exceptional

I’m a young mom. Mitten was born when I was 19 and a half, but I always round up and tell strangers or new acquaintances that I was 20. I think I’m understandably defensive. Most people equate parenthood before 25 (or hell, 30) with poverty, low educational attainment, questionable morals and Britney Spears. Sure, I have good credit, a B.A in Philosophy and am a great fan of underwear but not everyone takes the time to figure it out.

I can feel, if I pay close attention, the point during the “your age v. your kid’s age” conversation when my metaphysical label changes in the mind of the mid-thirties female suburbanite I’m getting to know, from “Mitten’s mom” to “reformed (?) harlot”.

Last year, I volunteered to help at a few of Mitten’s Brownie meetings. During one such, the girls I was working on a craft with asked how old I was. “28″, I said, inwardly cringing. A chorus of surprise rang out. I think 2 girls simultaneously said, “My mom is soooo much older than you!”

“Great”, I thought. “Way to endear yourself to other parents”. I could all too easily picture these girls going home and relating this information over dinner. I like to believe the best of people but I can’t help thinking that there might be a few, who upon hearing this, would be pricked by the comparison and easily soothed with a little condescension. If I’m lucky, I’m often regarded as a little sister. If not, well, play-dates are not forthcoming. To be fair, most of the people in our neighborhood fall into the former category.

A Girl Scout meeting isn’t the only time when being a youngish parent makes life “interesting”. After hours of worst-pain-of-my-life back labor with Toot, I burst into tears after being told I hadn’t dilated further. The nurse who was attending me laughed and said, “Honey, it isn’t a race!” As if the reason I was upset was unrelated to the horrible pain I was experiencing. Rather than ask, she assumed I had unrealistic expectations of the pace of childbirth because I was young looking. When Mr. Baby was born I finally got the satisfaction of answering a patronizingly cooed, “Is this your first?” with “No. My third.”

When I’m not feeling all brave and fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke about it, I look forward to the time when Toot and The Boy will be in school and my age will be completely unexceptional. A time when women can dislike or mistrust me for reasons I’m comfortable with, like being better looking and more interesting.