My youngest daughter texted me today to let me know that she needed to talk to just me, alone, without her Dad listening in. She let me know it was about “girl things”. I was delighted and texted her back “I’m a girl!”, which drew an “lol” and laugh from her.
The truth is that I loved being asked to talk about “girl” things—I am still a girl, even if I look every one of my 62 years.
In my mind, I am still 22 and in love with a golden haired, blue eyed boy; 23 and eagerly welcoming my first beautiful baby, and all the lovely ages since, each special in some way. Who could forget the rushing to so many after school sports and activities with 4 children going in different directions? Or how about the years I devoted to studying and then practicing the art of nursing, moving back to a focus on children who, as teens, needed me more than ever?
But when I look in the mirror, I am always surprised to see my mother staring back at me—when did that happen? At family reunions, when did we become the grown-ups instead of the kids? When did my mother-in-law and aunts get so old?
Don’t get me wrong—I love my life, each stage of it; and every gray hair tells a story and I wear them proudly—but where did my life go? My father’s aunt (my great aunt) lived to be 102 years old. Her mind was still sharp and she had a wicked sense of humor, but my last most vivid memory was a conversation I had with her in which she told me that inside she still felt like the little girl on the farm in North Dakota where she was born and raised. So, I guess this is not a problem only I have—I think most people still feel young inside, no matter what their body says. Our lives just slip by so quickly.
So, good night from the girl who liked to ride bikes and play baseball. I think the street lights just came on……