It’s Our Prerogative… by Elizabeth Allen

What mother of a teenage daughter doesn’t like to be addressed as “her older sister”? Granted, the comment is usually delivered by some sleazy salesman as he attempts to close a sale or a just-pubescent waiter fishing for a larger tip, but still, it feels nice.


I find the older I get, the less selective I’ve become regarding the source of the compliments. I will gladly allow my morale to be boosted and my ego stroked by just about anyone from any walk of life or gender – with the possible exception of homeless people (although there was that one guy who looked remarkably like a scruffy Gerard Butler as he gulped his Mad Dog…)

The fact is, younger mothers probably get mistaken for their kids’ sisters all the time and take the faux pas for granted, while we more seasoned moms recognize that very narrow window and struggle to squeeze through for as long as possible.

CUE: hair color, face lifts, Botox, anti-wrinkling cream, or any one of a plethora of youth-mimicking devices or applications. Okay, I’ve only succumbed to coloring over my gray but I hail from a family of women who were no strangers to cosmetic surgery. That doesn’t mean I intend to follow their footsteps, in fact, I don’t want a face so tight you could bounce a dime off of. (Joan Rivers and Donatella Versace come to mind…ugh!) It would be fun though to hear some young man whisper under his breath “what a cougar” at me and not directed at a ’67 Mercury.

I’m not trying to look as young as my daughter; if I want to feel 16 again I’ll wait for senility to kick in. And for the most part, I’m pretty okay with the aging process. I had my fun before becoming a mother and contrary to Mr. Shaw’s quote, I did not waste my youth. All things considered, I don’t exactly have one foot in the grave, but who says we have to look like it?

                                      I’ll keep flirting until someone says, “Is there something in your eye?”

Gay Used To Mean “Happy” – by Elizabeth Allen

Where do you stand on the subject of homosexuality when it comes to your kids? I suppose that mostly depends on where you stand on the subject of sexuality, yet misconceptions and prejudice still paint the concept for some as a “dark condition of our times.” There are many factors that affect how any given individual parent thinks of homosexuality and frequently those are based on religion, their upbringing, or a repressive recipe of both. There have been some who were raised by hippies or free-thinkers, but they probably make up a very small minority.


My first exposure to the “lighter side” came in 1966 when my parents took me and my brother to the movies to see West Side Story. While my father adored anything conducted by Leonard Bernstein, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat when the Jets and the Sharks started to jeté through the streets of Manhattan during the overture. “Oh Jeez, fags,” squeezed through his lips with Archie Bunker-ish irritation and he promptly left the theatre. My seven-year-old mind didn’t understand what he meant by “fags”; all I knew was I was hooked. These boys could dance and I didn’t care what they were!

I realized many years later that my father was, in fact, homophobic. Ironically, at the age of 12, my very first crush was on a young man who knew he was gay. Certainly the rejection of my love was not as devastating as Brokeback at such a tender age, but I was undeniably drawn to his humor, sensitivity, panache and unquestionable feminine edge. By 13, I was a teenage fag-hag.

My parents – who had me in their late thirties – never sat me down and explained the birds and the bees or the bees and the bees. I’m not sure whose assignment is was to enlighten me or who dropped the ball, but I figured things out on my own eventually through many trials and even more errors. Suffice to say, I will not leave my daughter’s sexual education to chance. She has all the information now—well, as much as she really needs—and short of application and practice, she will make healthy, informed decisions when she’s ready to be physically close to someone.

Do I care if she’s drawn to a woman versus a man? No, not really. Certainly those old tapes still spin in my head that she should only consider conventional pairing, but what really matters most to me is her happiness. Regardless of gender, I only care that the object of her affections is a stable, loving, gentle and kind person who gives her as much joy as she gives them.

Of course, if the object of her desires just happens to be a med student, it couldn’t hurt…

Do as I Say, Not as I Do…uh…Did - by Elizabeth Allen

Hypocrite: a person who pretends to have virtues, moral or religious beliefs, principles, etc., that he or she does not actually possess, especially a person whose actions belie stated beliefs.


