In recent months, as various friends have celebrated birthdays, my children have been surprised on several occasions by the lack of correlation between these people’s youthful appearances and their chronological ages. “Kristen is 40?!” “Robin is 50?!” “Teo is 30?!” they protest, insisting that there must be some mistake. In their opinions, these people all look myriad years younger than their birthdates would indicate. I, on the other hand, apparently look my age.
When they tell me this, I remind them I was recently carded at the grocery store and inform them that numerous people have told me I look younger than my years, but my arguments don’t seem to impress them. They just shake their heads and shrug their shoulders in a “Sorry, but I don’t see it” sort of way, at which point I dismiss their opinions altogether telling them, “Well, that’s probably just because I’m your mother. If I were a stranger on the street, I’m sure you’d think I was much younger.”
Yeah, whatever. They don’t say it, but I can tell they don’t buy my explanation.
The thing is, I grew up looking younger than my friends, appearing 12 while they all passed for 18, and constantly being mistaken for someone’s little sister. So now that I’m on the other side of puberty (finally!), I’m determined to claim the reward that should rightfully be mine: continuing to look younger than I really am well into my 70s. The problem is that my children won’t cooperate.
The other day, for instance, I was sitting by our bay window enjoying the morning sun when one of my sons joined me at the table, gazed up at me incredulously, and said, “Hey Mom, I didn’t know you had a mustache.”
I nearly choked on my coffee, but he didn’t seem to notice. While I coughed and sputtered, he called for his brother to “come quick!” anxious to share his discovery, but I wasn’t about to give him the chance. Instead, handling the situation with the dignity of a recently scolded toddler, I ran for the bathroom and locked the door.
Once inside, I darted to the mirror and began scrutinizing my face. Sure enough, the fuzz on my upper lip, left unchecked for several months, had become dense enough to be considered — in the proper light — a mustache. It wasn’t prominent by any means, but rather the sort of facial hair a pre-teen boy would have been proud of, the kind you have to squint to really see. Nevertheless, I grabbed the tweezers and started plucking, determined to keep going until I’d eliminated the entire caterpillar, faint as it was.
When I emerged from the bathroom 20 minutes later, I could tell my son felt a little guilty for having caused such a reaction on my part.
“You know,” I said, sitting down next to him, “I don’t mind that you pointed out my ... (ahem) mustache. In fact, I’m grateful. I like to keep it under control.” He smiled slightly, and I knew he was relieved that I wasn’t upset.
“Besides, I look so much younger without it,” I added, giving him a squeeze, and bless him — though I certainly deserved it — he didn’t even roll his eyes.
Belinda Ray is a homeschooling mother and freelance writer who finds time to write when her children and their friends have lightsaber battles in the yoga room (but only if the laundry is already folded and everyone’s been fed).