- My mom had me when she was 40 years old.
- I've never thought of her as an old mom despite me being a geriatric pregnancy.
By the time I was born, my mom was a fully formed adult, complete with a prefrontal cortex and a closet full of skirt suits.
It was a geriatric pregnancy. The cutoff is 35, which seems a bit harsh, but my mom was 40, and I was 10 pounds with a big head, which also seems a bit harsh.
I did not think of her as old when I was a kid, just as I don't now, even though she has allowed her hair to gray and often refers to herself as "your old mom," usually while placing the top of her hand gingerly on her forehead and asking me to carry something up the stairs.
She is a realist
She was born in 1960, a year I used to picture taking place entirely in sepia tones. The youngest of three girls, her parents were a war veteran and an academic secretary. Her upbringing was decidedly Southern, even though they lived in Suburban Ohio. This was a result of her parents' roots in Alabama and translated into a fierce devotion to church, family, and casseroles — in that order.
Santa has never existed in our house. I was 6 and sitting in the backseat of her car, forcing my eyes to shift in and out focus on the window when I experienced a critical thought, potentially my first. How could someone make it to every house in the world in one night? "Is Santa real?" I turned my head to her. She hesitated. "No. Sorry." She was sorry. I think it bothered her to admit it. "I don't like to lie to you." She added, as an explanation and assurance. She is not cold or unfeeling, the opposite, really.
I was not under the impression that my parents were without flaws or personalities of their own, that they were infallible or emotionless in the ways my peers described their own parents. They answered my weird questions and told me stories about their interests and mistakes. Our house was full of conversations, photos, and collected furniture, evidence of their lives before my sister and I came along. I felt like I knew them, which is why their split in 2012 came as a total shock. It turned out I'd been out of the loop, blissfully so. I was unaware of the ongoing conflict between my parents and the strife involved with my mom's ultimate decision to separate.
We are close
I often compare my teenage years to "Gilmore Girls," but with less romance and more religion. This tends to get a laugh and perhaps more alluringly allows me to dodge some of the classic "broken family" sentiments that accompany a divorce, but even with the qualifiers it isn't really all that accurate.
At 16 and 32, Rory and Lorelai are both in very formative years of their lives. Their early arguments were goofy squabbles about staying out late or relationship drama. At 14 and 54, our landscape included the same outspokenness and proximity but packed a certain volatility our TV counterparts lacked. I, just out of middle school and my mom, just into middle age, were suddenly alone together, in a life we never anticipated, fuming at the world. Lorelai and Rory were drying each other's tears over a bowl of popcorn, and we were having the emotional equivalent of MMA smackdowns.
As an adult, I recognize that my mom's willingness to be straight with me about the world was a sacrifice. It would have been easier for her to ignore me and pretend that things would always be OK. Her childhood in the 60s, with two quiet, hardworking parents who were largely emotionally hands-off, could not have been more different than the intensely vulnerable, chatter-filled years we spent navigating our complex family situation during my adolescence.
Her impressive candor, steadfastness in her faith, and wicked sense of humor differentiated her from my friend's seemingly utilitarian mothers. By allowing me to see all sides of her personhood, she raised me to be a good adult rather than just a good kid.