Navel gazing

Three things have happened in the last week that have made me stop and think.

The first one was last week as I was finishing French Women Don't Get Fat (thinking about losing the baby weight). At the end of the book the author talks about life stages and breaks them down into age groups that include 17-34 and 35-55. It suddenly hit me that in about six weeks I'll be moving into the latter category. When I read that section it struck terror into my heart. It's all about metabolism slowing down, loss of bone density and even discusses menopause! Good heavens.

Then on Friday Toby's school hired a little theatre company to come and do Puss in Boots for the children. I went to pick Tobes up just as the actors were loading the van. Tobes was a bit starstruck so we stopped to chat and tell them how much Toby had enjoyed the show. The group was made up of about half a dozen guys and girls in their early twenties. As Tobes and I were walking home with Rosie in the stroller I realised something that really frightened me - to those fresh young people I was virtually invisible. I was a Mother and I wasn't 'young'. If they had been forced to call me by name they would've called me Mrs Futers. The girls could not imagine being friends with me and the boys, god forbid, could not imagine sleeping with me.

Now, I'm not hankering for my youth but this was the first time that I felt older than other people who would be considered adults themselves. It's one thing to feel the differences between yourself and a group of grotty teenagers, quite another to feel so far from something that still seems so close.

Then yesterday, another disconcerting experience. I finally got around to taking the bottle of champagne that's been knocking around the trunk of our car for weeks to our estate agent. It's a thank you present for all of her hard work with the buying of the flat. The agent is named Miranda . She's in her mid-late twenties and in the raging insanity of pregnancy I was convinced that J was either having an affair with her or hoping to. Now, I didn't really think that J was having an affair but I did, and still do, think that if he was going to have an affair the person would be someone like Miranda.

She's very London. Very well-dressed but not uptight. Quite pretty and very well groomed. Business-like to the point of being curt at times but can turn on the charm when necessary. If I'm being honest, she reminds me of myself at the same age... or at least my hopeful perception of myself at that age. Yesterday I was much more struck by our differences. Miranda had her hair highlighted since the last time I saw her and it had obviously been blow-dried that morning because it looked soft and smooth. This was in stark contrast to my own hair. I too had washed my hair that morning but had then quickly shoved it into a ponytail while it was still wet so that I could wipe Toby's bottom and get Rosie her bottle. As I stood in the real estate office in Miranda's glow I suddenly realised that I hadn't even looked in the mirror before leaving the house. Ugh. I had at least remembered to brush my teeth. Yay.

Miranda asked how we were doing and I said that we were fine but that we all had this awful cold that's been going around. She replied that she had it too and wasn't it dreadful. Again, the differences stood out in stark relief. She was poised, groomed and had her make up on. I, on the other hand, knew from experience that my face would be bright red from the cold and I could actually see the dry flakes on the end of my nose from blowing it constantly and I knew that I looked as knackered as I felt. Add to this picture Miranda's chic little skirt and my sweatpants with dirty hems because they're too long without the bump to hold them up and you can understand my discomfort.

As I stood talking to her, trying to maintain my composure while I became increasingly concerned as each difference made itself obvious to me, I saw Rosie spit up out of the corner of my eye. I quickly wiped the sick off her mouth and the snot from her nose before saying goodbye. I awkwardly backed the stroller out of the office door, laden like a packhorse with the nappy bag and my bulging handbag. As I waved goodbye I noticed Miranda pick up a tiny elegant handbag and virtually glide into the next office. Ugh again.

Now what does all of this mean? Do I want to be twenty again? No. Do I want to be Miranda? Absolutely not. Do I have a new position and identity to which I need to adjust? Definitely. Being 31 with one child is a far cry from being 35 with two children. It's getting serious now. I may just have to grow up.

Hopefully not too much though.