The other day as I pulled up to Mother's Day Out to pick up Mickey and Alex, I had my radio turned up full blast to Alan O'Day's "Undercover Angel." Now let me pause a minute here to say: if you do not know this song you are truly missing out on one of the finest one-hit-wonders of all time. For me, it's the best illustration of how I can remember every word and "ooo" and "ahhh" to a 30-year-old song, but I can't remember the name of someone I met yesterday.
Anyway, I'm watching some of the other moms going in as I'm singing at the top of my lungs (and trying not to move my lips so they don't know just how loud I'm projecting...I do have some pride). I figure most of them were babies while I was busy committing Alan's words to my memory forever. For a minute I thought...wow, I'm freaking old. At 41 I'm the mom of two toddlers, and most of my "colleagues" are 10 to 15 years younger than me. And some of my long-time friends have kids who almost aren't kids anymore. They're thinking about homework and who their kids are hanging out with and ACTs and curfews and driving tests.
But you know, I'm okay with that. I really am. The important thing is not my age, but how I feel. And I feel great (Biggest Loser contest notwithstanding). Sure, my boys will probably get teased about their geriatric mom, but I will teach them to say "hey, at least she would fit right in in Hollywood..."
Okay, well, maybe they will need to learn a right cross, too.