In the past month or so, I started to realize something.
For the past few years, I’ve seen myself as younger than I am. Perhaps it was because I went back to college. Especially when I was going to the community college, I was surrounded by 18 year olds. I looked like them. We sat in the same classes.
And I know part of the reason I feel this way is because I look young. I easily fit in with people who are 22. I look 21 on a good day and therefore younger people relate to me more than someone who is 35 would. Once I start talking, I tend to relate to older people better. I am obviously not interested in the latest keg party or whether my mom is going to loan me 20 bucks so I can go out to the club tonight. I’m interested in diapers and developmental milestones. I’m interested in current events and good books.
That isn’t to say that I don’t want to run away with Patrick Dempsey or that I don’t love a good issue of People magazine or I don’t like to put on a cute pair of VS panties and get my toenails painted.
But while my life circumstances have changed, my mindset hasn’t.
I realized this recently when I spoke to this guy I know. When I first moved to Small Town, I met him. He is one of those guys who portrays this image of someone who is confident and cocky and cool and funny and hip but he is also very insecure. For instance, he’s a few pounds overweight, maybe, but he brings it up in conversations a lot. Like Butterfly said something about him wearing two shirts one time and he said, “Yeah, I do that a lot. Makes me look skinny. Just kidding. It totally doesn’t help.” Now, I don’t think this guy is overweight. But he does, and so he makes excuses for himself before you have a chance to criticize him.
When I met this guy, I had just moved to Small Town. I had no money. In fact, I pawned my wedding ring to pay my tuition to community college. I lived in an apartment that was part of a small house they had converted into separate units. The bathroom didn’t even have a door, just a piece of fabric. It didn’t have a real shower. I didn’t have stable income. Some days I couldn’t afford to eat. I got fired from my temp job.
This guy was an asshole to me. And then I didn’t talk to him or see him for over three years.
One day I was walking through Walmart and I saw him. I pretended I didn’t and then he called my name.
Since then I’ve seen him in town a few times. He works for a company that has events out in town, and I’ve attended a few of the events.
I think he is a little shocked at me. For one, I’m 28 out now. I live in the BDH. I have four children, who are clean and well-dressed. I have money in the bank. I can afford to eat.
I could see in his eyes when we talked that he couldn’t quite line up the girl in the little apartment with the woman I am now.
The problem is, though, is that I still have a hard time seeing myself as older. I always have. One time Mojito and I had gone out to breakfast with someone who was mildly famous and later Mojito asked if I saw this girl as older than me, even though, I was actually about a year older. And of course I did. She was tall and beautiful and a celebrity and was confident and well dressed and I was…me.
And somehow that has always stuck with me. I have been intimidated by social workers, biological parents, educators, evaluators. I am afraid that when people look at me, they see a little girl who doesn’t know anything. Someone who shouldn’t have four children because she will just mess them up.
Sometimes they do. While we were at the mall, Butterfly called to me. “Mommy! Look at this.” And the woman who was working the cash register said, “Mommy? Who is her Mommy?” and I said, “She was talking to me.” “You are their Mom?” “Um..Yes?” “How many of these are yours?” “They are all with me.” “OH MY GOD! How old are you?” “I’m 28!” “Jennifer! Look! How old do you think this girl is?” “Um..like 22? “NO! She is 28! And she has FOUR KIDS! ALL THESE KIDS ARE HERS!!”
I just rolled my eyes.
The point is that it is not just a physical thing. Butterfly’s mom is only a year or two older than me. But I see her as a lot older than me. She’s the mom. I’m just a kid.
But slowly, I’ve started to realize that in no way am I a child. I might not do everything right. I might not have all the answers or be the best mom ever. I might be insecure sometimes and make mistakes.
But damn it. I am not a child. I have an 11 year old. I am a strong advocate for these children. I am no longer afraid to go to the Family Team meeting tomorrow and sit in a room with people who work with these kids and express my thoughts. I’m not afraid to speak to teachers. I am not just a kid playing house. I’m not afraid to let it be known that I will not put up with certain behaviors, not from Bug, not from Geo, not from people who see me as young and want to interject their own opinions of whether I should have four children or consider adopting another child or whether I should buy the generic Cheerios or not. I will listen if someone wants to tell me their opinions, but I will no longer assume that I am wrong.
The only baby in this house is sleeping next to me, snoring like a truck driver.
