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Writer's picturejoshuainegt

Growing old with a death-grip on “cool mom” aspirations

Updated: Dec 2


I consider myself an atypical mom. I swear like a sailor, I answer to "dude" or "bro", I appreciate 12-year-old boy humor. When they were younger, I took the boys on killer hikes, skied backcountry trails, and went ice climbing. And they recognize that I am different from other moms. I remember a Mother's Day appreciation event where Cooper started his presentation by clarifying one of the words he chose to describe me, "I just want to say upfront that when I say that my mom is 'beast' it's not an insult." I was so touched. He went on to brag about my 50-mile mountain bike races and my 200-mile traverse of Vermont the previous year. It was the best.


The fact that my kids saw me in this light for so many years turned my most recent attempt to display badassery into a huge emotional disaster.


I was skiing with the boys. Cooper was giving us a tour of the slopes at Snowbird and led us to the Cirque Traverse. It was snowing, my glasses and goggles were fogging, and I couldn't see a thing. I tried my best to hold it together, but I panicked when we got to the top of a very steep double black diamond. I could barely hear anything as the winds whipped snow into our faces. The trail was sketchy. I couldn't see. It was snowing heavily. I couldn’t get good footing. Isaac was doing his best to guide me and encourage me. And then I began to cry. Not just because I was nervous, but because the boys were suddenly seeing me differently than they used to - even before the tears, I was weak, shaky, and anxious. When they were little I climbed and biked and ran all of the things, bringing them along anytime I could. And now, as young men, they are doing all of these things and sometimes I'm lucky enough to join them. I have loved being by their side in their/our adventures. Had I reached a point in my life where I couldn't keep up anymore? Was that the beginning of the end for "cool mom"? The true source of those tears still isn’t entirely clear to me. Sadness, embarrassment, concession? Wherever they came from, they hit really fucking hard and rattled me for weeks - not good for a woman getting on in her years…



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