I keep finding these little tiny glitches in the system of “parenthood later”. One of them has to do with budding behaviors, attitudes and episodes my 16 year old exhibits that are fairly tantamount to me when I was 16. Now, that said, there are some major differences between the two of us as sweet-sixteeners, not the least of which is 36 years. Am I wrong in thinking parents with a narrower age difference can work these glitches out with more efficiency? Are their behaviors better emulated because they didn’t have the extra time to make more mistakes?

It was a different time and different circumstances. I hit upon 16 in 1975, the product of enormous dysfunction with a wild streak that even Paris Hilton would envy. I had a fake id and was drinking alcohol with friends. I smoked pot (and yes, I inhaled). I was sexually active because I needed love and if a boy wanted me that way, that meant I must be loveable. I ran away twice before the very real threat of juvy inspired me to cool my jets until I could legally run away once and for all at 18. I had an argument with my mother during a drive from Tampa to Atlanta and threw her out of the car somewhere near Valdosta. I didn’t actually throw her from a moving vehicle; just forced her out physically and watched her expression of disbelief in the rearview mirror as I called her bluff by actually driving away. I didn’t go back.

Not a very nice kid. Yeah, well. I’m not proud of that last stunt but over time I did develop skills which have made me who I am today. And I’m very proud of how I turned out. You can develop some pretty nice muscles when you pull yourself up from rock bottom on your own.

On to my daughter. Let me say right up front that she is not a drug-using, sexually active, ruthless chip off the old block. Quite the contrary. She knows all about drugs and has no desire to indulge (but if she did and/or her friends entice her, we talk about it honestly and I would insist they partake within the safe confines of our home…and save me a hit). She was not bounced on the knees of two parents who hated each other, but rather, witnesses daily a mom and dad who are nuts in love. And who love her more than air. That alone gives her value and confidence; no gap that she needs to fill artificially with drugs, sex or anger. She hasn’t thrown me out of the car yet, but she still has her learner’s permit…

So all things considered, she’s really a great kid. The similarities I speak of are mostly an attitude imbalance. She’s tough on me; she yells a lot and she has virtually no patience. In short, I exasperate her. Exactly how I treated my mom. It doesn’t help that she’s hormonal and I’m premenopausal. But while I don’t see her following in my unpleasant footsteps on the road to her evolution, I have to anticipate there may be some detours I didn’t expect. And when those deviations pop up, how do I, in good conscience, tell her “no”? I guess, like any parent, regardless of my unsavory, reckless and fairly debauched youth, I’ll cross those bridges when I come to them.

I just hope this particular fruit fell way far from the tree.

Days of Our Lives - by Elizabeth Allen

Do you watch soaps? Will you admit it? Perhaps you’re a GH (General Hospital) or OLTL (One Life to Live) devotee.

Me? It’s been DOOL since 1968 when Hope was just a baby, Alice Horton was still young and pretty and no one referred to Victor Kiriakis as Jennifer Aniston’s dad (not until one year later when she came along in 1969). Oh sure, there have been lapses—some lasting years—where I didn’t indulge my histrionic needs, but something always enticed me back to the world of affairs, hospital romances, mistaken identities, untimely albeit temporary deaths, switched babies, pregnancy after the first time, and the ever popular evil twin. I’ve laughed, cried, rooted for and bitched at the players over the years. I’ve gotten so involved with a plotline that I forced my baby to listen to my conjecture about how John and Marlena would get out of this mess and what had to happen next. To which my baby eagerly responded, “Hungee, mommy…”

I willingly acknowledge with the same humble conviction of a recovering alcoholic that when it comes to soaps, I am as emotionally available as they come. I know the acting is lousy; I know the writing is cheesy; I know the plotlines are beyond redundant; I know the overall focus is negative and I know they are designed to keep you coming back FOR-FREAKING-EVER like a slave to the nail salon for acrylic tips.

But I simply can’t help myself. What’s more? I don’t want to. This is my sinful pleasure; my addiction. DVR’s? They were invented for me.

