As I emerge from the shower, I’m taken aback by the figure gazing back at me. Normally, the reflection is that of my little one, barely three feet tall, thrusting a snack in my direction while I attempt to dry off on the cold tile floor. But this is something else entirely. The mirror is foggy, yet the image is crystal clear. Who on earth is that? Here I am, just three weeks shy of my 39th birthday, and all I can think is, who came up with the notion that 39 is the new 29? I’ll bet it was some elderly gentleman in his 70s.
Ah, 29—what a time it was! I distinctly remember that my assets weren’t in a constant battle of separation like they seem to be now. I didn’t have to readjust them just to put on deodorant. With a deep breath, I venture closer to the mirror and clear some steam away. What the heck? Why is there hair on my face? Why do I have to pluck my own face? Sometimes I wish I were a chicken. Yes, a chicken! Don’t they stay smooth after getting plucked? I’ll look that up later. I should really keep some Post-Its in the bathroom. I’ll just jot it down on a piece of toilet paper with my mascara.
Okay, let’s count—one, two, three, four, five chin hairs. Tomorrow, I might wake up looking like a hermit! “In sickness and in health,” they say? How about, “When your wife wakes up with a full beard?” One of these hairs is pitch black, which makes no sense, so I guess I’ll just pluck them out and hope for the best. And what’s this? Gray hair? I could have sworn I went to bed with my usual blonde locks!
Then there are these lines on my face. Pull back, release, pull back, release. I’m Irish, for heaven’s sake! I used to slather on sunscreen like I was preparing for a butter bath. I was the fairest kid around, and now look at me with these lines. It’s probably all that smiling I did. Why was I so joyful? Stop laughing; you’ll only create more lines!
Oh, and speaking of laughter, just take a look at my stomach. What in the world happened here? Oh right, two beautiful babies, weighing in at 8 lbs. 6 oz. and 8 lbs. 10 oz. Totally worth it, but what on earth am I going to wear to the beach this summer? My options are a swimsuit that barely covers anything or a full-on dancing bear costume. Who designs these things? I’m convinced they’re all men in their 70s. They say if you feel good in it, wear it, but have you seen what young girls are sporting? Those suits that give you a permanent wedgie are not comfortable by any stretch! I’ll need to do some research on swimsuits for nearly 40-year-old moms. I can already guess the dancing bear costume will pop up.
I’m so tired. Why am I so exhausted?
“Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you almost done? We’re hungry, and we need help with a 600-piece puzzle. Oh, and we accidentally overflowed the sink. The dog is lying in the water.”
Right. Time to face reality. I do love my eyes. They’ve witnessed the births of my children and all the beauty life has to offer. So what if I don’t look 29? Thirty-nine is going to be amazing, filled with new adventures!
“Mommy, look! We drew a rainbow on the wall with our new markers.”
“I can see that, sweetheart. I’m staring right at it.”
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In summary, as I navigate the challenges of motherhood and aging, I remind myself that every wrinkle and gray hair tells a story. Aging gracefully means embracing my journey and finding joy in the little things.