Sometimes, when I am without my children, I forget how old I am. And that is OK, for at that moment in time, my age is insignificant.  It doesn’t matter how old I actually am when I stroll the frozen food section.  Buy a book of stamps.  Pick up my Retin-A prescription (like all smart women who forget their age).  

If you caught me at this moment in time, I may hesitate when you ask me my age.  And may think I am 28.

Stop laughing.  I never said I looked 28.  I just may feel it. For that was the last year I was without children. When I was able to get a haircut or pump gas without having to have a predictable plan for the next few hours.  There are moments I am still afforded that luxury.

So it is always surprising when I meet someone who is actually 28.  It’s my somewhat sad jolt back to reality.  Reminding me that I am way beyond that number.  In too many ways to count.  

These jolts come at random and infrequent times.  When the girl ringing up my shirt talks about her upcoming wedding.  When a former coworker tells me her 4-year-old son is now a junior in college.  And most recently, when our dear neighbor’s little girl got married.

The little girl, Becky, is actually 23.  But it doesn’t change the fact that I met her when she was 11.  In my world, she has been eternally stuck somewhere between 16 and 20.  Until now.  

I know that sand has been running through the hourglass.  I just didn’t realize it had been running  nonstop.  It was only yesterday that Really Big Guy and I, as a freshly engaged, clueless couple moved into our little love shack.  

Well, OK. It was really 12 ½ years ago.  And two polite, dark haired kids -  the bride, Becky, age 11 and her brother, Mark, age 7 - knocked on our door to welcome us to the neighborhood.  

Mark liked our dog. In the beginning, he’d come by just to hang out with the big, overweight, pup.  Once in a while, he’d show up as I pulled weeds in the yard and offer to help.  

Early on, Becky didn’t come around much.  Then we had Big Guy. As a new, overwhelmed mom,  I couldn’t understand why she wanted to spend time with us.  Maybe it was clear I was clueless.  

Then Little Guy came along.  I had my hands full.  Somehow, whenever Big Guy wanted to run, Mark would show up at just the right time to run with him.   As Mark grew, he would hang out with us.  Be patient as Big Guy begged him to play race cars.  He’d end up putting the entire track together.  He was our instant, in a pinch, big brother to Big Guy and Little Guy on many occasions.  

Around this time, Becky became our full fledged sitter.  She’d quietly and diligently watch both boys.  As the years past, if she couldn’t, Mark would.  When she left for college, Mark stepped in.  

We blinked and Becky became a college grad.  We turned our head for a second and Mark took her place away at school.  

I never thought about them growing up as parallel to me growing older. As most moms, I live in my little universe, blinded by my own children’s milestones.  We know that these events translate into years passed, but the day-to-day makes it seems gradual.  Almost slow motion.

Then Becky got married.  

This jolt has lasted longer than usual.  Lingering in the form of an engagement announcement, a bridal shower and the actual wedding.   It’s as if Father Time wanted me to know that he hasn’t forgotten me.  

Don’t worry, Father Time. Of course I know you haven’t forgotten me.  You leave me tiny, harsh reminders in the form of fine lines. Wrinkles.  Body parts that have been made significantly smaller.  And some that are now bigger.  (I only wish you had asked for some input this area. If you had simply asked for some guidance, I could have helped.)  

Not all of your reminders have been unkind.  When I was Becky’s age, I met my husband.   Eventually, I walked down the aisle.  In time, two kids followed.  Although I am amazed and shocked as to how fast the time has passed, I am never sorry.   

What time doesn’t understand is that I am fine with my age.  Truthfully, I’m quite good with it.  There’s a certain freedom that comes with acknowledging my number.  In fact, the older I get, the more irrelevant the number becomes.  For once you become a mom, time is tracked a whole new way.  Boundaries between women fall as we are united under the mom umbrella.

Our age is unimportant.  So we innocently forget.  I forget.  And could mark myself a decade less than I really am.  Until the jolt.

But forgetting is different than accepting.  And it’s not hard to accept my real age.  Far beyond the 28 I may warmly remember when I am alone.  It’s just hard to believe. 

Illyse appears every Thursday on TriangleMom2Mom.