Being A Middle-Aged Mom Has Some Perks -- But Time Is The Hardest Part

I’m at that age where my chin hair is growing in quicker than my leg hair. It’s okay — so far there’s not a lot of it. Just the occasional (cough, frequent) white, barbed wire-ish strand that I’ll absent-mindedly touch, then maniacally pick at, then frantically keep feeling for, then obsess over for the remainder of the day until I can yank it. (I now keep tweezers in my desk at work. I also keep fiber powder in there, too, so I bet you can tell where this is heading.)

It’s not pretty but it turns out there are far worse things to fret about once you reach “The Milestone” birthday.

I try to remain positive, but I’ll admit I’m finding middle age to be quite galling. Things are happening to my body utterly out of the blue, completely without reason and entirely against my will. Yes, there are things women who’ve celebrated The Milestone know are coming.

We’ve been duly cautioned that hitting a certain age may find our hair turning to straw, our necks morphing into topical maps, and our midsection gaining independence as its own sovereignty. We’re also aware that despite how much we slather, our crypt keeper hands will forever tattle our true age.

But hang on now. There is some serious unpleasantness happening on the downslope of that hill that people keep leaving off the memo. Some of that stuff probably deserves a heads up.

For instance, how come no one ever tells us we will never sleep again? FortheloveofGod, most of us haven’t even caught up yet from the sleep deprivation of having babies. It is cruelly ironic that this bombshell comes on the heels of hearing every fitness expert alive shouting the same warning: that women cannot ever (EVER) lose weight unless we are getting a good night’s sleep. Whaaaaat?

Where’s the asterisk on this throat-punch revelation that also reveals – SURPRISE! – 90-minute-intervals of (let’s call them) naps are your new nighttime from this day forward. Hissss.

Every single night I find myself sweltering … until I am convinced I am frost-bitten … or I am passed-out-exhausted …. until I am wide awake an hour and a half later – for the rest of the night. My better half and I (wisely) upgraded to a king-sized bed a few years ago and between our alternating aches and pains and our temperature battles and our long-nights-journeying-into-days… I’ll be dammed if that bed sometimes just isn’t big enough. It really blows.

Also, speaking of missing chapters in the guidebook, what about the poo? (That opening paragraph wasn’t a red herring; you knew this was coming.) Good grief, just when we’ve got diapers and adolescence (those inimitable non-flushing years) in our rearview mirror, all of a sudden poo is a thing again? What. The. Fkkkkk?

I used to go away for entire weekends and – legit – not go to the bathroom until I was safely back home three days later (yeah, that freaked out my man in the worst of ways). I used to marvel at friends who could effortlessly go multiple times a day, whenever and wherever they wanted to (complete freaks, if you ask me) because nope, that was not me at all. Welp.

No sooner did I blow out a few dozen candles on a birthday cake did a tsunami of change sweep in. I’ve had more times when I’ve entered a ladies room to pee and — what the – let’s just say did a helluva lot more than pee in there. No joke: when it first started happening my initial shock was palpable: I couldn’t have been more surprised if another baby had dropped out of my body and into that toilet.

Worse, no sooner did the new me start seeing lavatories in a different light did my doctor start heralding fiber as the cure-all to everything. You have got to be kidding me (now you understand the aforementioned office staple, next to my tweezers).

At this point though, a couple of years into my brave new world of Milestone Menopause, my reaction is a more mellowed meh and a shrug. Sigh. ‘Tis just poo.

Fo’ sho’: this getting old thing is not for the weak.

Without question, there are some pretty awful things about middle age: the overwhelming feeling of incompetency that comes with re-entering the work force (or –gasp! — the dating game), having to navigate the holy hell that is social media, even the phantom pains that spring up for no apparent reason (like rising from the couch. UGH).

Throw in ridiculous weight gains and all the daily directives to give up sugar and dairy and alcohol and animal protein and carbs and be sure to walk six miles a day and do yoga stretches and meditate and take your Me Time and enjoy life (without dairy or alcohol or animal protein or carbs) and OHMYGAAAAWD. Who saw this coming? Remember when we used to complain about baby throw-up on our shoulders?

