“Mom, Bryan’s on the phone and he says his mom wants to know if you’ve already turned 50!”
This is how I was greeted this morning as I came down the stairs.
“Mom! I told Bryan I think you’re older than 50 and his mom says that if that’s the case, they want you to join their support group!”
I paused midway in my descent and asked, “Support for what?”
“Bryan, my mom’s asking what your mom’s supporting.”
I couldn’t believe the young man expressing himself like a five-year old was going to be a college junior in the fall.
“Mom, Bryan says his mom’s organizing a support group for women with menopause and wants to know if you want to join.”
Menopause? Dear Lord, had I already reached that stage in my life?
“Honey, I’m nowhere near fifty so tell Bryan to call back in fifteen years. Better yet, tell Bryan he shouldn’t be making this type of phone call. His mom should be the one calling me!”
“Bryan, my mom’s in denial again. Tell your mom to save her a spot in case she accepts reality and wants to attend.”
And so went my morning.
I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m sick and tired of my children thinking I’m some prehistoric animal.
Yes, a couple of dreadful gray hairs have made an appearance, but this hardly qualifies me as a nursing home candidate.
Yet the truth is that the closer you are to middle age, the more your children are convinced you roamed with the dinosaurs.
“Mom, why don’t you want to join the menopause group? I thought you said you were having a hot flash the other day.”
The son’s voice interrupts my reverie.
“Honey, I was kidding when I said that. Not that there’s anything wrong with aging, but you don’t really think I’m 50, do you?”
“Hmm…I don’t know. You always tell me I don’t have enough security clearance to be privy to that information.”
Yes, everyone wants to be a comedian.
But really ladies, what exactly makes our grown children think we’re one day away from getting our first social security check?
Are we somehow aging before their eyes and are oblivious to the fact?
Have we developed a back hump like Quasimodo that is only visible to our offspring?
Has our hair thinned in the back, leaving our scalp to play “peak-a-boo”?
Are we really sporting wrinkles deep enough to double as rain gutters?
Are we days away from having to bleach a newly sprouted mustache?
Perhaps our kids see something we don’t.
Perhaps I am in a state of denial.
Perhaps I did have a pet Brontosaurus and am suffering from selective amnesia.
I only have admiration and respect for the elderly, and know that my time will come, but I wonder what makes my children think I’m decades older than I really am.
Suddenly, the Son emerges from the kitchen with the last of the peanut brittle and says, “Mom, I’m eating what’s left of this, but no worries, right? Cause your teeth can’t handle it anyway.”
To which I reply, “I read the other day that menopausal women often attempt to retain what’s left of their youth by dressing like teeny boppers only to then follow their grown sons to parties, clubs, and other places they troll.”
(I didn’t really read this.)
The horrified look on the Son’s face instantly made me feel better.
“Yeah, but I don’t have to worry about that for another twenty years or so. Right, mom?”
That’s my boy.