Aging Gracefully

Sometimes when I catch my reflection in a mirror, I almost don't recognize myself. It's probably because I've started to develop those lines I'd only a few years back considered the realm of the "middle aged." I've definitely lost the glow of youth, and yes, a gray hair or two has made an appearance.

Now that I'm a mom, I've found that personal appearance often takes a back seat to issues of practicality. I give up blow-drying time to fish prizes out of cereal boxes. I forget to make-up the left eye in order to handle emergencies, like discovering who had the green crayon first. I have been known to mar a perfectly respectable home manicure to fetch my daughter out of a tree.

I have no problem attempting to optimize appearance, within reason (reason usually meaning about eight minutes.) But I figure it's not my JOB to look like a model. Though I might consider investing in one of those handy airbrushes. (I've got the room, now that I carry this suitcase-sized purse.)

If I had twelve hours a day to devote to pouty lips and Tai-Bo, I'd probably look a lot better than I do. But my priorities are different, and "pouty lips" I get too much of anyway - every time I say, "Time to clean up!" So maybe it's okay to be comfortable with mediocrity, and leave the modeling to the fourteen-year-olds. After all, I'm comfortable in the knowledge that those silly little navel rings will look just PRECIOUS someday protruding at third trimester radius.

We can't all be perfect specimens. Besides, if we didn't all look unique, how would our kids identify us? You know - to ask for juice seven thousand times or something?

I figure I've EARNED every wrinkle on this face, every scar on these hands, every gray hair. See this tired old belly button? Earned! And we won't even START talking about my boobs. I've come by them honestly; we'll leave it at that.

You've heard the term "maternal beauty." That's the euphemism given to the waxen pallor that accompanies weeks of sleep deprivation brought about by an unfortunate chance encounter with a circus clown. It's the voluptuous look that results from eating whatever is left over on our kids' plates, instead of the salad we'd planned to make before somebody fell off the couch and bruised an elbow in a Superman experiment gone awry. I would imagine.

I've noticed that my children are actually very jealous of my looks. Not that they want to look like me, they just don't ever want me to change anything. They eye with suspicion any outfit falling outside the realm of  "usual." (NEVER let them see you in scuba gear. Trust me on this one.) They wrinkle little noses at hair changes ("Sweetie, calm down. It's just WET!") And they can be pretty vocal about these little personal details, especially when I'm out in public and it has shock value: "Mom! Where did all your gray hair go?"

There's only one exception to the changeless rule that I've come across. My kids really get a kick out of those mud masks. Blue being the color of choice. They have told all their friends about it at show and tell, and have invited them over to see for themselves.

"Aging gracefully" has a different meaning for me since these children showed up around here. It doesn't mean holding on to an ideal.  It doesn't mean looking like I'm 29, even when I'm 92. It means carrying my imperfections with dignity and the joy borne of the knowledge that if I look terrible, it's my children's fault.