply to that cashier. Actually, I am still trying to think of a good response for the inevitable next time it happens. I am open to suggestions.