It’s official. I’m old.
I went to get my eyes checked and update my prescription last week, and instead of the reading glasses I’ve had for the past two years, I ended up with bifocals.
A few of my friends have tried to console me by saying things like “I’ve had bifocals since I was 7. It’s just your vision not your age.” I might believe them except that the eye doctor specifically said, “Well…your eyes are aging, and now they need more help than they did. You’re not 20 anymore.”
Thank goodness for that. Being twenty was hard in ways I don’t care to repeat, and I’d much rather be the 40-ish me. (Except I’d like to have that body back. With that body and this brain, I could rule the world. Which is probably why God didn’t let me have both at the same time.)
I picked out my new glasses, I wanted a bright color like my last pair which were cobalt blue, but that doesn’t seem to be cool any more, so I settled for cute-ish tortoiseshell with an aqua inside.
Then I got them home and realized they had holes in the arms so that I could hang them on a string.
Because I’m old.
I grabbed lunch on my way to my next appointment, and scarfed down a hamburger as I sat in traffic. (If you were in the car next to me, I saw your horrified face at how fast I inhaled it, and I’m sorry. In my defense, it was delicious.)
A thirty minute drive later, and I was sitting in the obstetrician’s office listening to the galloping heartbeat of our #8.
The hysterectomy that kept getting postponed by life events (our daughter became a paraplegic – it was big stuff) and two bottles of wine on our 20th anniversary, and here we were once again, listening to the sound of someone new.
Months of careful monitoring and medical supervision have gotten us past what my doctor calls the “scary part,” and onto the part that he’s not worried about.
Except that I’m old.
“Advanced maternal age” is what he wrote in my chart, but in reality it’s “you’re really kind of old to be doing this, aren’t you?” My friends are welcoming grandchildren, and we’ll be once again decorating a nursery of our own.
This isn’t quite the way “middle age” had looked in my mind, straddling the realities of aging with the truth of still being young enough to be a new mom….again.
The plans I’d made for my 40s just got some major rearranging thrown into the mix, as we begin anew the task of baby-proofing a house and hunting for the perfect car seat.
As the nurse wiped the goo off my belly, my husband remarked, “I guess your intuition was right, and we were going to have eight after all.”
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