There it was. The moment that every teenager vows to never happen. It's the moment you become "old." As I may have mentioned, last year I turned 30 (no comment on my birthday later this week and what age that will make me, but I am sure you can all employ some basic math and figure it out). And as I turned 30, I did not freak out. I did not think I was getting old. I didn't even think it was that big of a deal. 30. It happens. Heck, 30 is the new 24 as far as I was concerned.
And I almost made it through the entire year thinking that my youth would go on forever. Until...
I was sitting in a doctor's office in Nashville, Tennessee, and looking at an ultrasound of my unborn child. As much as I'd been joking in weeks past about an "alien life-form sucking my will to live, " now I could see that alien on the screen (not just feel it in the way my pants didn't want to fit). And, as I was assured, it wasn't just a blob as I had seen in my friend's ultrasounds (seriously, those things are worse than Magic Eye books!). The blob was moving around, hiccuping, and holding its tiny hands over its tiny face. It almost looked like an actual person. It was pretty amazing.
 |
| see? actual baby! |
But that was only half of the "old" problem. Because obviously babies don't make you old. I'm from Utah. A land where 19 year old girls and 21 year old boys have babies all the time. On purpose. Even though I wasn't fancying myself a "young, cool mom," the whole "pending motherhood" didn't really have the "you are now old" moment it perhaps should have. Not even since my hips have been hurting like a nursing home resident.
The real "old" problem came when I was describing this to people later.
"The ultrasound was inconclusive. The doctor was really weird about going back and forth and not really being able to tell us if it was a boy or a girl."
"Why? What happened?"
"Well, the baby was sitting Indian Style the whole time."
And there it was. Like most people's parents and grand-parents before them... I said something outdated, and vaguely racist (without meaning to be offensive). "Indian Style." Throw in embarrassing my child at the same time, and you might as well start planning a seating chart with me far away from the guests at Thanksgiving.
Yup, years of school assemblies where you were bullied into "sitting Indian Style - knee to knee" with the person closest to you in alphabetical order have made me assume that it's the right phrase for a child sitting cross-legged. As soon as I said it, I knew this to be categorically untrue. We're a modern world now. Sports teams have to change their mascots to less Native American things (see? Native American! Not "Indian." Heck, I'd even say "First Nationer" if my husband wouldn't then mock me and tell me how not-in-Canada we are.). But the damage had already been done. I'd said it.
In later tellings of the story, I would describe how the baby was "meditating" or some other hipster way of sitting with your legs crossed so that nobody can tell if it's a boy or a girl. But the damage had already been done. I feel old now.
Now excuse me while I call my pharmacy to update my medications. And maybe while I'm there, I'll look into getting a heating pad for this bum-hip of mine...
(update: a later ultrasound revealed that we are having a girl. I'm going to start praying for an increase of boys with respect towards women now... I hope you'll all join in.)