I have engaged in debates—ad nauseum—with my husband about why I watch this soap daily and nothing I can say convinces him that it has any socially redeeming value. He says, “I just can’t understand why you want to watch so much negativity…why you watch something that makes you sad…”

“But it doesn’t!” I offer with a sincere competitive edge in my voice to make him understand. But then I stop. What’s the point of belaboring this? How can I possibly explain that I love to cry and not out of grief or pity? I will watch movies that while essentially sad or have sad elements, move me. Great love stories get me going. I cry when I am touched. I weep at devastating intensity. I tear up at well written happy endings. The following movies are on my top tear-jerker list and I will watch them more than once: Sophie’s Choice, Seven Pounds, The Pursuit of Happyness (yeah, I like Will Smith), City of Angels, Somewhere in Time, Finding Neverland, To Kill a Mockingbird, A Beautiful Mind…and so on.

So what’s any of this have to do with motherhood later? I don’t know. Perhaps had I not had so much child-free time on my hands, I wouldn’t have gotten sucked into this melodramatic habit? Nah. That’s not it. Like I said earlier, I got hooked when I was ten years old.

What’s your excuse? What jerks your tears?

Sticky Nest - by Elizabeth Allen

I see young mothers all around me doing everything from dropping off their 6 year-olds for the first day of kindergarten to quick hugs outside their 18 year-olds freshman college dorm. They do it fast too! Like ripping off a Band-Aid. They shed ne’er a tear before they’re on their way to lunch with the girls or meeting with the interior designer to overhaul junior’s room.

But watch an older mom take little Timmy to his first day of school. He’s chomping at the bit, pulling toward the Fisher-Price Tiny Tots Farm with all his weight and she’s weeping at an elevated level of histrionics like something out of Sophie’s Choice. And it doesn’t seem to get any easier from there. At least it hasn’t for me.

My daughter turned 16 this past July and I have a whole list of BFI’s—Brace For It.

• Driving: without me or her father, alone, fast, listening to and/or singing along with music on her ipod, with a friend who’s distracting her by talking instead of keeping her eyes on the road thus discouraging my daughter from talking back to her, at night, in the rain, when the sun is at that blinding level, even when it’s not, when there are other cars on the road, and why she’s been gone for more than ten minutes.

• Boyfriends: while I trust her judgment in whom she chooses to be with and while she is pretty sophisticated about boys in general, I just don’t think she’s really ready for what a 16 year old boy wants. No offense to my readers who are parents of teenage sons, but you know what I’m talking about. Regarding rules – we’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t. If we impose rigid guidelines, there will be rebellion to contend with and we run the risk of driving her away and then she’ll hop into that car ( SEE: first BFI) and elope with that boy in Georgia just to make a point. If we give her complete and unrestricted freedom, she’ll take it and I’ll still be nauseous until she gets home from her date. And then she’ll tell me nothing. Oy vay.

• College: Sure. I hear what you’re saying. “She’s 16! That’s two years away!” But to me it feels like tomorrow. Intellectually, I understand the concept that our children are only ours for a short time and we must let them go, but my gut and my heart march to a different drummer. Between you and me (and I swear I will NOT pressure her to do this!) I want her to go to a local college, live at home, finish her homework and invite me in to watch a tearjerker DVD at least twice a week, help me cook family meals (why not? She’ll get to eat for free as long as she stays home) and go shopping with me once in a while. And then, once she graduates, maybe look for a position in her chosen field within a 50-mile-radius of me. Oh, and there’s no hurry to move out.

See this momma bird kicking her chick out of the nest?

THAT ain't me.

I know, I know. I’ve seen emotionally crippled young adults whose parents kept them utterly dependent and once on their own, they were completely helpless. I knew a boy in college who had never set foot in a grocery store. The first time he went food shopping for his apartment, he looked for packages of bologna on the bread aisle because it was logical that sandwich stuffs should be there. I’m not saying my clingy tendencies are healthy or even justified. Just the emotional ramblings and apprehensions of one gal who waited so long to have her dream baby and doesn’t want to wake up too soon.

Don’t pinch me.

GUEST BLOG POST: Written in the Stars by Elizabeth Allen

How does a woman become an older mom? Is it a conscious decision like deciding to wait until you’re financially solvent? Or postponing until you’ve experienced all the travelling, parties, fine dining, and spontaneity you can handle before you become permanently tethered to a dependent child? Or is it the luck (or not) of the draw? Are there fertility issues? Partner complications? Fear of motherhood?

