I woke up today, 35 years to the day of my birth. Maybe if I write the number, it won’t sound so old. Thirty five. Nope, it still sounds old.
I look in the mirror. I see a woman. A woman who needs her roots dyed, her brows waxed, even a manicure wouldn’t hurt.
Oh my, and the forehead wrinkles and those laugh lines.
Damn all those lines.
I’ve dreaded this day since my 34th (thirty four, nope, still looks old) birthday.
35 is not like 40 or 50.
I mean, you can’t find the ’35 milestone’ in Hallmark or anything but to a woman, this woman, it feels… Old.
It’s advanced maternal age for god’s sake. As far as I’m concerned ‘advanced’ and ‘age’ being used in combination to describe how many years I’ve been walking this world leaves me feeling, well, advanced in age.
If I live another 35 years, I’ll be 70. 70 years old! I’m sweating just thinking about it. Or maybe it’s a heat flash. They start around 35 (thirty five) right? Or is it 40? Cripes! Now I’m forgetting things.
I thought last year about what I wanted for the big three-five. “Botox,” I said. “I want Botox for my 35th year of life.”
I spent the better part of six months thinking that’s what I was going to treat myself to because, “I am going to defy time.
I am not going to get old. Hell, maybe I’ll save for a tummy tuck or breast augmentation.
Yeah. Yeah. Then everyone won’t believe how old I am.
My boys will grow up wondering how in the world their beautiful mother defied time. She was always ageless and it was effortless.”
I started thinking about that message though and somehow it bothered me. I couldn’t figure out why.
Don’t I want my boys to be proud of me? Don’t I want them to think I’m beautiful?
Yes, of course I do. So, Botox it is.
No. No. Why is this weighing on me?
What is NOT feeling right about this?
I want my husband to think I’m as beautiful as the day he met me too. I’m getting Botox.
Hmmm, I kind of want diamonds too. Diamonds? Why do I want diamonds?
You want Botox. Hide those lines Lady.
Hide. Them.
Botox it is.
A few months pass. The boys are in the tub playing with their toys. I’m looking in the mirror at my face lines as they splash around laughingly.
Damn those lines.
I put on a mud mask. My oldest smiles at me, as my face is greener than the Hulk. I’m ready for him to say something silly, maybe even a smidge insulting.
He says, “Booty-full Mommy!”
My paranoia and fear leave me wondering whether he’s actually thinking I’m beautiful or that I have a big booty. I went with beauty.
That night I can’t stop thinking about it. My 4 year old (four year old, yep, even written out, that still sounds young) thinks I’m beautiful.
Even with a face of green. Even with my wrinkles. My age lines. My gray hair.
He doesn’t know I’m nearing 35.
He doesn’t care.
I’m his mom and he loves me because I wipe his butt after he poops. Because I chase the night monsters away. Because I kiss boo boo’s when he falls. Because I’m his best playmate. Because I snuggle him when he’s sad. Because I’m his teacher.
Furthermore, as his teacher, what am I teaching him in my efforts and attempts to defy time?
What message am I delivering to him about women and the aging process?
What expectations am I modeling in regards to his future wife or mother of his children?
Do I want him to think that I should be ashamed of my laugh lines that I gained giggling during some of the greatest memories in my life?
Is getting older something to be ashamed about? And if so, why? It’s a natural part of life. It’s unavoidable no matter the Botox or cosmetic surgery.
Botox or not, I’ll still be 35. I’ll still be beautiful in the eyes of all those that truly matter because of who I am and the relationship we have, not because of my (lack of) wrinkles.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ll still go to the salon and get my hair done.
I’ll wear uncomfortable high heels because they look better than my flats.
I’ll wear make up, get my eyebrows waxed and I’ll still get manicures and pedicures.
Heck, I’m even gonna try out one of those body wraps a friend gave me to hide cellulite but no needles.
No overly expensive procedures to make me something I’m not.
I wouldn’t be tricking anyone.
I’m not defying time.
I’d only be kidding myself. Myself.
So, today, my 35th birthday, as I look into the mirror at my aging lines, I’m saying, “Leave Vanity and don’t come back. Take your friend Fear with you. You’re not welcome here today or any other day for that matter. Both of you, stay away from me and my boys. I will not let you dictate my life. I am beautiful the way I am. Wrinkles, green mud masked face, and diamond earrings.”
Yes. Diamond earrings.
They are the timeless, beautiful gift that my dear husband gave me today.
And one day I’ll be passing them down to my boys.
It's A Mom Thing 