Old mom
I sign in, scribbling my name in the loose-leaf binder, and taking the visitor’s badge offered to me. The administrator tells me I am going to take my daughter to Mrs. Anderson’s room for her screening, and then I will go down to Mrs. Gray’s room until they are done.
I pause, I can feel the moist heat of my daughter’s hand clutching mine. I don’t know whose palms are sweating more. I don’t know where Mrs. Anderson’s room is. I don’t know who Mrs. Anderson is. The admin smiles, all of a sudden recognizing that I am a newbie. “Mrs. A’s room is #103… left out of the office, up the stairs, second door on the right.”
We head up to the classroom and I check the sign outside the door–we’re in the right place. Teachers wearing colorful name tags greet the children, and give them tags of their own. Teens from the local high school are there helping the teachers by entertaining the incoming students until the teachers can get to each child. So why do these young women all have keys in their hands, purses on their shoulders, and smaller children clustered around their legs?
Because those teens are actually the moms. And they’re not teens—or at least they haven’t been for five years or so. They are the moms of Podunk, New Hampshire. I am, comparatively speaking, an ancient mother. Many of the women who grew up here got about getting the family thing going when they were 18 and 19 years old. One of my neighbors just had her seventh child. She’s 32.
I had my first child just a few months shy of 32. Before I had children, I went to college. I pursued a career in financial services. I traveled overseas on business. I lived on my own, in a cute little apartment that I would totally deck out, come Christmastime. I got married when I was 30, not 18.
I think that is the beauty of being a mom to young kids, now that I’m 40. I’ve been around the block a few times. I’m not entirely jaded, but I’ve seen a few things, if you know what I mean. I’m enough older than my kids that I don’t feel any sort of pull to be ‘friends’ with them. We laugh, we joke, we have fun, to be sure–but I’m always their parent first.
Another plus? Because I’ve been out and about in the world, I can offer them different viewpoints. I can share with them experiences I have had in other cultures, and living in other communities (my kids only remember Podunk) . If I’d become a mom before I was 20, I’d never have had any of the opportunities to live and learn from life, and I’d not be in a position to share that with my kids.
But still, I feel old.
I leave my daughter with the teachers, and off I go to Mrs. Gray’s room. The Principal and the school nurse talk with us, giving us a sense of what each day will be like for our little ones. I sit in a chair that seems too small to be comfortable for anyone, my knees bumping the small table at which my daughter will soon be drawing a picture of her family, surrounded by other wriggling five year olds.
My eyes mist up at the thought of her here–all day. Without me.
I look around at the other parents– I am not the only one. A petite blonde dabs at her eyes with a crumpled tissue. Another mom, her baby nestled in a sling as she stands softly swaying at the back of the room, is blinking back tears. The young woman sitting with me at the tiny table sniffs quietly.
I realize, as much as I may be different from these fresh-faced young mothers…I am also just the same.
Photo: Getty Images
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Old mom http://www.40momsclub.com/2010/12/10/old... #moms #school #kids
RT @40MomsClub Old mom http://www.40momsclub.com/2010/12/10/old... #moms #school #kids || Old mom–that’s me. Really. Go read!
This is an awesome post. It captured exactly how I’ve felt on many occasions as the “older” mom. Thank you!
Thank you Jackie. And thank you for including it on this site!
Or, “occasions” if you’re a stickler for sepllng
;)