Okay, let me preface my rant with the statement that I am an old mom. I had my first (yes, first) child at age 36 and my third child at age 40. I am 42 now, they are 5, 4, and 1.
Most of the time, I feel like I am 80 (see previous paragraph for why).
That being said, I try very hard not to let my children lose out because mommy and daddy are old fogeys. I take my kids for walks, take them to the park, let them “practice” the piano, and get into tickle fights and giggle storms with them. And because my life just wasn’t stressful enough, I have taken on the task of homeschooling my oldest little darling—an exercise not for the faint of heart. Since I have a couple of collegiate degrees under my belt, I felt I should be able to handle the kindergarten curriculum without too much trouble and that I might even be able to teach it.
Even so, sometimes, I just can’t help being old. Or at least feeling it.
Take today for example, I took my daughter to the library to let her check out some books and to play in the wonderfully stocked kids area. (In case you were wondering about my other two hoodlums, they were in preschool at our church.) It was a nice break from the home classroom, and reminded me that there is, indeed, life beyond math facts and phonic rules.
Things were going well until we were checking out. Across the foyer from the circulation desk at our library is a large open multi-purpose room. Today, the purpose was to host the “Mommy and Me Yoga” class. I had seen the signs for this class before but never gave it more than a passing thought. It said Mommy-and-Me Yoga, not Mommy-and-Me-and-Me-and-Me. I just couldn’t comprehend how I could make it work with three preschoolers. Yoga, as I have practiced and understand it, is supposed to be about being calm and peaceful, focusing on your essentials of being like breathing and muscle control. There is nothing calm about my three kids, and there is no peace for me when they are all awake in the same room.
But still, as we were waiting patiently in line, we couldn’t help but notice all the activity across the way from the gaggle of tots and moms laughing and packing up to go home. My daughter asked what all of the kids were doing in the other room. I pretended not to know. I didn’t want her asking why her mommy didn’t take her to such an exciting activity. But I couldn’t avoid the conversation altogether. The moms were rolling up yoga mats, zipping up stylish hoodies, and slipping on colorful sneakers, all the while smiling and chatting with each other and their children. They seemed like a happy lot.
I am not normally one to play the competition game with any other mom. I firmly believe we all have different cards to play, and each and every one of us has been given a different set of struggles to work through. I don’t envy anyone else’s life or think I have it that much better (or worse) than the next mom. But, I realized
something as I sat in my minivan (yeah, minivan. I used to be cool…stress the “used to” part), those moms in their yoga pants, ponytails and big smiles were almost young enough to be my kids. And that’s when it hit me: I am just too old to be at peace with community yoga. In another life or in a different decade of life, maybe. But right now, I don’t think I could find the mental peace to even pretend I would enjoy it. I am just not there anymore. And, after shaking my head at myself for the comparisons (the negative ones aimed at me), I decided I am okay with this. I’ve been dealt a different hand to play, and I need to stop trying to peek at someone else’s.
So I did what any 40-something homeschooling mom of a kindergartener would do, I looked at my daughter and asked, “Hey, do you wanna go to Panera Bread to finish your lessons and get some lunch?”
Without blinking her eye, she said “Oh, yes, mommy!” Mommy’s age crisis over…at for the moment.
