We haven’t had an Anecdote on Aging in awhile.

Remember when we were kids, and we used to pour sugar on our cereal out of these diner-style sugar dispensers.  Then, when the cereal was gone, we could eat the milk-soaked-sugar off the bottom of the bowl by the spoonful? 

How many of us would let our kids pour barrels of sugar on their cereal?!   Instead we feed them their breakfast sprinkled with  a bit of flaxseed and a gummy vite on the side.

*Hat-tip for this those-were-the-days moment to my friend Vince.  Thanks, Vinny.

I should have loved Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight books.  I love a pop culture phenomenon, and I love young adult novels.  I love hot, tortured, misunderstood leading men who brood.  Given the choice between a high school romance (especially if it involves a nerdy girl with inner beauty discreetly disguised by big glasses, poor fashion sense or, like Bella, klutziness of dangerous proportions), and award-winning storytelling, well, I’ll tune in to the former on Oxygen seven nights per week.  I love seeing teenage girls read, especially with their mothers!  And I love a fairy tale.  I *should* have loved Twilight.

But I did not love it.  In fact, I hated it.  I hated every minute of every page-turning, addictive book.  For this, I blame motherhood.

Like many maligned bestsellers, the books earned their share of literary criticism, much of it legitimate. Reviewers denounced poor editing, slow development, and mediocre writing.  Fans of vampire lore balked at the undoing of the genre in the name of schmaltzy romance.  Feminists decried a thinly veiled pro-marriage, pro-life agenda with questionably violent love scenes.  Even the pop friendly found the fantastic resolution of the series over the top.

I appreciate these critics’ articulate analysis, but my hatred was more personal.  I can set aside my feminist principles in the name of a good fairytale.  I can forgive simple sentence structure.  (Indeed, I love simple sentence structure.)  But as I read the books, as I tried to channel the teenage girl within and crush on the mysterious guy in the cafeteria, I couldn’t.  Reading this series I transformed.  I lost my romantic fourteen year-old and found in her place a cynical, skeptical creature.  I hated the books because I spent the entire series arguing with Bella in my head.  Like I was her mother.

For example, in Book 1 – Twilight

Me:   What’s a dude who’s hundreds of years old doing falling in love with a seventeen year old girl?  It’s creepy. Is he some sort of pedophile?

Bella: Love knows no age. Plus, he’s so hot.  And I LOVE him.

Me: I might buy it if you can please just explain *why* you love him?

Bella: Because, even though he feels like cold marble, he’s SO HOT.  It’s very ironic.

Me: Ok, Alanis, but really, what about him, why does he love you? There must be some explanation for why he fell in love for the first time in several centuries with you.

Bella: He can’t figure out what I’m thinking. It turns him on.

Me: Oh, yes, you’re  a real mystery.

Or, in Book 2: New Moon

Me:  I see Edward is gone.  Jacob’s lovely, you know, and also mostly human.  That could work.

Bella: I can’t stop thinking about Edward.

Me: Please, please, please stop thinking about Edward. It’s for the best. You cannot give everything up and join the undead. It doesn’t work that way.

Bella: Guess what! Edward’s back.

Me: Crap.

Book 3: Eclipse

Me: I know Edward is back and everything, but, really what about Jacob?  He’s nice, and you know, human.

Bella: He’s just a really good friend.

Me: You know, you’re supposed to marry the friend.  You’re not supposed to marry the hot, tortured, undead guy.  Please don’t marry the undead guy. I cannot believe that you could end up married to the vampire.  No, it’s all wrong.

Bella: I don’t want to marry Edward.  I’m too young.

Me: Finally, you’re speaking some sense.

Bella:  But I have to marry him.  Otherwise, he won’t have sex with me, and I am so horny.

Me: Oh COME on, what kind of game is this guy playing?  Seriously.

Or, the worst of it, in Book 4-

Me:  Fine, you married him.  I’ll deal with that.  Just please promise me you won’t let him turn you into a vampire and leave your parents and humanity behind.  Please go to college.

Bella: Don’t worry, I won’t let him turn me into a vampire. At least, not until after I walk to the edge of death bearing his monster spawn.  Who knew I could get pregnant from sex?!  Crazy.   Anyway, no worries, I’ll have all of eternity to go to college when I’m a vampire.  I’ll also sparkle.

As an example, last night 5 put his pajamas on at warp speed.  When he raced down the stairs in his new duds (appropriately enough his new Superman pajamas), my husband commented, “Wow, that was fast.  Did ya change in a phone booth?”

5, looking curious, replied “What’s a phone booth?”  

Or, if you are interested in other things that make me feel old – there’s this post.

During the past decade I endured law school and the partnership track, got married, bore and nursed three children, and tried to become the poster child for the alternative work arrangement. And if you add in there a more-than-healthy dose of family crisis, well you could say I’ve been kind of busy. So that’s my excuse for not actually realizing about all the blogging. I just didn’t know.

That’s how it happens I think. How we become our parents. It’s incremental until one day we just notice that we’re the worried, reminiscent, behind-the-times grown-ups. One day we realize that we don’t know about the hip music, that we aren’t on myspace, that we aren’t podcasting. One day we’re in touch and the next we’re pondering the days when making someone a playlist required time-planning, heavy equipment, and lots of CD’s.

One day we’re rolling our eyes at our parents while we explain that heavy metal music is not for devil worshipers. Then out of nowhere we’re the worried parents … worrying that the emails and the blogging and the itunes will leave nothing for our children to touch, build and savor. Worrying that instead of getting well-decorated letters from the friends they have, our kids will be blogging with ones they’ve not yet met. And I admit it, I know it makes me sound old, but I am really worried about these things.

1) These shoes that my oldest brought home yesterday. I remember being a kid and having “old people” make comments like … “Oh, it’s like I just took a trip back in time… just look at that outfit.” I remember thinking these people really must be ancient if they were alive the last time that this cutting-edge fashion (e.g. boot leg hip huggers) was the rage. After all wouldn’t it take at least like twenty or thirty years (gasp) for a fashion trend to reappear?

So when my son pulled these shoes (including very frayed edges that aren’t that visible in the picture) out after his shopping trip with grandma, the realization hit pretty hard … How is it possible that these might be hip? They’re from the 80’s. That wasn’t that long ago – only…(sigh) oh, twenty to thirty years…”

2) Much to his dismay, my hubby’s hair line is starting to recede (albeit ever-so-slightly); and after our big morning out at Home Depot (we ran out of time for Bed, Bath and Beyond) he ditched me and the kids for an afternoon alone at the Ricky Bobby movie. Check back tomorrow for a vicarious report on the movie.