I still remember when thirty was old…
Strawberry Wine, Deana Carter
Yesterday when I got off work I promised the girls we’d head over to the pool at my sister’s apartment.
It was about 100 degrees in the shade so there were just a few diehards there. The woman so tan she needs to be a pin up girl for skin cancer. Her friend the beer sipper. A man reading a newspaper while his daughter played in the shallow end. And then a blonde woman in a red, white, and blue bikini and a little red-headed boy my girls met earlier this summer arrived about 10 minutes after we got settled.
Taking advantage of my first floaty free summer and the end of 24/7 mom duty in the pool (cue choir of angels), I was parked in a lounge chair poolside. Miss C, who never met a stranger, latched on to the bikini-clad younger woman as soon as she got into the pool. Honestly I couldn’t tell if she was the boy’s aunt or mom or babysitter, but then he started calling her “Mommy” and, well, that pretty much explained it.
“You’re his mom?” Miss C asked. She was fascinated by this mom…the younger mom in the bikini.
“How old are you?” Miss C followed up with the question most of us “older” (ahem) moms wince at.
“I’m 25,” replied the mom, not skipping a beat. She then started showing Miss C how to do underwater flips in the pool and explained she used to be a gymnast. I was trying not to hate her.
I could see the wheels spinning in Miss C’s brain.
“So you were like 20 when you had him?” Miss C nodded toward the little boy. She was clearly intrigued with the concept of someone’s mom being only two years older than her oldest cousin Jessica, who is now living the single career girl life in New York after graduating from Vanderbilt.
I started laughing. “She’s just fascinated because she thinks I’m old now. I’m 40.”
Honestly I don’t consider being 40 with an 8-year-old “old,” except for those days my bad left knee acts up and I feel like an arthritic grandma and I do things like put Ibuprofen in a Ziploc baggie in my purse.
Miss C emerged from the pool and trotted over to me across the hot pavement for a drink.
“So do you think it’s cool that Elliot’s mom is just 25?” I asked her.
She patted me on the arm. “It’s OK mommy. It’s been nice knowing you.”
WTH? Do I have one foot in the grave or something? Obviously my kid thinks I am older than dirt now.
Kid I might not be rocking a bikini right now but when I was 25 I had six pack abs, not an almost 6-year-old.
Of course I’ll be almost 50 when Miss C graduates from high school with Miss A still a few years out from graduation, while Elliot’s mom will be empty nesting it before she hits 40, unless she has another child.
OK so maybe having kids in your 20s does have its advantages.