Archive for the ‘getting older’ Category

Around the blog-o-sphere lately, many of the writers whose blogs I subscribe to have been celebrating birthdays. Kate just turned 25, AJ just turned 30, Annie turned 36. Babies! In the spirit of competition, or one-ups-manship (how do you spell that?), let me just say this. My youngest son, my baby, turned 30 last week.

How can this be? How did this sweet boy…No really, how did this sweet boy…

That’s better. So how did this sweet little boy…

Become this man…?

And how did this young mom…

Become this, um, not so young mom…

I am having a bit of a hard time with this. All this time, I’ve been convincing myself that I’m just barely over 30 myself. I read these blogs written by these young women, and I relate to their lives, not as a mom, but as a fellow human, fellow woman, fellow vegan.  Then, this damn birthday comes along and smashes my illusions all to hell.

Actually, I’m just whining. I’m really happy with where I am in my life. I love my life, my husband, my sons, my dogs, and really wouldn’t want to go back. I look and feel good (please, Debbie, don’t add ‘for my age,’ even in your mind!). I run, I ride, I work, I…well, you get the idea. I have two wonderful sons, two darling grandsons, a teenage granddaughter.

So, why is this so hard?

I think it is because 30 is such a meaningful age. Turning 30 means that you are supposed to be an adult. You should have your life in order, your education complete, your career underway, your family planned. You are no longer a child. So, when you are the parent of someone turning 30, it’s like the double whammy to beat them all.

I am finished having my little pity party now. Happy Birthday, David.

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>I am getting ready to go out tonight to celebrate my youngest son, David’s, birthday. He will be 28.

How can this be? I feel that I am barely beyond that age myself. While one one level, I am proud to be the mother of a fine, adult son, certainly happy that my kids are grown and out on their own, I am starting to see the advance of my children’s ages, even more than my own passing birthdays, as the beginning of “maturity.” I use such a politically correct term because I am not ready to face the alternative, “getting old.”

Yes, I know what people say. I look great. I’m healthy. I’m active and physically fit. I still an avid cyclist and runner. And it’s all true. I like myself. A lot. I’m happy with where I am in life, what I’ve accomplished and what I will continue to achieve. I have high goals, in my work, in my personal life, and in my sports life.

But. Time marches inexorably on. I wake up with aches. I get injured more often. I get tired more easily. I have crows feet. My skin care regimin consists of many more steps that it used to. After having my hysterectomy last year, I have gone through menopause, which adds another whole set of aging issues. I worry if I will ever be able to retire.

I don’t know the answer to these concerns. I have always been an optomist, a glass half full type, who always sees the bright side. I will continue to take all these signs of getting older as they come, fight them tooth and nail, but still accept that I am still the same person, only more “mature.” And I will continue to talk it out here.

Happy Birthday, David. You are a wonderful man, but you are still my baby.

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