So far, there’s nothing like being 55, except being 56, to make me appreciate my mother and her very short life. I remember her at 56, as I was 16. She was an old mom back then. Far more common today, I’m still the old mom. And I feel it sometimes. Though not necessarily in a bad way.
At 56, I’m past many of the insecurities of young parenting. I’m past caring that my kids are better than or less than your kids. I’m past worrying about status and more concerned with happiness (theirs).
Life, whether young or old, is all about choices. Some of those are small and insignificant, but many are small and matter. Who do you spend time with? Whose opinion do you value? How do you spend your time? What truly brings you joy? These matter. They are small decisions, but their value is immense.
My kids, my young adults, are growing up. They’re figuring out where they fit and how they fit in. So am I. I guess we do that all through our lives. But we don’t figure that out until much of our lives has gone by. There are days like today when I wonder if my Mom found comfort in her age, in her wisdom, in her wonderful self.
I hope that sooner, rather than later, my children recognize their brilliance, their value, and their purpose, for each is unique and each is wonderful, and each deserves joy, happiness and the comfort of knowing that.