I have NEVER been one to shy away from celebrating my birthday.  Never.  People, I LOVE my birthday.  I restrain myself to only begin the countdown 30 days before and bask in the afterglow of my birthday for at least a week… or two… or three… much to my husband’s dismay.

However fine I may be with being 46, I am filled with more than a bit of anxiety at the realization that I am officially middle-aged.  Seriously, people, I am middle-aged.  MIDDLE-AGED!

What in God’s name does being MIDDLE-AGED even mean?

Is it coyly blushing when asked for my identification when buying alcoholic beverages?

I don’t care if the young ‘un behind the counter is just following company policy… it still counts… doesn’t it?

Is it the sweet feeling my junior high kiddos give me with their aghast reactions that I couldn’t possibly be that old?

Or is it their disbelief when they announce that I am way older than their parents?

Is it the reality of still battling all my adolescent insecurities that grew up with me?  Or is it feeling more confident with who I am warts and all?

Truthfully, it more or less depends on the day.

On my good days, the magic of my years of accrued wisdom give me the ability to say Eff It and talk myself down from the ledge when those paralyzing knots of doubt and anxiety threaten to undo me.

On those bad days, well… even people slowly growing older beat themselves up unnecessarily.

Is it cringing when my youngest asks me sweetly, “Mommy, how old are you going to be when I am a daddy?”

To which the elder responds, “She’ll be dead.”

Taking preventative measures, I have grounded them until they are 40.  To which the elder added, “Geez, Mom, by then you’ll be infinity dead.”

This child… this child!  I’ve often thought that he may be the death of me, but apparently he’s already planning it.

I certainly don’t have it figured out quite yet.  Upon reflection, I think I am doing okay… more or less.  I have no desire to turn back time or change any of the life experiences that have shaped the woman I am today.  But, honestly, I can begrudgingly say… that I am … more or less… okay… with saying… I am a woman of an age that fits into a category many – including every dictionary and medical resource I have consulted – wish to label as… dammit…  middle-aged.

I know my kids.

I know when they are sick. I know when they are faking.  I know that a Band-Aid will solve most of the elder’s pains.  I know my youngest can’t be fooled by a simple Band-Aid but a glass of chocolate milk will work miracles.

I know when the elder’s sense of dramatic flair is spiraling out of control.  I know when to sit him down for an intervention, and I know when to wait and let him fizzle out in melodramatic fashion.

I know when the youngest needs to tell his story about his latest asthma issue and how many times he needs to retell said story until he is satisfied he has usurped his brother’s place as the center of attention and he is… out… of… words.  I also know when to cut him off after the 33rd retelling because, well, we still have things to get done today!

So, when the elder is moaning about leg pain and his stomach hurting at bed time, AND again in the morning before school on a state testing day, I decide he is faking.

He IS faking 99% of the time.  His leg hurts any time he wants a break from an organized sport he just had to play but has decided mid-season, mid-game that he wants to retire early.  His stomach hurts any time he has to pick up his room, help with yard work, or do his homework.  His leg and stomach can hurt on cue any time he decides he would rather be doing something else.

Imagine my surprise when the school nurse calls to inform me that my child has a fever and needs to be picked up from school.  Imagine!  I announce that I am the worst mother ever to anyone willing to listen.  My captive audience of 7th graders appropriately chuckles at my horror and comforts me by sharing their stories of disbelieving mothers.

I feel like a complete and total failure.  Who misses the signs of excessive tiredness, lack of appetite, and excessive grumpiness?  Who chalks this up to the desert heat, picky eater syndrome, and a naturally disgruntled nature?  Who sends a kid to school with a low grade fever on a state testing day?

I DO!

Hmmmph.  Forty-five minutes later, my divine coworkers cover for me until the substitute can arrive and my students celebrate their reprieve from mandatory tutoring and lunch detentions, and I pick up my little cherub.    He hugs me and is happy to see me.  I am relieved he is okay and not in a comatose state due to my morning oversights. And he brags that he was tough enough to ace his state test before he was sent to the nurse’s office.  Ah, this boy makes me proud.

I feel relieved that he has survived my parenting fail mostly unscathed.  An afternoon of Sprite, naps, back rubs, and hugs is in order to get my boy through this viral episode. This mom is on call.

I am almost done beating myself up.  Almost.  I do get it right most of the time. I do know my kids.   I’ve got this … more or less.