At a recent block party, I was reminded of two things. My age and the age of my children.
I got a late start on all of it, marrying at almost 30, finishing up the child bearing at 35, removing any chance of conception at 44.
It has been almost 9 years since I changed a diaper, 6 years since I had to worry about anyone climbing in my bed or disrupting my sleep and over 15 years since I felt that first pang of pregnancy.
Standing at that party drinking a beer and watching tired women nurse twins, others baby their puppies and very young mothers ignore barefoot toddlers roaming water-logged construction sites, I was struck with two very opposing thoughts.
1. God, I miss holding a baby, having a little one. Being needed like that, loved like that, wanted like that.
2. Holy shit. These kids make me nervous. Look at that one, she's going to fall in that pond and drown, and look at that one, trying to shove that dirty cookie in his mouth- he's going to choke and who is watching that kid who can't be more than five years old and is picking up that baby and carrying it around?? Hello?
It was weird, to say the least. I wasn't the only nervous mom there, I especially liked the lady who moved her new Jag when the little boys decided playing baseball in the road was a good idea.
Not everyone sees danger around every bend, and probably no one was hurt or drowned and nothing got dented except maybe some pride, as the night wore on... but we didn't stay to find out. We left early, taking our grown babies home where they squirreled away in their rooms until dinnertime when they remembered their mother and what she could provide.