Being the older mom. I’m okay with it.

I have always been the “older” mom.

I gave birth to Number 3 when I was thirty-five.

Number 4 the day before my thirty-seventh birthday.

Number 5 three months before I turned forty.

Number 6 three months before I turned forty-one.

And Number 7 when I was forty-two.

And now, at forty-six, I am definitely one of the oldest moms at all the preschool, kindergarten, and first grade functions.

I never pictured myself as the old mom.

When I was younger, I imagined that when I had kids I’d be young. I’d be the cool mom. I’d know all the current music. I’d still watch MTV and know who all the cast members on the latest season of the Real World were (is that show even still on?). I’d never be caught dead watching, gasp, VH-1 (is that even a channel anymore?).

I’d listen to whatever music the college kids listened to. I’d eschew Top 40 and all things pop. I’d be the mom that all the kids hoped to be like when they had kids.

But things didn’t quite go the way I had planned…

Last night I went to a cookie swap party.

And the conversation turned to music. Another mom there with me admitted that she was clueless in the music department. That she’s always been about ten years behind the latest music trends.

The other moms there started whipping out their phones.

“Well you must know this song! they told her, and they started playing it on their phones. When she looked at them like they were speaking a foreign language, they told her the name of the artist.

“Come on! You have to know him!”

“Who the hell is Fatty Schwab?” she asked them.

“FETTY WAP!” they said to her. “EVERYONE knows Fetty Wap!”

And that’s when it became clear.

I am officially the old and not cool mom.

Because I had no clue who the hell Fetty Wap was. I totally had to Google him.

Just like I had to Google Netflix and chill the other day when a friend of mine made a joke about that on Facebook and I had no idea what the fuck she was talking about.

But this is why I like being the old mom.

Because you know what’s cool about being the older mom?

I don’t give a flying fuck what anyone else thinks.

I have wrinkles.

On my knees.

And they don’t bother me.

My boobs hang a lot lower than they used to. But that’s nothing that a sturdy bra can’t fix.

I couldn’t really tell you who the breakout artist of the moment is.

Well, except for Fetty Wap. I totally know who he is now, although the missing eyeball thing kind of makes it easy to remember what he looks like.

I blast REO Speedwagon in my car. And I don’t care who hears it.

I have more than one Top 40 station programmed into my radio.

I am old enough to be the mother of a bunch of my kids’ teachers.

And I think I’m old enough to be the mother of some of the other mothers in Number 7’s preschool class.

But I’ve made so many mistakes in my life that I’m much less judgmental of all those younger moms who have so much still to learn.

I don’t sweat the small stuff.

When you’ve been through divorce and bankruptcies and miscarriages and abusive relationships and death and betrayal and mental illness and foreclosures and drug addictions and all sorts of other shit, it kind of puts things into perspective.

At twenty-five I was obsessed with my reflection in the mirror.

At thirty-five I was obsessed with how others perceived my reflection in the mirror.

At forty-five I didn’t have time for that.

My priorities were starting to make sense. And be healthy.

Now I know better.

If my house is a shit hole and someone unexpectedly stops over, eh. No big deal.

Welcome to my shithole. If you don’t like it, you know where the door is.

I may look older. I may be a little heavier. And wrinklier. And less cool.

When I say I want to Netflix and chill, it most likely means that I really just want to watch a movie. And sleep.

But at forty-six years old, I also know myself. And I like myself. Just the way I am.

And I am able to be much more present for my kids because I’m not worrying about the stupid, superficial shit I used to worry about when I was twenty-six. Or thirty-six.

Sure, I may have started this whole parenthood thing more than ten years later than I had originally planned.

Nah, I’m not the young, hip mom.

I move a little slower than all those twenty and thirty somethings.

But I also move a little smarter.

And when I look at it that way, I guess that makes me a pretty cool mom, too.