Unapologetically Forty-two

I was forty-two when I birthed the youngest of the tribe. I guess forty-two is no spring chicken, but gosh, it isn’t that old.

At least that’s what I thought when I made my way to Walmart for diapers with Baby Zoey, the latest model, only three weeks old. Sleep deprived, healing from a c-section, struggling to keep the other kids fed and in clean clothes probably hadn’t left me looking like Princess Diana. But I did comb my hair; I’m pretty sure I did.

Baby Zoey was not Gerber Baby, of benevolent disposition and accommodating ways. She had her moments, and that day she was complaining. We made our wailing way through Walmart as I gripped the paci in her mouth. I scurried through the aisles, hoping the motion would calm her, keeping a beady eye out so I wouldn’t run over any unsuspecting grandma coming through a cross aisle.

The diapers weren’t near the checkouts. You would think those arranging Walmart’s product location would realize how much a new mom needed things close and handy. Had they never had to get diapers with a three week-old? When I got to my goal, I was sweating. Those blasted hormones! I pulled off my jacket and tossed it into the cart. Oh gosh. I noticed the grubby state of my sweatshirt, spattered with a hodgepodge mixture of spit-up and love smears from boogery noses. Well, hopefully I wouldn’t meet anyone I know.

Tossing the package of newborn diapers into the cart, Baby Zoey and I made our way to the checkouts. I lifted the warm bundle of baby from the car-seat to shush her as I wrote a check. I was carefully penning the amount in the narrow space intermittently jiggling Babes in the other arm. Cashier Lady was cooing and making the usual noises you hear around a new baby. Then she said something that made my pen take a jagged route South off the check, dropping onto the floor. “Is it grandma’s day to babysit?” she asked brightly. I straightened up, startled out of my own world. Cashier Lady looked placid, oblivious to the zinger she shot right to the heart of my vulnerability.

Doesn’t every woman carry a bit of vanity? Some more, some less. I have my fair share. I was deeply affronted to be called a “grandma” at 42 regarding my own child. I suddenly felt every night of broken sleep over the last decade and every pizza and mac-n-cheese with hotdogs meal with not a green leaf in sight. I recalled every bone-weary day when I sat like a lump on the couch dragging up to change a diaper instead of skipping out to do a five mile jog in the latest stylish workout duds. I pushed a limp strand of hair off my damp forehead and reached down for the pen to finish writing the check. But I was shattered.

At home, Canadian Man was soothing, consoling. He lifted my chin forcing my eyes up to his. “You are beautiful,” he said. I didn’t believe it. I could completely understand why Cashier Lady called me “grandma.” “Grandma” is “old.” “Old” is “shapeless,” “saggy,” “used.” Being called “grandma” made me feel all those things.

The mirror didn’t reassure. Look at those wrinkles fanning east and west from raccoon eyes, the deep furrow between the eyebrows and less than vibrant skin to seal the deal. Never mind the pooch bulging above the waistband of my elastic waisted pants. Where had the youthful and spirited young bride disappeared to? The older looking image staring back at me was a most unwelcome sight. How totally, absolutely and completely depressing. I felt like crying.

“Are you sad, Mommy?” asked one of the Three Musketeers, what we call the three boys before Baby Zoey. He studied my face. Perhaps he was reassured; perhaps he tried a diversion. “Read me a book?” he inquired. It was the last thing I felt like doing, but I tucked the little boy under my arm on the couch, his sturdy warmth bringing its own comfort. The steady, rhythmic cadence of my voice lulled us both into a tranquil state.

Calmer, I pondered life. I couldn’t blame Cashier Lady. I certainly wasn’t 20 years old anymore. There are moms who manage to look 25 when they are nearing 40; I wasn’t one of them. I eagerly awaited heaven because surely there I will be youthful and beautiful with long curly hair. Here, I was only who I was. Canadian Man said I was beautiful. My children loved me. My friends appreciated me. Was that enough?

I got up to study myself in the hall mirror. I suppose we all have wondered whether we are beautiful enough? Wise enough? Loving enough? Do we have what it takes to make a mark? To make a difference? Am I am valued? Do I matter?

The mirror showed the craggy topography that adversity left behind. Heartache carved deep furrows. A teddy bear body testified to putting needs of littles before my own. Drama, trauma and teen drivers dappled my hair with gray. I felt like a soldier from battle, a little PTSD and shellshock shading my world but standing staunchly talI. I looked at the forty-two-year-old staring back at me from the mirror and wondered: am I enough?

I heard Baby Zoey squawk. The little boy bounced up from his Legos. “Can I hold her? Can I?” he pleaded, eyes sparkling excitedly. I settled baby Zoey safely in his arms on the couch. I was a different person than I was at 20.  I couldn’t help but mourn my youthfulness, but I appreciated who I was at forty-two. Honestly, I wouldn’t want to be twenty again. My eyes softened and my heart stilled as the little boy smooched the baby sister cradled in his arms.

I went back to study the face in the mirror. Eyes reflecting forty-two years of life lived looked back at me. They didn’t look like conquer-the-world twenty-year-old eyes. They held my gaze with calm acceptance and clear purpose.  I reached out and touched the older looking cheek reflected there and nodded. It is enough. It isn’t what I’ve lost, but what I’ve gained. It’s golden. And it is beautiful.