In the kitchen, while blithely and effortlessly whipping together a delicious meal my children would undoubtedly eat with excitement and appreciation (HAAAA!), I heard a suspicious sound coming from the living room – lots of straining, labored breathing, then a heavy thud against the carpeted floor. Prior knowledge of and experience living with large dogs triggered the red alert that straining and the resultant thud do not bode well on flooring of any kind. Putting my pots and pans (and, well, my laptop, open to the Facebook) aside, I rose to investigate. Of course, after I finished the Zimbio quiz, “What Kitchen Gadget Are You?” (I’m a spatula, with borderline eggbeater tendencies.)
Son no. 1 was attempting to do a backward roll off the couch. Stretched upward from the floor, his feet were in the air, heels dangling off the back of the couch, the weight of his body sliding downward resting on his tensile little neck, his bulgy eyes trying to remain in their sockets as he willed his body to flip over onto the floor in front of him. Hearing me come in, he sank downward, conceding defeat, and let his body slither into a messy pile of what appeared to be broken down tent poles. All bendy and bony, he was ankles, elbows and angles. Then the tears came. He was frustrated.
My first and natural instinct as a parent was to holler at him about how he could render his extremities useless by trying to do a backward roll off the couch. He was flirting with a neck and spinal cord injury! (And I always never did that as a kid!) But… The teacher in me, the one from waaaaay back when, really just wanted him to do it and do it right. So, pulling his purple little face off of the floor, I wiped his eyes and told him the most misleading and inaccurate thing I could ever say: “Watch how I do it so you won’t get hurt.” Oh, hell yes. Famous. Last. Words.
This is the part when being forty should have been on my side. However, Age, and its plucky sidekick, Wisdom, were not there for me that day. They were off playing shuffle board. I think forty is a misleading number. I’ve been programmed to believe that after turning forty, I would magically become a moldy-old lady, when in fact I am not. At least I don’t think I am. I mean, I like sensible shoes, but c’mon… I don’t feel old. I’m certain I am astoundingly youthful in manner (I still say “totally,” like, way too much), the quality of my dress (ponchos, yes – clogs, and jeans with a good stretch to them), and my ever embracing music choices (Chicago, Pink Martini, Tom Jones, and in my defense, Lawrence Welk is incredibly uplifting in the morning before coffee). Turning forty has, for me, demonstrated the existence of a mind-body gap. A big one. Where the head is still young, the body is… not.
“Watch how I do it so you won’t get hurt…”
Going back a good thirty-some odd years to my primitive instruction in my elementary school PE tumbling unit, I assumed the squatting stance, with my hands upraised by my ears, and enlightened my eager gymnast on the importance of tucking one’s chin so the neck stays rounded and safe. Rolling backwards with momentum, I successfully threw my legs over, and… I did it! Son No. 1 was excited! I could teach him how! And I was excited! My body worked for me! He beamed. I beamed. The room lit up as if by a Roman candle. (Because baby, you’re a firework.) Our enthusiasm attracted the attention of the younger two, Son No. 2 and Missy-Miss. Their expectations were high.
Son no. 1 assumed the squatting position, with his hands by his ears, we counted down. “Three… Two… One… Blast off!” He rolled halfway, did a 90-degree angle turn mid-flip, and ran his butt into the couch. Son No. 2 and Missy-Miss roared from their cheering section. But Son No. 1 was still jazzed and wanted another demonstration, which I was cocky enough to give.
Second time over, my body decided to pull rank on me. Assuming the squatting position again, right before blast-off (in hindsight, this was the wrong language to use, totally), I felt a worrisome shifting from within, but brushed it off. It’d be okay. “Three… Two… One… Blast off!” Roll back, push up and… Pffft.
“Momma, you FARTED!” Missy-Miss is delighted.
Momma has poopy-pants!” Son No. 2, always with the potty language.
“Mom, you’re supposed to leave the room before that happens.” No, Son No. 1, I want to leave the room BECAUSE that happened.
Lord help me, have I no control?!? Gah! My body was laughing at me. It rebelled, and it won. My children were laughing at me, which was nothing terribly new. Thankfully I was laughing too because, well, there was almost no living this down. So, rather than let them bask in what just happened, I rallied and soldiered on. One last demonstration.
On that last attempt, I felt a bit of a twinge on the left side of my neck and shoulder and actually rolled over my shoulder, which precluded any further display of my overwhelming gymnasticity. By the time I stood up, my shoulder turned into a brick, and I was unable to move my head over my left shoulder. It had done this before. I should have known better.
“Momma, are you okay? You said you wouldn’t get hurt if…” That was the worst. He saw me get hurt (after laughing at me). Head, you failed me.
The next morning, I hobbled out of bed. My shoulder was sore, but it was the rest of the body that told the story. I ached in places I was sure I didn’t use the day before. And then I felt so very, very old. On the way to preschool, instead of (fun and soul-crushing) Katy Perry, we listened to NPR, and my beloved (ever soul-soothing) jazz station. I will own what I am. I am not ancient by any stretch, but I am totally aging, for sure. No matter what the salesgirl tells me, no matter the disguise, the jeans may say you’re youthful, but the hips don’t lie.
Sleeps With Her Eyes Open 