How My Kids’ Blunt Observations Have Helped Me Age With Grace

I’ll never forget the reality-defining moment I had when my son, now 10, was just a toddler: He had snuggled up on my lap, raised his little hand to my adoring face, and traced my frown lines with a single finger.

“What are these, Mommy?”

What he wasn’t aware of was that, as a newly minted 40 year old, I had been applying Frownies adhesives at bedtime for months in a desperate attempt to mitigate the pesky grooves that were making me always look angry. Improvement that far had been one rung above non-existent and yet I was not to be deterred, even when my neighbor caught a glimpse of the strips when I forgot to remove them that one awkward morning.

My response was to pretend I had no idea what he was talking about.

I am hard pressed to articulate exactly what shifted with my son’s awareness, but essentially, I knew this: The jig was up. I had always relied on my husband’s honesty when I pressed him for the truth — for instance, on how dire my frown lines had become — but I was always grateful for his sensitivity in persuading me to consider a less distorted reality.

My children, however, have always unabashedly toyed with my vulnerabilities like kittens batting around a catnip-filled mouse. And on this first occasion with my son, I was overcome with a convoluted mix of despair and denial, and the Frownies were applied that night with more determination than ever.

For years after, I bristled every time the children squashed my attempts at feigning ignorance. Like the time I was brushing teeth, bending down to reach my then 6-year-old’s face when I realized her gaze was fixated just below my chin.

“Whatchya looking at, honey?”

I knew it was my saggy neck that had captured her attention — and how could it not, as the droop was so uniquely lopsided, mockingly ushering in older age — and I quickly straightened my posture to make it shrink, as I pretended to shrug off what had just taken away my breath.

The children and I disagreed on the number of white hairs that had cropped up on one side of my part — their totals always significantly higher and more precise than my estimation. In addition to being impressed with the sheer volume, they wanted to know if the “springy wires” were more from fear or age.

They were also curious by hair growing out of funny places, “What is that?” pointing to a single, impossibly-long hair growing out of a mole on my forehead and the other scrambling over my torso to catch a glimpse, bruised at not having made the discovery first.

My entire physique would eventually be contemplated, as I discovered when my daughter, young enough to still teeter on her feet, came to the side of the bed and instinctively pushed on the portion of my upper thigh that had oozed out of my underwear like hot lava. The moment was as poignant as one with dialogue.

Nothing was off limits, not even intrinsic abilities like dancing — of any kind. The kids and I were heading upstate when a familiar refrain filled the car, “That girl is poison” and I simply could not help myself. Yes, even restrained by a seatbelt, I popped and locked as Bell Biv DeVoe’s snare drum punctuated the air in the car — heaven on earth. This time would be different, this would be the moment I would glance into the rearview mirror to behold my children’s blown-away expressions. Things disintegrated when I realized my son was subtly furrowing his brow in the same painful way he did when I asked him to check my teeth for food bits.

The point of origin of my identity crisis, of sorts, is my mother. I grew up in a household where she was never seen without a full face of make up, stockings, and gobs of perfume. We kids tiptoed around her on good days and kept our distance on bad ones. Times were different and like so many, I vowed to provide a different experience for my family — one with unconditional access and humility — yet there I was, grappling with my children perceiving me as less-than.

One quiet afternoon that all changed.

“Your mustache looks so soft, Mommy,” announced my cherubic daughter. The face of my former salon waxer buzzed like neon in my mind, her brows hoisted with hope, “Shall we get rid of this today?” Me, yet again, defiantly rejecting her offer with an indignant shrug. And suddenly, with my daughter in my lap this time, I burst out laughing.

“Thank goodness it’s not black and curly!”

Ultimately, my son noticing my frown lines blew down a flimsy pretense that mom was perfect — on the outside, or at all. What they see is actually there: I am a flawed, apparently old-fashioned human who is also getting older. No one has to tiptoe around this fact, myself included, or any other truth in our household.

I equate this honesty with closeness, which extends far beyond my exterior. When I scold my son for being unkind to his sister, he yells right back that it is hard to be a perfect big brother. He understands, I am reminded, and then we hug. On the frequent occasion that I am clumsily trying to invoke an old fashioned rule, they feel comfortable enough to challenge me — routinely with respect, and most of the time I can hear them. I love them for who they are — bad habits, behaviors, and all. They tell me their secrets, fears, and, yes, share observations about what they see, repeatedly demonstrating a generosity and wisdom I don’t remember possessing as a child. In exchange, I have long tossed the Frownies, and stopped trying to be perfect.

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