Grandma who?

Back by popular demand, one of my most embarrassing moments.

Last spring at an appointment for my kids, a chatty receptionist in her late twenties asked the question that will forever mark me like an ugly tattoo. Overlooking my smattering of adolescent acne, she said "So, are you the mom or the grandma?"

Do you think I had quick, clever, retort? Nope! My feeble reply in a crackling granny voice was some unintelligible gibberish about finishing college and marrying late.

To make matters worse, I'd invested some time in my appearance that day with my hair styled, makeup applied and a somewhat stylish ensemble. There was no sign of an elastic waistband, white orthopedic shoe or plastic rain hat anywhere in my possession.

She desperately tried to quell the irreparable damage with futile compliments about my kids and clothes, then bam! She delivered the final crushing blow. While admiring my hairstyle she said "That color does a great job of covering your gray." (Apparently not!)

I should've seen this day coming. During my first prenatal visit at age 34 I was given a fistful of precautionary brochures entitled "Geriatric Gestation" and "What Were You Thinking You Old Goat?" Okay, it was "Pregnancy at an Advanced Maternal Age", but the ensuing damage was the same.

So, before you ask someone "When is your baby due?" or "Why'd you bring your dad to the dance?", consider the consequences.