Deep breath.

Here’s the glass half full: It’s not all doom and despair. There are some super cool things about middle age, too. It is without question a great, great time to be a mom. Our kids are getting older, becoming real people, doing awesome things and becoming more companions than charges. Somewhere down the road they become fun: we can now play off-color board games with them and watch R-rated movies without hiding under pillows with embarrassment.

Another truth: I am a completely different mom than I was so many years ago, a lot calmer and less uptight. Hell, I’ve even stopped screaming. Now I go low: the more my kids yell in protest (because hello, there are still RULES, PEOPLE), the lower my voice gets when reacting to their nonsense. It’s like a villainous whisper out of a Saw movie and I highly recommend it; kids can’t grasp what hit them when we start acting like Anti-Mom, the total stranger who’s shown up to guide them from this day forward. Trust me, good times.

Middle age also gives us a boatload of hall passes for dumb things. We can completely ignore pop culture now because it has very little to do with us and that’s a blessing. Remember when it did? Remember when a sexy, ripped sweatshirt, some leg warmers and a dream made us believe we could escape a steel town? Remember when we wore business suits with (cringe) sneakers and socks and didn’t think for a minute it’d hurt our chances at a promotion? Remember how we worried if our lives measured up without city friends or coffee shops or Manolo Blahniks?

Turns out, a surge of self-confidence comes in with The Milestone and makes us realize we couldn’t care less what people think about our minivans and mom jeans. I don’t understand any song on the radio and I don’t want to. Please. I’m happy to stay out of the loop on a lot of things now. Pass the Dutchie and allow me my presets of classic rock stations, thankyouverymuch.

Keep your Kardashians and if I need a role model I’ll just Google Christie Brinkley because holy mackerel — have you seen her lately? — that chick is ridiculous.

We’re in a pretty good place now for sure, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t reveal the absolute worst thing nobody ever tells you about hitting The Milestone. This one’s a doozie and I completely understand why no one talks about it. It’s the freight train that body slams you and knocks out your breath and is far more sinister than sleepless nights and bowel issues and belly fat and reading glasses in every room of the house.

What could be so bad, you ask?

How about the ridiculous ticking of time – more like a Telltale Heart thumping – that is constant within your head?

Once you’re over The Milestone mountain there’s rarely a day that ends without at least one thought about the passage of time. It usually catches me by surprise when I least expect it, on the most innocent of occasions, and some days it’s just devastating. I once scrolled past a Facebook meme and became paralyzed at the words:

“One day you will pick up your child for the very last time and not even know it…”

The raw truth of that statement shattered me. My mind raced to try to remember. When did I last hoist any of them up onto my hip? How old were they… five? Seven? Eight? How could I not know?

How could I not know?

That simple sentence stayed with me – and saddened me – for days.

Another time my son tried to drum up some laughs by popping in an old video of his mom — super-duper un-sober — at a neighborhood party a dozen years earlier. Alright, alright, alright, while not my finest mom moment, I’ll admit it was pretty funny. But as the tape played, I soon became fixated at the sight of him — my tow-headed little prankster — running around the scene in the background, no more than 5 years old. It was like falling down a rabbit hole. I became transfixed, watching him jump into my lap and snuggle into my neck, my neck which now, a dozen years later, may be morphing into a topical map.

It was debilitating. I pretended to laugh along with him in present day but inside, my heart was aching at the past, watching both his little hands hold my face and kiss me sweetly.

My eyes flickered between the screen and his college-age, muscular, hirsute frame.

How in the world did I get here so fast?

Tick tick tick.

Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump.

I don’t care about my crow’s feet. I don’t mind the girth of my muffin top. And being ready for bed by 9 p.m. most nights really doesn’t bother me, either.

But the ferocious speed of traveling down the other side of the hill?

That is without question the absolute worst part about hitting The Milestone.

Really. I’d take the poo any day over that.