April 2011 - Notching up decades
My baby turned 40 recently.
“Old Age Retirement Village!” she answered when I called to wish her ‘Happy Birthday’.
How old does she think that makes her parents feel? There can’t be that much room left on our side of the seesaw.
How can we possibly have children in their forties, an age which has the undeniable ring of middle age?
Yet, we still refer to them as ‘kids’.
I can’t remember my 40th birthday. It’s the only one of the decades I can’t. I was probably too overwhelmed with the world of work and children and ailing parents, for that’s the time when you can feel sandwiched in between the competing needs and demands of the younger and older generations.
Those decade birthdays, often referred to as ‘special birthdays’, really have come to assume an unrealistically weighted importance in our lives; a need to mark off notches on that ever shrinking pole of life. At first it’s so exciting. Even children now boast of reaching the first level: “I’m now double digits!” they exclaim delightedly, anxious to climb as fast as possible. Older MUST be better.
20 doesn’t have quite the milestone implication of the others, overshadowed as it is by 18 and 21; and really, at that age, what does one year or more matter?
It’s all going to go on forever.
30 pulls you up a bit. At 29 you know you’re still young, still plenty of time with your whole life ahead of you.
But at 30 just the slightest shadow flits across your thoughts, nothing much and fairly quickly forgotten.
40 sounds frumpy and middle-aged. You can’t escape it this time. But after a while you realize that this is where it’s all happening. You’ve still got energy and a zest for life; you’ve gained experience and other people start listening to you. All around you people of a similar age are the ones making decisions, taking on roles of responsibility. Hey, it’s us now!
Reaching 50 you regard as an achievement – a half-century! Could I really have lived that long? You’re feted; you make jokes about old age.
I remember turning up to work, stumbling along and doubled over a walking stick, trying to fit the image of a fifty year old.
There’s nothing old about 50. Generally children have grown up, even though they may not have actually left home. There’s a growing awareness that there’s a lot more left to life; there are many new challenges to embrace.
60 can be a bit of a denial and sometimes may raise a feeling of uncertainty about what lies ahead. But there’s also a sense of independence, a realisation that the time is coming when you might be able to throw off some of the responsibilities of previous years and make time for yourself, fulfil some dream, perhaps even start a new phase of your life.
And 70? Well, I can’t go beyond that, but yes, it does sound and feel older, although not in a worrying way. If I felt wonderment at being 50, I think it’s complete amazement at being 70.
But there’s still so much to do, there’s simply no time to dwell on it. Energy is not quite as strong as it was, the mind may be bit more muddled, but the enthusiasm for life is still there.
Another 10 years before I can add another notch. I’ll let you know what it’s like.
And back to my baby turning 40.
She had her 40th birthday party at the Upper River Hall, where about sixty of her friends joined her to celebrate. It is a wonderful venue, providing an incredibly relaxed atmosphere in a spectacular setting, room for the kids to run, for disparate groups to mingle or not as they wish, for a fire to warm you or to roast a lamb on a spit.
And isn’t it wonderful that your daughter, long past her childhood, wants to celebrate her birthday in your patch.
I may not be able to remember my 40th
but I’m sure she won’t forget hers.