Becoming That Woman

Ever have one of those moments, where you suddenly pop outside yourself, and realize you've become that person?    That person you couldn't ever, possibly, be old enough to be?  

This happened to me this week.    I was at the hair salon, getting my hair foiled and cut (for the one or two guys that read this blog, "foils" is a fancy way of saying I was getting my hair dyed).      As she is foiling and snipping away, my hairdresser tells me she is expecting her first child.

"OH MY!" I exclaimed, and my hands went all fluttery.    "How exciting!  Your first!  Oh, it's so exciting, your first child!"   On I went, using exclamation point after exclamation point.    She smiled patiently, and kept foiling away.

And then I became that woman:  the one that used to prattle on and on to me when I was pregnant with my first.   At the grocery store, the salon, Babies R Us - everywhere I went it seemed these middle aged women were popping out of the woodwork to go on and on about their first pregnancies, their c-section scars or how many hours they pushed, their colicky babies, their sleepless nights, their - EW - episiotomies (for the one or two guys who read this blog I'll spare you the details).    All this TMI was followed by some Disney-esque exclamation, like:  "Oh, but it's such a magical time!"

As I'm prattling away, I suddenly look as myself in the mirror and I really see myself:  a middle-aged woman getting the greys dyed out of her hair, foils sticking madly off my head, bags under my eyes, and - gulp - an age spot or two on my hands.   My hairdresser hasn't said a word in about ten mintues.   I didn't go so far as to talk about c-section scars or episiotomies, but I came really close.

When did this happen?   When did I become the woman of two school aged kids, who won't be having any more children, who is talking to young pregnant women like we're peers?    I realized, with some horror, that she is about ten years younger than I am.   

Throughout my tirade she smiled patiently, nodding her head on occasion, waiting me out.   She's used to it, just like I was.    I know she's thinking the same thing I was when this happened to me:    whatever, lady. 

I stop myself, and leaf through my Us magazine for a minute or two, sheepish.   Finally, I ask what I wish other women would have asked me:  "How are you feeling?   Are you excited?   Nervous?  Have you started buying baby stuff yet?  Are you registered anywhere?"

She smiles openly, and starts chatting away about how she isn't getting morning sickness, she wished she would start showing, she doesn't feel like she has that pregnant glow.    She talks about the nursery they are preparing, the little onesies and booties she can't stop buying.    She isn't thinking about the actually giving birth part, yet, she is wallowing in the warmth of expecting, of becoming.     She is radiant.

"Congratulations," I say, and I mean it.    And then, of course, I say it:

"It's such a magical time."