When I was a little girl, I thought my mother was entirely too old when she had me. No way I’m waiting until I am the ANCIENT age you were, I would say with all the wisdom of my handful of years. At the time, I couldn’t even imagine being so old as that, all the way past the teens and even through the twenties. How could she have waited so long, I wondered. I swore I would have children earlier than she did, that by the time I reached that deadline I would have surely had at least one and maybe two or three kids.

Recently, I reached that birthday.

I am now the ancient and decrepit age my mother was when I was born. I do not have two or three children. I don’t even have one. I am, at least, married, which is a comfort, and I know that we’re being sensible about the timing of children. I also know that never once have I thought that my mother was actually “too old” to be my mother, and that I am certain that I will not be “too old” to be a proper mother to my kids even if they don’t make an appearance for a few more years.

Still, I can’t help remembering with chagrin how very much I was determined to do this differently. It’s not a milestone I ever thought I’d pass. Funny how things change, isn’t it?