The Best Kept Secret Blog - Back To School For a Midlife Mom

The first day was awful. I didn't look like the others and I felt like they were staring at me, wondering "Who are you? Why are you here?"

They're all young, beautiful and very well dressed. Their skin is smooth, their hair silky and shiny. No grey roots or wrinkles for them.

I hate the first day of school. For the young moms, it's fun. But not for me. You see, I'm an older mom.

While they breezed through filling in the permission forms, I struggled to get my eyes to focus on the fine print. I'm braced for my daughter's teacher to call and ask why she has an allergy to our Home and School Association. (Did I get those mixed up again?)

I didn't plan on having my children later in life. It happened due to a perfect storm of one part misguided feminism ("They told me I could have it all, when I wanted it"); one part misguided, youthful self-confidence ("Things always go my way"); and one part evil fertility gods ("What's this hormone injection I'm taking today called again?").

Put it all together and you have a recipe for children later in life.

Now I'm not that old. (I'm caught somewhere between the Yummy Mummies and the "Breast feed 'em until they leave for college" generation.) At 45, I'm practically a pup compared to my friend Y. who, at her daughter's school concert, smiled at the woman in the seat beside her only to be asked, "Who's your grandchild?"

And I'm certainly not as old as some of the tabloid moms who, in their 60's and 70's, have become parents thanks to the miracle of IVF.

But I've got to tell you there are days when I feel old. Like when my seven year old begs me to get down on the floor and pretend I'm one of her Polly Pockets.

Or like last week when I took the kids to the local pool. After 15 minutes of struggling to get into my Lycra infused, one-piece bathing suit (it's black, of course), I had to stand beside the buff, belly button pierced younger moms, desperately hoping my cellulite wasn't having a bad day.

And don't even get me started on how I relate to my children's teachers. I alternate between wanting to have a serious talk about my children's scholastic achievements and wipe the teacher's noses and do up another button on their sweaters.

If I could do it over again, would I have done things differently? I'm not sure.

I know one couple who had their family ("Oops, the condemn broke!") very early in life. The parents are the same age as me but instead of grade school, we're talking university. Instead of "Not tonight, honey, the kids aren't asleep yet", we're talking "Get the whipped cream and let's do it in the kitchen."

But the bottom line is you get what you get. You play the hand you are dealt. So excuse me while I pack my daughter's Dora backpack while I register for the "Beyond Peri-Menopause Seminar". I've got some mothering to do.