I used to think my delay in becoming a mother was directly linked to the DNA I inherited from my mother. Okay, that’s not very scientific, but hear me out. She was 39 when I was born. My father was her fifth and last husband. They divorced when I was 12, which taught me that marriages and families are as disposable as tissue paper. It also taught me (or rather I decided as a result) that people, men in particular, would let me down.

Eventually I shelved my bitterness, tried to forgive my father, and grew up. During the Bohemian decade of my twenties, I tried to find the right man to share my life with. Oh, I met men, in fact, I was engaged 3 times, but I was too picky to settle and something in me knew they would make terrible husbands and even worse fathers. My mother laid on tons of guilt about wanting to hold her grandchild before she died. She even said, “If you wait for the right man, you’ll never have a child!” That said, I dodged the guilt and waited.

Guess what? I met the right guy at 30. I was 32 when we married. We were in no hurry to start a family. Even if I had known my mom would succumb to ovarian cancer and my dad would die of a massive heart attack within the year, we wouldn’t have rushed into parenthood.

At 35, I gave birth to my only child, my daughter. Of course, it still saddens me from time to time to imagine the portrait I never saw. I never saw my parents hold their granddaughter. I never saw my mom plotz over her youngest descendent. I never saw the look of absolute pride and overwhelming emotion when you regard your baby’s baby for the first time.

But I saw a child who was born to two parents who were madly in love with each other and were ready to be in absolute orbit around her.

It hasn’t been the easiest thing to raise a child at my age, but quite frankly, I don’t think it’s ever easy, regardless of age. Certainly younger parents may have more energy, but I see a lot of them harboring anger and resentment for giving up their independence and spontaneity too early. I see young mothers who have yet to figure out who they want to be when they grow up. What kind of a role model is that? At least I knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that I wanted to be a mother when we decided to conceive. It’s not all I am, but it’s the most rewarding role I play. And I see a lot of young divorced parents because the man was unprepared to be a father. Add to that, he lacked the emotional stability and maturity to be a husband. In all fairness, I’ve met plenty of men in their thirties and forties who still lack the essential tools to make good fathers and spouses, but by that point in time, they know it. No one is in denial. Except maybe their 80 year old mothers.

All things considered, whether it was latent DNA, distractions, or slow-moving karma, I’m glad I waited. I recommend it, no matter how it happens; choice or circumstance. I know there are many women out there who crave a baby worse than chocolate, but I encourage you not to rush in. Healthy women in their 30’s and 40’s are having their first child and waiting seems to me the more logical progression. Think about it. Doesn’t it make more sense to find out who and what you are, love yourself, explore the planet and experience your life before you cultivate a new one? As women, we may have been endowed with the ability to create life, but there has to be a sound reason why our eggs have such lengthy expiration dates.

And for those of you who feel guilty about waiting so long to have a child, thereby saddling your kid with a—gasp—old parent, SNAP OUT OF IT! Regardless of what you think or have decided based on whatever, you’re still a mom. You will be a mom for the rest of your life and even when you leave the planet, you will always be your children’s mother. Besides, if it really bothers you, ask your child what they think. I asked my 15 year old daughter how she felt about her parents being older and she said, “I’m glad you’re older. It would freak me out if my parents were into rap…”

From the mouths of babes…

Elizabeth Allen found her literary voice at age 49 when she penned her first book Who Got Liz Gardner which was published in 2009 and has received worldwide acclaim. The sequel, Discovering Arugula, was just released in January 2011. Elizabeth’s short stories about mothers, women and relationships have been published in literary magazines and anthologies. She is a contributing writer for BriteGirl Magazine - http://www.britegirl.com/magazine. Although she’s passionate about writing, she keeps her day job as a financial advisor for Ameriprise Financial.

Elizabeth is 52 years old. She lives in Longwood, Florida with her husband, 15 year old daughter, and Catahoula Leopard dog. Visit http://www.elizabeth-allen.com.