Not a milennial

Lately, I'm painfully feeling my age. Sometimes literally painfully.

I'm still surprised sometimes that I am 40 years old and no longer twentysomething. That my sense of humor, my way of speaking, my way of interacting, could come across as dated to certain audiences. That I'm not in the know about what's new, hot, or buzzed about. That I don't document every meal and every errand on social media. (I do post a lot of photos of my son, I must admit, and I do use Facebook often, but I remember a time before that world existed--and it doesn't seem long ago to me at all.)

Somewhere, somehow, I crossed over a bridge and I can't cross back. I'm no longer a "young adult," dewy and energetic and full of promise. I'm middle aged. Egads.

It's even harder to wrap my head around it because not only do I not feel my age, but I don't look it at all. Every day, people assume I'm young -- late twenties or early thirties young. So I feel sometimes like I can pretend, like my 40-year-old self can go underground and I can be twentysomething again. Then I feel a pain in my back, or suddenly tweak my rotator cuff, or get really sleepy before 10 p.m., or notice the newly floppy skin under my chin, and I remember -- yep, I'm 40.

OK, being "old" is a matter of perspective--to many people, I'm still young. But my body is changing and my soul is changing. I'm not the person I was at 25, or 30, or even 35. Time is marching on.

And sometimes, when I interact with people under 30--the group that falls under the "milennial" umbrella--I really feel like an outsider. I shouldn't make generalizations--I have a close friend who is just shy of 30 and another good friend who is 25, and we speak the same language and connect as people, not as representatives of our demographic. But when I'm around milennials who make pronouncements like "I'm all about music" and talk about how deep they are without actually asking one question about you, I feel like I'm not making a connection. I'm talking to a living Twitter feed. And that's just not the way I interact with people. It bugs.

I'm on a tangent. But I guess what I'm trying to say is when I crossed a bridge, it left a gap--a generation gap. I'm officially on other side of that gap, also known as being over the hill (yes, I'm mixing metaphors. Bridge over a gap, over a hill, whatever.) I'm used to being on the dewy, full-of-promise, young-person side. Now I'm on the other side, looking at those full-of-promise types behind me with occasional disdain. Why don't you talk and interact like I do? Get off of my lawn! Stop Instagramming your food! And I'm not sure how to adjust. I feel incredibly uncomfortable over here.

I knew how to be young, wide-eyed, idealistic, inexperienced. I don't know how to wear this new mantle of middle age. I don't know how to be this new version of me.

And of course our society is obsessed with youth, so I can't help but feel that I'm drifting into irrelevance and invisibility. And that's rather terrifying.

Ironically, though, my age seems to be imbuing me with a new willingness to take risks and become more visible. To fail often and spectacularly and get back up and try again. Because the alternative is me withering away and never discovering what is truly within.

Awareness of mortality breeds greater courage. It just does. That's something I couldn't really access until I got here, to 40.

So in the end, crossing this bridge will lead to better things, I know. I might have to say goodbye to the breeziness, the privilege of youth. But I get to say hello to a greater understanding of myself.

That was worth waiting for.

A heart-stopping moment

We went out for dinner tonight, and my son, now 19 months, was in a merry mood. Hungry, he took to devouring the pieces of chicken I handed to him. Suddenly, he stopped chewing, froze, and coughed just a little. Then silence, and his face turned bright red, his mouth open, his eyes unfocused. It took me a moment to realize what was happening, but before I could act or panic, he coughed again, and a piece of chicken came out, along with some vomit that streamed down his shirt and shorts. His face returned to a normal color and he started to cry, with a couple of teardrops remaining just below his eyes. He reached for me as my husband scurried to clean him up as best he could. I only had to comfort him for a moment, and then he was back on task, focused on his food, cheerful again.

Then it was my turn to freeze, realizing what horrible thing had nearly happened. Realizing that for a few moments, my precious, joyful, beloved son couldn't breathe. It was only a second, and his body quickly solved the problem, but for a few moments, he was in danger. We could have lost him.

The fragility, the fear, the soul-gutting love I felt at that moment almost stopped my own breath. I thought of a quote that I'd heard somewhere, that once you become a parent, you spend the rest of your life with your heart walking outside your body. There, sitting next to me, was my heart, with tears and vomit on it, but still merry and beautiful and full of life. But he is so vulnerable, small, and young, and so many things could happen to him, so many dangers. And if something were to happen, I honestly don't know if I could go on. My heart would stop too.

But that's the path we must walk as parents, stepping out into every day knowing this person you love so deeply, so powerfully that it feels like your heart has left your body, could be in danger. That you are tethered, so completely and utterly, to that person's well being, to his survival, to his life. That you can be disintegrated in a moment. It's the deepest vulnerability I've ever felt, to love like this. It hurts.

After the near-choking happened, for several minutes in the restaurant I had a lump in my own throat, partially obstructing my own breath as I fought back tears. Finally, I found myself able to breathe again. My child was safe and OK, laughing at his father's antics and enjoying the bright world around him. All was well.

But my life is forever tied to his life. I was tethered from the moment I first saw his face--and that means I am one breath away from destruction.

And that's the way it will always be.