Guest blogger Dani Klein Modisett: Why aren't I proud that I'm a fortysomething mommy with two healthy children and a husband who still thinks I'm hot, or at least hot-ish?
Fortysomething. Didja catch that? I won't even type the truth here. Not that it's hard to find out my age. Google me, I'm sure it'll turn up.
It's just too high a number for me to write anywhere near my name.
My five-year-old doesn't seem to appreciate my right to privacy/denial regarding my age.
"My mom just had a birthday everyone and she's FORTY BLAH BLAH," he yelled, stepping on the to school bus the other morning.
Only he didn't say BLAH BLAH.
"Happy Birthday," one of the moms I don't know well said to me looking me up and down.
Her voice had a "My, my, my," tone to it. I was holding my 18 month old in my arms and I'd like to think her attitude was reflecting her admiration for my late-in-life-fertility, but I'm pretty sure it was more, "Look at her with her miracle of science baby!" Which is true, of course, my second son was IVF inspired. And I'm certainly not secretive about that.
So what's the hang-up about my age? Well, I used to be mostly an actress where telling your age is a bad career move. But I also lied about the year of my birth because for most of my life. I never thought I'd done enough with my years on the planet. Fewer years, less expectation.
Now I think it's about something I never worried about until I had children, a fear of death. Unless I find a way to suck the Fountain of Youth, I am past the mid-way point of my life. Less years left here than I've already lived. Damn, just when it was getting good. There's something about my five year old yelling my age out loud that blows like a siren through my ears right to my heart.
I am grateful that my days aren't yet numbered, but, alas, it's starting to feel like my years are.