Spring has sprung.* It’s not so much the warmer temperatures or the tulips fighting to push through the soil that clue me in. It’s the sudden appearance of Spandex trotting down my street in the form of lithe, housebound new mothers pushing those newfangled three-wheeled jogging strollers for some fresh air and exercise.
After giving birth to The Toddler at age 40, I was too darned tired to stuff my weary body into anything but a bathrobe, let alone force my thunder thighs to rumble down the street pushing a stroller. Not that middle aged women can’t or shouldn’t exercise in public, mind you. But in my case, if I were to be seen with my postnatal flab stuffed into a stretchy rubber bodysuit, rolling the baby down the street and waving enthusiastically at everyone I passed, I’m sure someone would have notified Sea World that Shamu had escaped and was spotted working undercover as a nanny. Not a pretty picture of maternal bliss.
Yet there’s something heady about the experience of middle-aged pregnancy. I figured if I could live through it, I could live through anything, which bloated my ego to epic proportions. Most days, when I wasn’t feeling like I could drop dead at any moment, I felt absolutely noble waddling around in my ever-expanding girth, as if the theme song to “Chariots Of Fire” played along to every excruciatingly exhausting slow-motion move I made.
I felt superior to younger, healthier women who complained about their pregnancies. When they discovered my age, I delighted in their intimidated looks. Their faces almost seemed to say “Wow! She must be in great shape – just look at her stamina!” But I know they were probably just thinking, “Wow! Hard to believe she’s still having sex at her age, much less getting pregnant! You GO, girl!”
Yes, I was considered the guru. Young moms-to-be felt that I had the wisdom of the aged to back up my mouth, so the title was an honor I wore proudly. I advised my young, preggo students to forego the tofu and bean sprouts and dive into that cheesecake without guilt. After all, they had their whole lives ahead of them to eat rabbit food, and then watch helplessly in horror as their waistlines turned into inner tubes. At that point, they would be looking back at their youth and kicking themselves for years of chocolate mousse denial, so why fight it when “eating for two” was a blessing in disguise?
After the baby was born, I was no longer the guru of pregnancy but more like something you’d see in a Ripley’s Believe It Or Not museum. Most women my age were planning weddings for their children, not filling out preschool admission forms. Younger moms felt they had nothing in common with me to warrant a bonding experience. I had to face the music – as an older mom of a toddler, I was as lonely as a leper. It didn’t help that my self-esteem was plummeting not only from the isolation, but from the lack of energy it takes to bathe daily. People tend to leave you alone when you start to smell like a kennel.
The Toddler became my best and only friend, which is the biggest perk of midlife parenthood. Tots don’t care how you smell or what you look like. To them, you’re just “Mommy.” When Teen Girl and Pigpen were babies, I was much too busy to stop and smell the sandbox. Now I had time on my hands – time to marvel at ant farms together, and time to discuss which clouds were shaped like elephants; time to run wildly through a sprinkler, and time to just sway together on a hammock in the summer breeze all afternoon.
Although there are great perks about being a midlife mom, there is still one embarrassing drawback. It happened to me last week. I was at the pharmacy with The Toddler, paying for Hubs’ Viagra prescription, when the clerk asked me kindly, “Is it okay with you if I offer your granddaughter a lollipop?” I looked around the store for another white-haired, mothball-scented elderly woman to reply but instead found the clerk smiling at me. By this time, a small crowd had gathered. Trying to save face, I replied, “I’m not her grandmother! I’m her GREAT-grandmother!”
“My goodness, what’s your secret! You look so young!” the naive, awestruck clerk gushed. Leaning in closer, I whispered threateningly, “The secret is to take one lollipop a day and shove it up your…”
“Mommy! Mommy! Me wanna lolly!” my child peeped, spoiling my cover. Toddlers have such perfect timing.
Instead of crying about it, I decided to use my new position as “assumed grandma” to my advantage. I stopped dying my hair and let the grey invade my locks. Now people think I’m pretty hip to be married to such a “younger” man, and Hubs gets a kick out of calling me “The Old Tart.” “Grandma” looks pretty sexy in her convertible when she’s drag racing down Main Street, too. I get the senior’s discount at the movies and restaurants and have learned to play shuffleboard so well that I can beat the pants off of Old Man Moses at the park any old day. (Granted, he’s senile, so his pants usually don’t stay on him for long, anyway.)
Being a midlife mom isn’t so bad. One of the best benefits is having much more patience than I had in my 20s and 30s, which really comes in handy when confronted by tactless store clerks and Spandex bodysuits.
*Author’s note: This excerpt was written in warmer weather!