I am fifty today. I know it’s no big deal but I think to myself, Buckle up, bitch, you just hit fifty.
I only recently started to refer to myself as “bitch.”
My two daughters, ages fourteen and nineteen, talk to each other that way. They say things like, “You’re a bad-ass bitch.” Then the other one says, “Thank you sissy ho.” These are compliments.
At first, this really bothered me. Growing up, “bitch” and “ho” were bad words. Since I don’t like when my kids use profanity, I would get mad when I heard the girls call each other these names. Then my 14-year-old started answering my calls by saying, “What up Momma Bitch?”
I said, “I prefer to be called Mom.”
Later, I noticed she changed my contact name in her iPhone to: Bitch, Call Me Mom.
When I reminded my daughters that fifty was around the corner, the youngest said, “Bitch you’re a queen” and the oldest said, “ Mom, that’s dank,” (dank is good.) I said, “Thank you my hos,” and smiled. If you can’t beat ’em, join ‘em.
So I ask myself what does it mean to be fifty? My answer is hemorrhoids. I don’t have them or want them…but that’s what comes to mind when I think of fifty.
I also think: sexy, and freedom, and old, and grandma in assisted living, and kids leaving home, and my husband and me with AARP cards, and no more cheap shoes or periods (soon), and happy and successful, and fewer loads of laundry and dishes in the sink, and more time and less time…all in the same thought.
I think “more time” because shortly after I turn fifty, my daughter turns twenty and my youngest turns fifteen (my son is freshly seventeen). That means another one will be leaving for college soon, and I will need to call Valley Driving School for another package of driving lessons, and one of my kids will soon be the legal drinking age. And that means more time for me because my kids are getting more and more independent. And then it also means less time. As in, less time to live. As in, the clock is ticking. As in, I will die soon. As in, what does soon mean and aren’t we all dying as soon as we are born?
When I share these thoughts with my daughters, they tell me “It’s all good, ho.” They look at my gray hairs and my less-than-toned arms and my tight blue jeans and tell me, I’m a boss, and I should flex because my butt still looks damn good. I don’t know how they got so supportive and wise and body-positive. But I love it.
So here’s the tea: I’m fifty, my kids are growing up, and I’m a bad-ass bitch. And that’s a good thing! Happy fiftieth to me :)