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As a mother to two young children in my mid-forties, I sometimes feel as if I’m hiding something from them — the sustained awareness that I’m only growing older with time.
My husband and I usually take turns to deal with our kids’ requests that come up at odd hours in the night. So it is my turn tonight when our three-year-old daughter calls out from her room. It’s 2:15 a.m., and she is too afraid to fall asleep.
“How come?”, I ask her.
She tells me that she will have scary dreams if she sleeps right now.
My son, who turned six last year, is also up because of the commotion.
So the three of us sit together on the bed as I try to read my daughter something from one of her storybooks. It’s 2:15 a.m., and I am too sleepy to be an engaging storyteller. An hour later, we’ve reached the end of the book, and the kids are far from being sleepy.
As I get up to put the book back on the shelf, I step on my son’s tiny metal car. A surge of pain jerks me from a half-asleep state, and I limp back to the children.
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My son wants me to make up a story for him, and intrigued by her brother’s suggestion; my daughter demands a story about her. Amidst them talking over each other and the pain in my foot, I can’t help but feel that maybe I am too old to be doing this.
Starting a family in my forties was not an easy decision. But after that, every day with my husband and children has been precious to me. What worries me, though, is the uncertainty that the future holds. I don’t know for how long I will be able to continue taking care of my family as well as I can right now. Till when can I attend to their 2 a.m. requests? What about when they’re going through a difficult time in high school or are struggling with their job?
As this night proceeds, my multiple concerns take the shape of a larger question to which I do not seem to have an answer: Will I be able to take care of my kids when they need me the most? Will I even be around?
It is not my first time thinking about this. It’s clear to me that by the time my daughter gets done with school, I’ll be in my sixties. And then what?
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I have this memory of my mother talking about how some of her older friends passed away in their fifties. Now that I find myself at the same juncture, this thought of being suddenly dead one day feels quite haunting to me.
And trust me when I say this, I have started living a much more healthy lifestyle compared to how things were in my late twenties.
But tonight, as I sit by my children, this awareness of my morality refuses to let me be at ease. It’s 3:50 a.m. now, and the kids have finally slept. But as I’m getting up, my son turns on his side.
I give him a peck on the cheek and say, “I love you.”
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And he murmurs, “I know you do,” as he drifts back into a deep sleep. I know because I check up on them once more around 4:30 a.m.
As I slowly doze off, this exchange with my son continues floating in my head. They know that I love them.
I imagine my kids growing older and having children of their own. They shall lead good and happy lives, I think. As long as I am there, I will do all that I can to ensure that. And something reassures me that even when I’m gone, they are going to be okay.
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