Milestones...

A friend of mine turned 30 this week and was musing over the possible changes age might bring into her life. Rumor has it that the big birthdays, you know, the 30 and the 40 and the 50, are the most difficult to adjust to mentally. In my life, I have not found this to be true. I do not remember feeling any trepidation or depression at 30, but that was a long time ago, my memory isn't so great, and hey, my life was fabulous then. I was just 3 years married and had a beautiful 2 year old and another baby on the way. I was thrilled with everything. I do remember turning 40 very well, however, as it was just last year, and I'm sure I felt no emotional upheaval then either. I don't know if I'm unusually emotionally stable, or if the rumor is just plain wrong. But despite the joking around (which I do a lot), the numbers don't give me pause. In reflection, however, I have found a milestone looming ahead that is truly frightening.

In 2 years, I will be a mom with no little kids.
I know, I know, you're all saying....What? Poor Jennifer. She's lost her marbles. Hasn't she been looking forward to the time she can be at home alone for a minute? The time when a trip to the bathroom doesn't involve door pounding and tears. The time when a project can be spread out on the kitchen table and walked away from. A time when a pair of scissors can actually be set down without an internal assessment of the accessibility of the location - just set down. Sounds nice. What's to be afraid of?But, seriously. I'm scared of that moment, that time. Becoming a young mom was easy. All my life I've been involved with little kids. I was the oldest of six. I was helping with sibling before I knew which end was up (ask my mom about that story.) I earned most of my money in my teens from babysitting. And I was good. So good I went on to nanny 2 different times. I worked at a daycare center. Becoming a mother was the most natural thing in the world. No stress over how to go about the everyday care of children. I had experience, I had practice. No problem. And I wanted so much to be a mom. It's what I truly had aspired to my entire life. Moving into the social realm of the young moms was fun. It was a group I was eager to join, and I loved every minute of it. Still do. I love commiserating on the beauty and frustrations of breast-feeding, discussing the challenges of the toddler tantrum, and the weighing in on advisability of letting preschoolers stay up as late as their older siblings. But when Sarah gets into 1st grade, I move into a different set. Moms of older kids. And no, even though I have some older kids now, I'm not really in that group yet. I'm still very firmly with the moms of little kids. I'm afraid of moving on. I don't want to give up the camaraderie of Picnic in the Park. I like complaining that I need more adult conversation. I enjoy trading babysitting back and forth in order to chaperon a field trip. I love my life, and despite humorous observations on the joys of future solitude and productivity, I don't want it to change. So I find myself dreading that time I thought I would look forward so eagerly to. The time when there are no more playgroups, no more morning walks with the stroller, no more one-on-one time with a darling 2-year-old (or 3- or 4- or 5-year old.) No more lifting up to drinking fountains, or struggling with car seats, or helping to spoon up a bite of food. No more baby hair, or tiny socks, or buckling little shoes. I know what I'm going to gain. Freedom. Quiet. Time. Perhaps a bit more sanity. I am just terribly afraid it won't be worth what I'm going to lose.