It’s kind of sickening. The utter joy I get from being such an annoying braggadocio when it comes to the ages and stages of my chirrins.
Regardless of the fact that I was a baby with a baby, or because of it, I am now a 36-year-old woman who has a kid who will be 18 in a month. Another who is 16. And aside from the fact that Andrew is my precious wittle Drewbear baby lovey kissy-face boo-boo snuggle bunny, I have no doubt that both of them could go out into the world and be fully functional and independent members of society all on their own. Right this minute.
I really, really get a weird, sick pleasure out of this particular position in which I find myself. Sure, my young’ins rock. They’re amazing. And I love them more than chocolate.
BUT. They are also almost all growed up!
I know we all follow different paths in life. Having children as a teenager was not the path I chose. But it is one I am immeasurably grateful for.
With all respect to my friends and acquaintances who have walked the opposite path- having a family later in life- I will say this. If I had a baby. A toddler. Any kid younger than 15 at my age. Holy mother of sweet baby Jesus. I’d claw my eyeballs out.
See, I got shit to do. Lotsa shit to do. I had a BLAST raising my kids. After I got over myself, of course. I used to be a bitch, if you can believe it. I was suck-ass Mom when my kids were little. That is the one advantage to having kids later in life. The virtue of patience. Yeah. That’s pretty much it.
But we had tons of fun. We lived overseas for a while. We took awesome vacations. We got to watch them grow up within our strange little (un)social experimentations. And then we got to revel in the afterglow when they finally reached an age where we could say…..
“SEE!! Suck my balls, bitches! That shit WORKED!”
And then I saw a woman in the grocery store the other day. Sitting on the floor in the bread/soda aisle feeding her impatient l’ilun a bottle. Her two toddlers/little chirrins sat idly by eating Lunchables while Mommy did on-the-spot baby duty. She was very obviously my age or older. I made small talk and commiserated with her. Gave her the “I’ve totally been there” talk. Ensured her that they do grow up, I promise.
Yes, I promise they do. Because mine are 16 and almost 18. She looked at me like I’d just vomited frogs.
Pretentious. Perhaps even bitchified. Shook my ass and flashed her a smile.
All I know is that I’m still young enough to fulfill my lifelong dream of learning to pole dance. I know I’ll never be hot enough to be a Suicide Girl, but I can still dream, right?
I’m still young enough to actually enjoy a partial early retirement, not with bridge clubs and bingo, but with kayaks and zip lines and rock climbing.
Because. Why not?
Although I did go all “Mom” on my baby boy this afternoon and asked him to tone down his trouble-makin’ shenangigans when he almost got kicked out of Food Lion for being a wascally wabbit.
ME! Telling my kissy-face Drewbear to tone it down.
Anyway. Bah, blah, blah. You know, the very first gynecologist appointment I ever went to was when I was 16 years old. I begged her to tie my tubes then. I KNEW I didn’t want kids. She laughed at me. I asked again after Jake was born. I was 18. More laughing. I asked again after Andrew was born. I was 21. Nope. Finally, at 23, I stormed into my GYN’s office and demanded he cut, burn, macerate, and decimate the goddamn things or I’d do it myself.
Just my luck, some little motherfucker’s gonna jump the gap and find a nice little hidey-hole in my uterus.
Fortunately, I’ve got a perfect flight of stairs just waiting to be tripped on.