When someone suggested I might write for the Mothering in the Middle project, it seemed a perfect fit. Older women, coming to motherhood after other things. Infertility as a side-dish for some of us, adding that extra dash of gratefulness to our motherhood journey. Issues of aging – our parents, ourselves. A perfect fit.
I signed on. And then, the catch. I was “only” 38. Technically, I did not fit the Mothering in the Middle demographic of 40-plus women. My obstetrical records said “Advanced Maternal Age,” my fertility doctor liked to sound a little grave when we discussed my options, and some of my closest friends and family were raising teenagers, but here was a group that considered me young. Oh, to be the spritely youthful one among peers! Like I say, a perfect fit. I was accepted into the fold, age discrepancy graciously overlooked.
It is hard, exactly, to define what makes each of us our age. What does 38 look like in a labour and delivery room, compared to 42 or 45? Is there a difference between 38 and 48 at parent-teacher night? At the playground? To be frank, all of the mothers I hang around with, all of the mothers that run in my playgroup-zoo-library circle, all of the mothers with whom I discuss baby poop and preschool, we’re all about the same age. Not young. Not old. A safe guess is about 40 for all of us. My closest mom friend is 48, and our 3 year olds play well together. We went to the same fertility clinic. We’re in the same Single Mothers by Choice group. There is never an occasion when I feel like she is 10 years older than me.
If I have to think about it (and I rarely do), I would say that I feel like I’m about 38 years old. Most people don’t say that. Most say they still feel younger, subtracting a decade from their chronological age to measure what they truly “feel” like. But I can easily call to mind my established career and it seems like a million years since I was a rookie fresh out of school. I have 16 years’ seniority, which adds up to plenty of experience, assignments, vacation time and “do you remember?” queries. I’ve lived in three countries, owned three different houses, forgotten more bank accounts and insurance policies and moving companies than I care to count, and now I have two small children to help me count my years. I simply feel my age. Not young. Not old. I feel like I am exactly where I am supposed to be at this age, a secure, experienced, confident single mother of two.
It helps that I cannot measure my age by degree of hipster panache. I’ve never been hip. I didn’t know what the cool music was when I was in high school, much less now. I’ve always worn flat shoes and comfortable clothes. I like the same sports I did when I was a kid. I read the same books. I cook the same food. I like the same wine, the same jewellery, the same handbags and the same coffee from Starbucks that I liked 10 years ago (though I could better afford it then, pre-kids). So either I was a very old 28 year old or I’m not aging at all.
Except. There are signs of time’s progress that rankle. My chiropractor just told me I have arthritis in my neck. ARTHRITIS! Of course I’m skeptical. That’s what he would say, wouldn’t he?? It is only because my neck feels better now that he is treating me that keeps me going back — I’m not quite ready to buy the whole arthritis thing. The second horseman is my eyesight. I’ve worn glasses since fifth grade (despite the laser eye surgeries) and have long accepted my imperfect sight. But now, damned if I don’t find myself having to lean back a bit when I’m reading the dosage chart on the baby Tylenol bottle. Somewhere in my field of vision the script is readable, it’s just not where it used to be. Bifocals clearly loom, but I intend to hold out until I’m at least 40. The third nail in the coffin is financial planning. No matter how often I add and subtract years from my 35 year mortgage or my pension plan or my kids’ college savings accounts (balance: $0), it often seems frightfully clear that I’m running out of time to make a million and retire, early, with income to spare.
Thank God I’m okay with that. The arthritis, the bifocals, the retirement savings. None of it really affects my day-to-day contentment. I walk to the playground. I slide down the slide a few times with the girls, then sit happily on the bench to watch. I ride my exercise bike, I stain the back deck, I plant new annuals in the pots. I braid hair, untangle tights, juggle sunhats and sandals and sippy cups. It is exactly where I’m supposed to be at 38. And it is, God willing, exactly where I will be 10 years from now at 48, unchanged in contentment or health or attitude. Midlife came just in time for motherhood for me.