For me, facing 50 means facing teenaged sons. Strange: my mom at 50 was 7 years into widowhood; she'd already buried one son (well, she didn't do the actual burying, but you know what I mean), married off three more, and was whipping the last one into marital shape; she had reassembled the crib, which was now getting heavy use from the growing crowd of grandkids (eventually 24 but at this point somewhere between 5 and 7), and she had two daughters in college. But then, Mom facing 50 favored "housecoats" for daily wear, shaved her legs only below the knees, and had her hair "done" (teased, ratted, and shellacked) every Friday morning. I love my mother; more than that, I now like my mother (certainly one of the more unexpected and positive developments of the last decade). I admire her greatly. But trying to draw on her life experiences for guidance --well, it's as if I'm suddenly acting in an episode of Doctor Who: what planet has the Tardis brought us to this time?
Of course, I have a great deal of experience in dealing with alien and potentially hostile life forms. I have teenaged sons. Son 1, however, shows signs of evolving into something resembling a human. His response to my first posts seems worth repeating:
mom. what. the. fuck. i just broke my no cursing for a week rule to say that. i am glad you are keeping a blog but menstrual blood? lactating? cant decide whether im too old or too young for that.
I suppose an 18-year-old male faced with his mother's bodily fluids is a bit like the typical Christian faced with images of Jesus farting. God made flesh. Mom as sexual. Too alien?
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