I think it's time to admit that I’m old. It’s possible I’ve actually been old for a while. Now before you jump all over me for saying this at 32, (Yes, I am still young enough to freely acknowledge my age.) you should understand that I don’t mean “old” in the sense that normal people mean old. I mean I’ve reached my childhood definition of old, and then some.

What caused this revelation? I was at my sister’s house not too long ago when she turned to me and said, “Wow. Eight under eight.” She was referring, of course, to the mass quantity of children running circles around us. Though in truth only one was literally running in circles, it was still hard to miss her point.

Just eight short years ago, I was practically a newlywed. There was not, as far as I knew, a whole generation of people thinking I was old. My first hint that things were changing should have been about five years ago. I was taking a walk through our neighborhood, pushing my son in his stroller. Two kids on bikes came around the corner and I heard one say to the other, “Look out for that lady.” I looked around to see about whom they were speaking because I was a young woman with a baby. I was not “that lady.” I decided that I must have looked like someone else from the back.

Besides the fact that eight kids will age just about anyone, what was it that affected me about that number? It was my part of it. For the longest time, “mom of four” was a title that made me think of my own mother. Now I’ve caught up to her. And it happened rather suddenly because of my twins. When I went from having two kids to four all at once, it’s as if I skipped a step in the whole process of growing older, which really shouldn’t be allowed. (Of course, N.C. birth records will tell you that I did actually have three kids for 10 whole minutes, but I assure you I was in no state to appreciate it at the time.)

So here I am fully ensconced in the adult bracket. I drive a minivan, I turn my head when anyone anywhere says “mom,” and loading my kids into the car takes just as long (if not longer) than loading my groceries. But the most surprising thing is that I don’t care. It’s kind of funny to remember a time when I dreaded being “old.” But what’s really funny is that my sister and I have created all these little people who think we’re old and they think our younger sister is the oldest of all just because she’s the tallest. And she might still be young enough to care.

Mandy appears Fridays on TriangleMom2Mom.