Last week a dear friend lost her mother. Today is the memorial service.
For someone who always has something to say, I feel useless. But this isn’t about me.
Today I will be holding Mom, Outnumbered, her husband, her children, her grandma, her sisters and brothers and in my heart. I may not be there in person, but I’m there in spirit holding my friend up as she honors her mom.
(PS: Hug or call your mom today. Okay?)
The previous night’s Super Bowl party came up over lunch. The boys shared a few things that they liked, talked about food and asked — again — why the Steelers lost. (Sloppy play does not lead to winning Super Bowls.) They talked about their friends, wanting to play with those friends again and, as happens with my children, bits and pieces of their evening came to light.
“(Name) called me a baby,” LittleBrother said as he took another bite of his sammich.
I paused, mid-bite. “What?” He repeated himself. I looked at FireDad.
“What did you say to (name),” FireDad asked.
“I’m not a baby! I’m a big boy!” He smiled, white bread sticking through his teeth.
He got some hugs from us. Why a nine year old has to call a three year old a baby, I’m not really sure. But the fact that my little, er, big boy was confident enough in himself to set the record straight made my heart swell with pride. He didn’t come running upstairs with tears in his eyes. He didn’t punch the kid in the face. He didn’t send his older brother after the kid. He just stated the truth: He’s not a baby.
I could really use to swipe some of that confidence from my youngest child.
Probably at the exact same time some kid was picking on my precious LittleBrother downstairs at the Super Bowl party, I was getting the same riot act upstairs. That’s right. I was getting teased for being the youngest in the room as well. (Except that I wasn’t; FireDad is a year younger than me. No one said a word to him.)
“Were you even alive when that movie was made?”
“You do know who Guns N’Roses is, don’t you?”
“Oh, I didn’t realize you weren’t even 30 yet.”
I don’t know on what planet three or five or even ten years makes a lot of difference as an adult, but apparently it does. And while I would never dare to tease my friend who is turning 40 this year for “being old,” it’s apparently okay to tease me for “being young.” Because I had control over when I was conceived. Or when my parents met or when they were conceived. Or when The Bad News Bears was actually made the first time around.
I get that I’m young. I turn 30 in April, and in the Grand Scheme of Aging, it is young. But I don’t see why my age needs to be constantly brought up, rehashed and poked fun of by friends and strangers alike. Making fun of my young age negates all of the accomplishments I have made in those few short years. Making fun of my age dismisses all of the things I have been through to arrive at this point in my life as a whole person who happens to be proud of herself, proud of her journey. Making fun of my age takes me back to the days when I struggled with age, and doing the right thing and not being who I was supposed to be when I was supposed to be her. I already try to beat back the ghosts of failure on a daily basis; they don’t need help haunting me by people who are supposed to be my friends.
I know it doesn’t help that I look young either, but I’m not about to start donning the clothes that my Grandmother wears just to get people to show me a little respect. My Grandma is a fashionable lady, but it’s not my style. I’m also not going to wish away my healthy skin. If you want me to point out my gray hairs, I can as they are quite numerous, but the truth is that I’ve had those since I was 18 years old. I’ve always been an old soul, I suppose. Maybe people would be less likely to make fun of my age if I let my hair go gray. Or if I drew in deep wrinkles. Or if I wore granny style clothes. But probably not.
If this had been the first occurrence with friends, maybe I would have shrugged it off and it wouldn’t be nagging me two days later. But it wasn’t. And if random new people I meet in my life balk at the fact that I have two kids until they learn my age, maybe I wouldn’t mind. And if I wasn’t asked if I’m old enough to drive. Or vote. Or have a drink. And if people didn’t just assume that it’s okay to flip ageism and use my young age against me, I might have just gone back to watching commercials and bemoaning my teams’ march toward The Big Loss. But I have four different drafts of this post, having written and saved them at four different times last year. People just keep pushing the age thing. And for the life of me I can’t figure out why it’s not okay to disrespect an older woman but it’s okay to disrespect a younger one. In public. Talk about putting me on the spot. Let’s just be thankful my anxiety is in an okay place these days. Younger me wasn’t able to handle things like that.
But I didn’t really defend myself on Sunday evening. I blinked back a tear or two, driven to the brink of frustration that my age had come up again. I didn’t point out my accomplishments. I didn’t point out the hell I have been through in those thirty years — overcoming an eating disorder, the grief associated with relinquishment, three pregnancies that all put my life in danger, postpartum depression that did the same, starting a new life in a new place, various job hells and so on. I didn’t point out that I may not have been born when x-movie or x-song was made, but I also wasn’t alive when Handel, Mozart or Beethoven were around, but I still know and appreciate music from their eras. I didn’t realize it was a prerequisite to have been alive when something was made to know of and appreciate or like it. But I said nothing. I eventually made a quip about kicking one of the almost 40 year olds in the shin and something about shattering his old leg, but it didn’t feel right. That’s not who I am. And I regretted saying it immediately. Because 40? Is still so young.
I refuse to wear a nametag that says: “I’m (almost) 30, have accomplished more than most of you while still maintaining a youthful look so STUFF IT.” That’s not who I am either. I simply respect others for their place in life — younger than me or older — and am silly enough to expect it in return. So I’m going to just have to reinvest in some thick skin, remind myself that it takes fewer muscles to smile than to frown as I paste that smile on my face and take a confidence lesson from my youngest son. Because I am amazing. I am accomplished. I am beautiful. And, yes, I am young and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it. I own my beauty and, darn it, I’m going to own my age too. And I don’t need the approval of the Age Police to be who I am, inside and out.
I may be young, but I’m not a baby.