It happens, not every day, but often enough that it doesn’t bug me and I’ve come to expect it: “Are you his grandma?” “Your grandson is so cute!” Sometimes it’s a kid making the assumption, but not always.
I don’t dye my hair, so it’s pretty obvious that I’m not in my 30s. I only know one mom of a kid my son’s age who is older than me. It may be weird from an outsider’s perspective, but it’s normal to me, and I think there are advantages. I’m a fully-formed adult — I can’t imagine being a mom in my late 20s or early 30s when I was still figuring myself out. I know what I will and won’t put up with, from my kid and the adults I interact with as part of being a parent.
There are disadvantages too, of course. I’m not as physically robust as I would like to be, and that sometimes limits what I can do with my six-year-old. But mostly, I worry about not being around when my kid is older. I want to see his whole life, or at least settled in his own family or community, and unlike younger parents, I can’t assume I’ll be around for all of that. Not that anyone can — death isn’t inextricably linked to age.
Not according to the Boo — he’s convinced that everyone dies when they’re 100, though he’s fuzzy on the mechanics of exactly how that happens. He sometimes calculates how old he’ll be when my time is up. It’s charming and sad, and it gives us an opportunity to talk about death.
Yes, an opportunity. As a culture, we don’t talk about death enough, and I want my son to be aware of it so he’s better prepared to face it.
Just one of the many fun tasks of parenting.
Mama-Come-Lately 
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