So… last weekend, I turned forty. It’s been a full week since, and still, when I say the word “forty” (yes, there it is again), it sounds like I’m talking about someone else. But the truth is that it’s me — really me — and the other truth is that when Finn graduates from high school, I’m not going to be the cute, youthful, hip mom running around in the funky clothes. I’ll be nearly sixty, and who knows whether I’ll be able to run at all.
Although my decision to have Finn was indeed spurred on by the fact that I wasn’t getting any younger, my concerns about aging involved my reproductive age, so to speak, not the fact that my major parenting years would be from forty to sixty. These days, however, I can’t help but wonder how different Finn’s relationship with me will be than the ones I had with my parents, who were in their mid-twenties when I was born. By the time they were my age, I was a sophomore in high school. They were experienced parents with kids who were approaching adulthood themselves. In contrast, I’m just toddling into the world of parenthood behind my toddler.
I don’t know what kind of parent I would have been fifteen years ago, but I’d like to believe that my maturity will give me wisdom, that my passion will keep me young at heart, that my lifestyle will strengthen my mind and body. I’d like to believe that Finn will still want me around even when I’m not doing such a great job at all those things.
In the meantime, I’ll do my best to keep up.