Image courtesy of The Suburban Crab archives
Someone once told me that you never feel as old as when your kids celebrate another birthday.
Well, Boof just turned 15 on Friday. Imagine how I’m feeling now.
That sense of speeding toward your death doesn’t hit you those first couple of kid birthdays. You just feel joy and wonder: I can’t believe he’s turning 1! Or: She’s 2 today! She’s such a big girl!
Image courtesy of Joi Ito via Fotopedia
I mentioned to Ted my feeling that I’ve gotten worse with age, that I’ve become this terribly selfish, self-centered, cold, crabby person who spends most of her time being a hater.
“You’ve never been the warmest fish.”
Sometime in the past five years, when I wasn’t looking, I became old.
I started noticing it last year, when I returned to full-time work after several years of freelancing. Maybe it was the fact that most of my colleagues were a good decade younger than my 38-year-old self.
Or maybe it was that I had turned into the quintessential mom: the kind who, if she had an adult son, would call him up—at work—to ask how to program the DVR because “your dad is out of town and forgot to record ‘The Closer’ even though I asked him to do it before he left. It’s just like your Dad. I ask him to do one thing!”