"That's Just the Way God Made You"

Last week, I was invited to a spa party at a friend's house. A friend of hers is a representative of a line of skincare products, and she had agreed to host a gathering so the friend could plug the products. There was, my friend's email assured, absolutely no pressure to buy, and I had no intention of doing so. Our family is getting by on one income, plus the little extra I bring in caring for Gemma, so fancy lotions and bath salts are just not in the budget. Plus, my skin care regime consists of an economy size tub of Pond's Cold Cream, my mother's cast off trial-size moisturizers from Clinique, and whatever sunscreen happens to be on sale. I went to the party for the promised pampering, the chance to see my friend, and a break in the routine of after-dinner clean-up and bedtimes.
Cocktail in hand, green paste on my face, and my feet submerged in salt-softened warm water, I listened to the presentation with mild curiosity  There are more than 200 chemicals banned in European skin care products that are allowed in the U.S. Really? After the sun, mineral oil is the second most aging agent for your skin. Hmmm... how do they know that, I wonder?
      After the facial and the foot soak, my face felt tingly and my heels soft. Maybe there was something to this stuff after all, I thought. While we oohed and awed over our rejuvenated feet and smooth cheeks, the rep handed out the catalogues. The women inside walked along the beach, glowing in flowing linen and flawless skin. But... eighty-five dollars for a bottle of moisturizer? Thirty-five for the salt scrub! I closed the catalogue, downed the rest of my cocktail, finished my chocolate cookie, and said my good-byes.
"Maybe when I'm gainfully employed again," I told the rep apologetically, and agreed to be added to her email list.
I am never good on spending money on myself. My closet consists mostly of Goodwill finds and hand-me-downs from my better-dressed friends. I get my teeth cleaned just once a year, my hair cut twice. I'm certainly not the type to spend two days' wages on a bottle of lotion. Still, when I got home I checked the label on the tub of Pond's.  Mineral oil was the third ingredient.
These days, the mirror is not my friend. My hair cut from October has grown out, if not badly, then unremarkably. My receding gums expose my teeth's stained roots; my face seems lined beyond my years. As my thirty-ninth birthday approaches, I find myself almost wishing that this one were forty, so that I could bid farewell to this decade while I still cling to some semblance of youth. Although my abs have never been stronger, the skin on my belly is loose and wrinkled, all of its elasticity spent accommodating the twin pregnancy I carried until thirty-seven weeks. And no matter how many Kegels I do, I still pee my pants whenever I run downhill.
"Do you worry about getting old?" I ask Don as I head out of the bathroom. I don't even kid myself-- I'm fishing for some reassurance.
"What's to worry about?" Don says matter-of-factly.
Discouraged, I grumble something about it being easier for men. I mean, just look at Mad Men, all those middle-aged men still hooking fresh-faced women barely out of their second decade. But Don is right, of course. We all grow older, so what's the point of worrying?
Don's sisters recently came through town on their way to a birthday getaway in the mountains. One of them lives in Colorado Springs, where so many lost everything in the fires last summer. As a counselor, she's had to help many of her clients come to terms with their loss.
"Loss...It's everywhere," she said. She's an avid runner, but recently she says she's had to slow her pace. "Getting older... there's loss there, too."  Her words resonated with me, both as a woman nearing forty and as a mom.
After years of insisting that he is a "yittle" boy, Clayton has finally begun to assert that he's big. This change in his self-identification has been accompanied by a surging independence that I can't help but welcome. Suddenly, he is determined--or at least willing--to do things for himself: put on his shoes, brush his teeth, buckle his carseat, jump into the pool. The twins, on the other hand, have caught that bug early. Sylvia is reduced to tears daily when I try to help her get her shirt on. If, hurrying to get Clayton to school on time, I give her a gentle boost as she struggles to climb into the van, she'll shriek in protest, get down, and start all over, so adamant is she to do it by herself.
Dee Dee is the same. "I'm a BIG girl," she says. She sprints after Clayton with all her heart, undeterred by the distance he quickly opens up between them. On the trampoline, she jumps with the big kids, her little body flying through the air as she gets bounced around like popcorn.
  The girls are still in cribs and diapers. I still say, "Where are you, Baby Girl?" and "Are you okay, baby?" but I don't kid myself. They're definitely not babies anymore.
Yesterday Dee Dee said to me, "Momma, can I have more cereal please?"  It suddenly hit me: they don't say "tee" for "more" anymore! ("Tee cereal pease," it used to be.) That evening, I mentioned it to Don.
"I'd forgotten that they even said that!" he said.
And so it goes, the endearing little habits of their toddler-hood dissolving in time, so that sooner or later even their most characteristic quirks fade from memory. It is enough to break your heart daily. Looking down on Sylvia's compact little body, it seems unfathomable that one day she won't be quite so adorably little. I can't help but pull her to me. "Don't grow up!" I tell her.
"Okay," she says, agreeable as usual.
And yet. I never look at Clayton and wish he were two again, and certainly never three! I am too busy being charmed by his blossoming self.
"Mom, did God make Santa Claus?"
"Does Dad still like that big kid who was naughty in his class?"
"Mom, we live on a planet. So are we aliens too?"
       "Daddy, what's your favorite part about God? My favorite is that he made me all these books to read."
It is what saves us, that each stage flows so seamlessly into the next, the joy of watching them never faltering. Even as they pierce us with their screams, try us with their whines, wear us down with their unceasing needs, our love for them never stumbles, never stalls, never looks back. Oh, I can bring myself almost to tears thinking of the girls holding hands while they nursed, but never would I wish them back to their infancy and lose all that they are today.
When we were in Florida a few weeks ago, I sat with Clayton in my parents' garden. He wanted to play; I was content to sit in the shade and watch the fountain. I was wearing flip flops, and as we talked, I picked idly at my big toenail.
"Mom," he said, looking over at me. "That's just the way God made you."
I burst out laughing. "Where did you hear that?" Sometimes I wonder if we're getting more than we bargained for with his Baptist preschool education.
Still, he has a point. I never look at my children and wish they were any different than they are. Not one day older, nor one day younger. Not smarter, cuter, smoother, faster, better...
Maybe when I'm rich I'll buy the expensive wrinkle cream without the mineral oil. But still I think Clayton's is the better lesson. This is just the way we're made, our bodies weathering the years as best they can. I wouldn't wish the years away, so I might as well learn to be at peace with the lines they leave.