I am a "mature" mom. Not "old." Mature.
While my peers are posting photos of their empty nests, beach vacations, and grandchildren, I am relearning the alphabet. While they are discussing retirement portfolios, I am negotiating with a tiny human about why we don’t eat Play-Doh. mature mom
They tell you about the sleepless nights, the diapers, the tantrums. They warn you about the cost of daycare and the chaos of carpools. But no one prepares you for the weight of doing this with eyes that have already seen a few things. I am a "mature" mom
They got the mom who has already buried her own ego, so she doesn't need them to be perfect. They got the mom who has seen enough loss to know that every ordinary Tuesday is a miracle. While they are discussing retirement portfolios, I am
I look at younger moms at the playground and feel a flicker of something—not jealousy, exactly. More like… nostalgia for a future I won't have. I won't get 40 years of knowing my adult child. I might only get 20 or 30.
So I parent with urgency .
I do the math in the dark. When my child graduates high school, I will be the age my own mother was when she became a grandmother. When they get married, I may be walking with a cane. I won't likely be the grandparent who chases them through the park for hours.