Just this morning, I did the thing experienced mothers aren't supposed to do. I lost it on my daughter. She's 11 and I'm 52. That makes me the adult. In fact, last year I was the oldest living mother in elementary school. I should be a total ball of zen-nicity. Yet suddenly I was going all Linda Blair after a morning of protracted nagging.
Perhaps this rings a bell? "Hurry up -- get dressed -- brush your teeth, your hair, your tongue -- shoes on -- backpacks packed...move faster. Go!" You've been there. No expanded vocabulary required, just sixth-grade level word retrieval. And yet opening a can of whoop ass can feel satisfying sometimes. Like binge eating foods dipped in Marshmallow Fluff.
Wasn't it supposed to be a blissful experience entering motherhood again at 40? Wasn't I supposed to have more patience and understanding about "the long haul" and "how fast it all goes" with my twins? And yet here I am, shrieking as my hormones retreat, as snappish and churlish as one of those cringe-worthy, reality-show teen moms prevented from a night of clubbing by their colicky unwanted off-spring.
OK, maybe it's not quite like that with me. That was a tad dramatic. But as I swam my laps this morning trying to re-balance, I wondered idly if I really was too old to have kids this young? Was biology nature's way of saying, "you won't have the energy for this in a few years?" And yet how many of us are successful at making life fall in line with the perfect time to marry, procreate or change careers? Is there ever a perfect time?