It's been an A

Photography took over writing. I miss writing, though. I forget my days and thoughts so easily. I never thought I'd be out of practice writing, but it feels like a stretch to be completely open and honest and free with my words. I have correspondence companions, but, of course, voices change for the audience. I miss my own voice. The one for myself. The one I only hear in my head anymore. Most of the time the kids drown out that voice as well.

It's finally warm. Hot, really. It's supposed to get up to 96 degrees this week. I'd be very content with upper 70's, low 80's. It's 78 degrees in our room right now and it's lovely. My body feels wrapped up in the warmth and humidity. It doesn't ache so much.

We're down to the last few days of May. 2011 is almost halfway over. I always remember that, as a kid, any year past 1999 seemed other worldly. I'll spend the majority of my life in the 2000's.

I've had odd feelings about getting old this year. My age never really bothered me until I turned 27. That was a hard age to handle. I was no longer "mid" 20's, I was "late" 20's. I hate admitting that I'm thirty anything. I can't imagine what it will be like when I hit 40. Beyond that, though, I've developed a fear of getting old that I've never had before. It's not a fear of death, or even, necessarily of my body degenerating, though that's certainly part of it, but getting OLD. Wrinkly. Stooped. Unable to keep up, be attractive or interesting. I really do live in fear of wrinkles. I hate the idea of my skin being thin and dry and sagging. I hate the idea of my hair being thin. I hate the idea of a young mind in an old body. I already feel the disconnect.

The thing that really bothers me, though, is the thought that I wasted my youth. I didn't really take care of my body or appreciate it's form and abilities. Even if I lose all the weight that I want to this year, I'll never have the look that I want because I didn't care enough ten or twenty years ago to make an investment. Not only that, I'm too old to achieve that look anymore. And, even if, by some miracle, I COULD, my actual age will still get in the way. I have to face it. I am a wife. I am a mother. And I am old.

I not a terribly unhappy person, though I am angsty by nature, but these thoughts make me unhappy in a way I never have been before. I don't usually dwell on them. I have plenty of things to keep me busy and interested and distracted, but they creep up on me more often than they used to. More and more I look at my children and realize that soon THEY will be the age that I still wish I was. How will that affect my mothering?