i am a grown woman – i think!

I am 38 years old.  I was born in 1969 and have not had my birthday yet this year.  That makes me 38 years old.  I have been married over 13 years.  There are three little people who live in my house and call me different versions of Mom, Mommy, Mommmmmm, and Mama.  I have experienced childbirth (with and without a good epidural).  I can legally drive a car, buy alcohol and give blood.  I am even going to be able to vote in this November’s historic election.  So, why can’t I convince my subconscious that I am not a 12-year-old little girl?

Last week, I was driving my daughter and three friends to lacrosse camp.  The girls were chatting amongst themselves.  My daughter – who ironically will actually be turning 12 years old in a few months – was sitting next to me completely uninterested in the conversation the other girls were having about the song on the radio.  My first instinct was to try to get my daughter to join in on the conversation with these other girls.  I didn’t want them to think she was a dud or uninteresting.  I was about to try to join the conversation “for her” when I reminded myself that I was the mom.  I am not their peer.  My own “12 year old psyche” wanted to impress these girls.  My own insecurities were attempting to masquerade as concern for what these other girls thought of my daughter. My daughter, however, could not care less.  At 11 years old, my daughter already has the self-confidence I have struggled to gain in my 38 years of life.  She does not really care what pre-pubescent girls think of her – yet, I worry if they think I am cool?  How crazy is that? 

It is amazing that no matter how far we come from the “baggage of our youth”, the issues are still deep in there.  I have a theory.  I believe that you continue throughout life to always see yourself as the person you were in middle school or high school.   Women, who were the “popular” girls and had self-confidence at that point in their lives, still look in the mirror and see the cheerleader they once were.  The rest of us who did not peek in our teens, have a hard time reconciling the women we are today with what our subconscious thinks we are.

Yet, there is no need to set the table for my pity party for one.  I do acknowledge the perks of peeking at a more mature age.  I recently spent the day with my closest college friend.  While she was very pretty and polished the day I met her almost twenty years ago at sorority rush, she is even more beautiful now that she is well into her thirties.  Through her and the other beautiful women in my life, I may one day actually look in the mirror and see a grown up woman. 

But wait, does seeing a grown up woman in the mirror translate to recognizing the urgent need to run as fast as I can to my plastic surgeon for a syringe full of restylane? 

If so, maybe I can get used to that 12-year-old freckle face for just a little while longer!