Thank you, Way Too Skinny Girl Dressed In Black Giving Me a Makeover: My girlhood dream was to be a pioneer in the midlife motherhood movement. At age four I dyed my hair gray and told my Crissy doll that I longed to be an arthritic mother-of-the-bride. How did you know?
Dear Lithe One In Jeggings Watching Me Wrestle With My Daughter’s Leotard and Tutu: Congratulations on conquering simple math. Congratulations on getting married in your 20’s, having 3 kids before the age of 30, and getting to ballet class on time with all of your clothes on. Yes, I am 44 years older than my daughter. And I don’t feel like squabbling with semantics right now so let’s leave it at that. After all, it is the truth. But that isn’t what you meant, is it? No. I didn’t give birth to her. Yes, she is adopted. Are you happy now?
Dear Mr. Pediatrician Looking At Me Strangely And Taking Copious Notes, I survive on a diet of leftover Dino-nuggets, and I wake up every night worrying about BPA, preschools and potty training. Thanks for asking.
