I know I’ve just had a ‘big’ birthday. That now when I tick an age range on a form it is the 50+ bracket. That when I have to give my date of birth I need to scroll down forever before I find my year. In common with most people my age though, I don’t feel much different to how I was twenty years ago. Then someone in their fifties was middle aged, bordering on. But I’m not.
The trouble is, my cute little children now tower over me. There was a time they looked up to me, were even impressed by me (okay, maybe I made up that one). Now they beat me at all the things I used to be better at.
I’m the swimmer in the family. I’m the one who does eighty lengths twice a week. When I take them, they do a hundred.
I run twice a week too – maybe more of a shuffle, but I get out and do it. They rarely bother, but when they do they zip past me, laughing in my red, sweaty face.
I pay tennis. I’m not great, but I play for my village club. And yes, you’ve guessed it. Where once I would wait patiently for ages for them to get the ball over the net, now it comes over so fast I barely get a racket to it.
Part of me is proud of them. The other part is really, really miffed.
There is still one thing I have over them. I can drive. But where once I was strapping my eldest into his car seat at the back, now he’s sitting in the drivers seat. He’s not beaten me on this one, yet. He’s still learning, still taking notice of what I say. But give it a few months and he’ll be off on his own.
How can that be, when I’m not old enough to have a son who drives himself to school?