On Being an Old Mum

I recently celebrated my 50th birthday.  I had my kids that day, but luckily, my brother came to visit too.  Else the occasion would surely have felt swallowed by the whims and wiles of my sons, by their age-appropriate, yet still insulting, levels of empathy.  For a very long section of our lives it doesn’t actually feel like we’re aging.  We’re getting older, but not aging.  And then suddenly we are.  It’s impossible to isolate how I feel about my aging from its constant dance with the evolution of my sons.  They are getting older, but I am aging.  We’re a study in contrasts cause I had them late.