It is not just because I am about to bust the hell out of my twenties that I think teenagers are basically infants and 21 year old’s are simply overgrown toddlers; it’s not even just because of my maturity level- I mean, let’s face it, I haven’t exactly leveled very high in that area myself.
My view on ages, what is young and what is “old” all changed once I squeezed a human out of my poor lady parts. Once I became someone’s MOM- the world around me look a hell of a lot different.
No longer are strollers in stores seen as obnoxious roadblocks filled with screeching piles of flesh. No more evil looks are given to parents scolding their children in public- because my ass has BEEN there now and I know that shit just needs to be done sometimes, prying eyes be damned. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” turned into “I LOVE SLEEP AND I WANT MORE!” Little kids are no longer obnoxious buttholes… okay, that last one is a lie- but the rest is totally true. I am a changed person!
Even my new-old self can remember my young self all of those eons ago, before my brain was permanently affected by my uterus.
I intimately remember the feeling of my entire BODY catching on fire while out with my parents and they referred to me as “Scooter”- my nickname from before I could walk.
Ummm- I’ve been vertical for ten years now, parental-units, how about you cut that shit out since I’m grown?
And even worse were the moments my mom would refer to me as “her baby”- which she appeared to take great pleasure in doing.
Was she delusional, or just mean? She birthed me- she should have known how old I was, right? So obviously, I was NOT a baby- what with the walking, and the talking, and the schooling and the multitudes of birthdays with boy band themes.
It was my least favorite thing in the world- out of all the horrifying things she seemed to enjoy doing to me- calling me her baby was the worst offense.
“I’m not your baby anymore, Mom!” was my eternal response, as was hers to mine: “You will ALWAYS be my baby!”
Cringe. Cringe cringe cringe! And duh, impossible!
Now I find myself with two growing crotchfruit running circles around me- the older of the two about to “graduate” Kindergarten, cringing and covering his eyes any time people kiss on TV or even get the slightest bit romantic- and occasionally I find myself thinking about the not so distant future and the possibility of him having his own children one day, and my poor old mommy heart breaks with the notion that he is growing up. FAST!
That’s when I hear my Mom’s voice creep into my head and escape through my mouth, which is happening at a far more frequent and alarming ratio than it used to-
“But… you’ll ALWAYS be my baby!”
Was the embarrassing lady onto something?
I always hate to admit it- but the answer here is yes.
It doesn’t matter if they’re taller than me, paying their own bills or terrorizing the world in their own vehicles; I don’t care if they are horrifying me with dating terror stories or even 40 years old shaving their flippin’ hairy parts- they are OUR babies.
They might not BE babies, need us to wipe their asses or cut up their meat or rock them to sleep at night- but we did all of those things for them for so long that we have earned the right to call them such. Forever.
If they don’t like it- we can remind them of the messy and disturbing truth of what we went through to bring them into this world and remind them that they will have the same luxury to torture their own if and when the time comes- and that that time had better be a LONG fucking ways away.
And really, if it embarrasses them to call them our “baaaaaaayyyy-beeeeeeeeee” in public? That’s just the icing on the cake.
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