I wasn't too worried about the age thing early-on. As a matter of fact, when my first-born was in kindergarten, I was on a schoolbus with her class for a fieldtrip. One little boy yelled over to his mom, "Hey! How old are you again, Mom?" She grimaced, and then she answered, "Forty-five." I turned my head away from her slight discomfort and comforted myself on the fact that I would never be 45 and have a child in kindergarten.
Imagine my shock a few years later to find myself recovering from the birth of my youngest child only to have my nurse and friend lean down and whisper in my ear, "At least you beat 40 by a few weeks." I did not do the math. Call it ignorance. Call it bliss. But then one day five years later, my baby was in kindergarten and he asked,
"Mommy, how old are you?"So, you see, while many of our counterparts are wiping tears away as they take their children to college or walking them down the wedding aisle, we are happily awaiting another visit from the Tooth Fairy, Santa, and the Easter Bunny.
I answered, "How old do you think I am?"
"I can't remember. You're either 12 or 21. Which one is it?"
"Oh! You're such a smart boy!!! Surprise! Let's go to McDonalds for lunch," and he was my forever friend.
All this works for me pretty well, but it's hard work. I never want my kids to feel embarrassed because of my age, so I am trying to regain my body with Pepper the Puppy's help. I am regaining my skin with my mom's magic potions which work beautifully for her, and I have reclaimed gray-free hair with the help of an interesting stylist named Jamie.
What is the saying? "You can run, but you can't hide." So here I smugly sit thinking of my youthful appearance and nature. And here is my youngest boy playing with my droopy, poultry-like, elbow skin. And he is not smiling.
Anybody got an elbow anti-aging formula?