He’ll Just Know Mommy

Sometimes I look at Tucker’s gorgeous, smooth, wrinkle-free baby skin and want a time-travel machine to visit my teenage self.  I’ll slap then-me for going to the tanning salon, sunbathing using baby oil, and for skiing without sunscreen. I wonder if my skin would look more like his, now, had I done a more diligent job of protecting it.

The thing about aging is we don’t feel much different on the inside. Sure, we have more knowledge,  experience, and confidence.

We’ve got better jobs, better houses, and better shoes, but overall, the basic essence of now-me isn’t much different from what it was at 16, 22, 30 and so on.

The reminders of age catch me off guard.  I’ll pause at an accidental reflection of my face in the car window and think “When did those lines on my forehead become so noticeable?  Have I always had such big bags under my eyes?  Can it be possible I’ve had the same persistent and recurring cheek pimple for almost four years?”

I suppose one of the best things and worst things about aging is that getting older is relative.  We’ll always feel older because we are.  We will never be younger than we are right now.  And yet it’s hard to imagine that we felt old at younger ages.  Because, well, we were so young.

The night before my sixth birthday, I stood on my front porch contemplating the end of my little kid days.  At the time, the distinction between being five and six and being in kindergarten versus being in first grade was significant.

I knew things were about to change. And I suppose they did…although I suspect it didn’t happen overnight as I had been convinced it would.

It seems ridiculous now, but I was depressed about turning 30. I was worried I should’ve accomplished more by then and that I should’ve felt more like a grown-up.

Do any of us ever feel grown up?

In some ways, we never will.  Because let’s face it.  We all remain somebody’s baby forever.

Which brings me to this.  When I accidentally catch an unflattering image in the car window, and regret my age-accelerating habits from younger years, Tucker doesn’t see my wrinkles, my age spots freckles, or notice whether I’m in the best or the worst shape of my life.

When Tucker looks at me, he’s happy and excited to see me (well, unless I’m holding nail clippers, medicine, or his toothbrush, but he’s not really seeing ME then, he’s seeing the item of his torture).

I’m not sure at what age children become embarrassed by their parents, and I honestly can’t remember whether I was consistently embarrassed by mine or not.  It doesn’t feel like I was now, which is perhaps more important anyway.

Although every single time I look at myself in my car window, or mirror, or store reflection, the “me” that I see is not the mommy that Tucker sees.

He just sees Mommy.

I’ve decided to not worry about the fact that he may be embarrassed about me being older than his friends’ mothers at whatever date that happens.  I’ve decided I’ll do what I’m supposed to and cherish the fact that he doesn’t even notice my recent highlights and lowlights, and regardless of either, he sees me.

He’ll just know mommy.