Tag Archives: motherhood

You’re Not Old…You Just Look Old

200275404-001We don’t agree on who actually said it, but we do agree on what was said. I don’t remember how the conversation started, but my dad probably made some comment about being old.

“Grandpa!” Chelsea chirped (my version). “You’re not old! You just look old!”

It took her several years to figure out why we all laughed. She was slightly wounded.

I still remember my father’s expression of amused chagrin. Over the years, my own amusement transformed into something closer to his chagrin. I do my daily ten-minute workout, search endlessly for “hip” clothes, try every length of haircut, carry a modest-sized purse, and maintain a slight tan.

But when I look in the mirror, I just see old—threads of gray highlighting chocolate brown hair, veiny hands, soft skin barely clinging to my neck, and the first sign of jowls. Realistically, there’s nothing I can do about it. Anything I try won’t make me look young. It will just make me look different. And I don’t want that.

Obviously, old is what my children and their friends see, too. I can’t just join a conversation between my daughters and their college friends without being reminded, at some point, that I’m the mom. The more I try to be one of them, the more obvious it is that I’m not.

The funny thing is, my kids seem to think I’m beautiful. They like those shadows of age that enshroud me. My sage appearance comforts them and makes them feel safe.

My children don’t even realize I’m aging, because to them I’ve always been old. To me it’s a new thing, but not to them. As far as they’re concerned, I am who I’ve always been—timeless, the way Bing Crosby and Katherine Hepburn and Debbie Reynolds seemed timeless to me when I was young. Timeless and agelessly old.

Crosby and Hepburn and Reynolds hardly seemed to change through the years, because I never saw them as anything but old, which is how I saw my parents as well. To me, that meant 50. No one really got much older than that.

When I look at old albums of my parents and their contemporaries in their teens or 20s, I still see that glint of ageless wisdom they had in their eyes at 60, 70, and 80. And it comforts me.

Getting old may simply be growing into that timeless wisdom the way you grow into your mother’s shoes. In your mind, you grow up a lot sooner than that. Finally fitting into the shoes is just a formality.

To me, I’ll always be 32. To my children, I’ll always be 50. At least we agree on one thing.

I am who I’ve always been.


I’m Not a Backseat Driver

Back Seat DriverI probably should clarify.

A couple of days ago, I wrote, “First, my two older daughters went off to college and found boyfriends and started talking about getting married and having kids of their own.”

To be clear, my daughters went off to college two years ago, and those boyfriends have since come and gone. I wasn’t contemplating present boyfriends (although if present boyfriends take the time to read an empty nest blog, they can’t be half bad).

Just for the record, my daughters aren’t planning to get married until they finish college, which is at least two years off. Life can change drastically in two days, much less in two years.

My point was that those choices are entirely theirs. They reached a point, nearly overnight, where they started contemplating a future mostly without me—unless I want to camp out in their back seats.

And that’s my other point. I don’t. They need their own cars, and I need a new one—in more ways than one. As much as I’ve enjoyed telling them what to do for much of their lives—and as much as they seem to now enjoy telling me what to do—it’s nearly time to drive in separate cars down separate roads.

I’ll accompany them as long as they need me, but I’m proud that they’re showing themselves capable of traveling alone. (Of course, not really alone.)

Soon it will be time to take the next exit. If I miss it, the next one may be a long way off, and that would be a waste. I want every mile to count.

Who’s the Mom?

MomDaughter1These are the moments when I realize the tide has turned.

“Mom, that stuff’s not good for you. Here, drink some water.”

“Mom, don’t be afraid. God is in control, and everything’s going to be all right!”

“Mom, maybe you need to be a little more patient with Dad.”

“Mom, really?”

It’s not the usual teenager guff. It’s real wisdom being played back for me just as I originally presented it to them, only now I’m on the receiving end and feeling a bit rebellious. They stare at me with mature, pleading expressions as if to say, “I love you, Mom, and I really want you to get this—before it’s too late.”

My feelings are a broiling mixture of pride and incredulousness. I’m still the mom. I still know more than they do, right?

Sometimes I actually wonder. Some days it feels like they’ve taken the ball I’ve passed them and run with it much farther than I could ever dream of running. They do things I can’t do. They know things I don’t know. And I’m thankful. But I don’t want to give up my throne.

I’m still moving forward, but clearly not as fast. They will continue increasing in wisdom long after I start repeating the same stories over and over. (I’ve already started doing that.)

If I want to stay ahead of them, there’s only one way—I must continue to grow in grace.

The Beginning of Goodbye

Off To Summer CampHow could I have known? The first time I dropped my kids off at summer camp was the beginning of a long goodbye.

I was thankful then for the break—thankful because it was temporary. But when my kids came home, something had changed. They had changed. They were more self-assured and had started talking about independent life goals.

I was proud of them. After all, I’d always wanted them to grow up to live joyful, capable lives without me.


But not yet.

I only recognized in retrospect when “someday” actually came. First, my two older daughters went off to college and found boyfriends and started talking about getting married and having kids of their own. Then my son landed a summer camp job, leaving only my youngest daughter at home. She quickly began clamoring to join him. She’s a natural organizer and loves to work almost more than she loves to play. No doubt the camp will soon recognize her talents and snatch her up, too.

That’s where I am today. Perched on the edge of my almost empty nest, looking out at a vast and ever-changing world and wondering what to do next. I feel a deep sense of loss, yet I know I must keep singing and maybe even spread my wings and do a little flying of my own.

That means more than working. I’ve been doing that all along. It means redefining my priorities so that motherhood is on a more even plain with other consequential things.

I will always be a mother—but it’s time to be more.