Lynn Hudoba: Old Mother Hubbardoba

I was 40 years old when I had my one and only child.  Yes, I’m one of those older parents.  This has been on my mind because I have my 30th high school reunion coming up in a few weeks, and I will be one of the few with a child as young as seven.  I know for a fact that more than a few of my former classmates are already grandparents.  So I’m bracing for a lot of the thank-God-mine-are-grown-I-can’t-imagine-still-having-little-ones-running-around-so-glad-I’m-done-with-that attitude.

To which I will smile and picture them changing stinky diapers and wiping snotty noses in their 20’s and 30’s when I was traveling the world, living in Amsterdam, and making like Carrie Bradshaw in one of the great world capitals.  OK, I was probably more of a Miranda, but still.  I had fun.  Man, did I have fun.  But I’m sure that they’ll have just as good of a time when they take that senior citizen bus trip to Holland during tulip season with their second husbands.  Meow. 

Actually, despite my bravado, I will admit that there are significant downsides to having a child later in life.  I could not have imagined when I put off procreation that I would have a special needs child.  It’s hard enough being the old and creaky mother of a typical child, but it’s a whole other kettle of crazy to face down the challenges of parenting a special needs child at my advanced age. 

Besides the obvious day-to-day stressors, there is the future to think of.  The jury is still way out as far as whether my daughter will be able to live independently.  Since she will not have any siblings, I worry every day about who will take care of her when I’m gone. 

This gives me a whole new level of motivation – besides just looking good for that reunion – to take care of myself.  After not feeling well all spring and into summer, I changed my diet in an effort to lift a malaise that I just couldn’t seem to shake.  I even started juicing.  I don’t mean steroids, and I don’t mean the foo-foo strawberry-mango-pomegranate stuff.  I’m talking raw vegetable juicing.  I’m talking carrot-beet-kale-fennel-cucumber-tastes-like-ass juicing.  I even forced myself to drink one that involved turnips and garlic.  If that’s not L-O-V-E love, people, I don’t know what is.

Other than inquiring about my magenta-colored poop, my daughter has remained largely and blissfully unaware of the issues surrounding my decrepit-ness and anti-aging strategies.  If she was able to connect those dots, I think that she would say that one of the bigger downsides to my age is the fact that I can’t see squat. 

I’ve been uber-near-sighted my whole life, and now in my old age if I correct for distance I can’t see anything up close.  I’ve only just recently resorted to cheapo reading glasses.  I used to always wonder why Walgreens would have buy-one-get-one sales on reading glasses.  Why in the world would you need more than one pair at a time?  Now I know.  Because you actually need a minimum of thirty pairs if you want to ever have a prayer of finding a pair when you need them.  You need a pair for every room in the house, the car, every purse, other people’s houses, other people’s purses, and restaurants that you frequent (they let you keep them behind the bar).

For a kid with sensory issues for whom personal grooming is already a nightmare, the last thing she wants to see is Granny McBlinderton coming at her with a pair of nail clippers, tweezers, or God forbid, hair shears.  I swear, I cannot make out nail from skin or hair from head on that kid.  Forget about reading with her or helping with her homework.  She recently asked me whose face was on the dime.  I couldn’t tell if it was Truman or FDR, so I went with Dick van Dyke.

But perhaps less worrying than a gashed forehead, bloodied digits, or gross misinformation, is the fact that I sign off on her IEP -- the Individualized Education Program that lays out her educational goals, classroom placement, and services provided by the school district.  I don’t think I’ve remembered even once to bring my reading glasses to these meetings.  After fifteen rounds of tense negotiations, they slide that document in front of me and I could be sending her off to be Michael Lohan’s roommate on Celebrity Rehab for all I know.

On the bright side, if I can manage to get her through these next twelve years of school, I’ll be able to take advantage of that sweet senior citizen discount on college tuition.