I am the youngest of the Wonder Women at 29 (evil snicker.)
But today, right this minute, I am trapped in my house by a dictator child and also a stitch that won’t heal. So I have to sit on my donut pillow with my, er, self exposed to the healing air, no walking no sitting normally no riding in the car, and every couple of hours or so have to feed the wriggling monster who could care less that mommy HURTS today, muffin. Today, I am 11 years old, whining to my mother in the middle of summer break that I’m BORED, there’s NOTHING TO DO, GAWD our house is SOOOO BOOORRIINNGG. I don’t WANNA watch tv, I don’t WANNA read, I don’t WANNA sit on this damn blue couch any more, I want to go outside in the 77 degrees and go on a hike or something. AUUGH.
This evening, at around 8pm, when my husband heads out to a party that we are both invited to but only one of us can go, and since I’m the sole food supply for the dictator, I will stay, well this evening I will feel approximately 43 years old. I will feel my mortgage. I will feel my parental status. I will feel my myriad responsibilities most keenly. I will feel, in a word, lame (apologies to all the VERY COOL 43 year olds in the world.)
Tonight, when I wake with the wriggling monster at 2am, I will be 97 years old. Fumbling. A little weak, in body and in mind. Tripping over nothing. Forgetting what I’m doing in the middle of doing it. Falling asleep at inappropriate times with my jaw slack, mouth open, drool slipping down my face.
Tomorrow morning, at dawn, as the long night finally draws to a close and sunlight starts to peep through the windows, I will hold a sated, milk-faced infant on my chest. He spends the night in his crib, but the morning is just for me, and I indulge in letting him sleep in my bed, just for an hour, the last hour, a gift to me for the labors of the night. He’ll blink his blue eyes at me, slowly, slowly, until they close altogether, and as he drifts to sleep with his jaw slack, mouth open, drool and milk slipping down his face, his open palm will pat, pat, pat around until he finds a bit of exposed skin at the neck of my sleep shirt. And he’ll rest his tiny hand there, on my skin, and breathe heavily into my ear, and I’ll be 29 years old and happy, happier than I imagined was possible.