Exposure Therapy

I keep bumping into my fear of aging, as though, if given enough chances to face it, head on, I will somehow overcome it.   That's why God gave me Logan, I think.  My blessed child who, at least on a monthly basis, reminds me--and anyone else--that I am getting old.  With comments like, "Your skin is kind of oldish," or "You should try this make up because you have a lot of lines around here," or "My mom can't run anymore," (which, for the record is untrue.  I CAN run.  It's just that after the baby I sort of pee a little when I do.) or, feeling my slightly bulging tummy, "Are you sure you're not getting pregnant?" or "I liked you better when you were in shape."  or, pointing at my sundamaged skin, "What are those?  Ewww."  Like I said, God's version of exposure therapy.

I'm not convinced it is working, per se.  I still consider my short walk to adult diapers and decriptitude on a regular basis, but at least I'm developing a sense of humor about it.  Which is good, because sometimes, if I don't laugh I might cry.

Like yesterday.  I had put off Lincoln's 3rd vaccinations long enough.  Thanks to our crappy, self-employed insurance coverage, I was out of Dr. visit money.  They'd pay for vaccinations but not the office visit.  If you can get the doctor to vaccinate the child without actually going into the office, I'd love to know your secret.  Soooo...back the the free vaccination clinic we go. 

Remember the last time we were there?  I do.  It is branded into my memory.  Just driving there caused a hot flash.  Over and over again the scene replayed in my mind.  Griffin writhing and screaming.  This time, all the way there I heard the happy gurgles of baby Lincoln in the back seat, and it made me cringe to know that in a few short minutes he, too, would be in tears, that confused and accusing look across his face the moment the needle pricked his fleshy thigh. The bad taste of dread made it hard to swallow.

So I gave myself a pep talk.  As I drove I silently listed all the benefits of early vaccination, and as I filled out the paperwork I recalled all the diseases my children do not need to fear thanks to modern medicine, and as I made my way through the hallway toward the nurses station, I just tried to breathe.  As I sat down I confessed, "You know, after three kids you would think this would get easier."

And you know what the nurse said?  "Is this your grandchild?"

Wha---?!  Suddenly, the needles on the desk infront of me didn't even register.  Screw polio!  I look like a grandmother???  Are you kidding me here???  My mind went into some kind of whirling black hole, and just like that the baby was crying, the shots were done, and I was back in my car, still flabbergasted.  "Grandma?!"

There are serious thresholds a woman crosses on the way to (ahem) maturity.  Those looks women are used to getting one day disappear.  You know, those smiles from men that are slightly creepy, until they are gone and then you sense they were sort of flattering, too?  Those disappeared around the arrival of our mini-van.  And I distinctly remember my first "Ma'am."  That was a shocker.  But this?  My first address as grandma?  This was too big to handle alone. 

I needed to talk to my people.  The committee, of sorts, that I pass all important information by.  The people I trust to weigh in on all things Laurel:  Mr. Wicke, my two best friends, and my mother.  Between them they were able to talk me down from the ledge.  They told me she was "crazy."  We agreed that childhood pregnancy was not uncommon at the free clinic, right?  I appreciated their apparent shock, and laughing together tilted my little world back onto its axis again.  Yes.  Something was definitely wrong with that nurse.

And then, this morning over breakfast (because my genetic makeup is to turn things over and over again in my brain) I did the math, and here's how it added up:  I could have a grandchild.  And not in a "I got knocked up in high school" kind of way.  I could, legitimately, have a grandchild.  I don't.  But I COULD.

Bump!  See?  There it is again.  I am getting older, and there is nothing I can do about it.  Man, this exposure therapy is painful!  Especially to a "grandma" like me.