Apr 28, 2016 3 min read

It was the last day of the semester at the university and, as is my tradition, I was snapping a photo of the students in my writing class.

“You take a picture like a mom does,” said one of the students. The rest of them giggled in agreement.

“What does that mean?” I asked. You can’t blame me for being a little defensive about that comment, seeing as it landed with a thud of mockery.

They all fumbled around trying to explain what they meant, the upshot being when their mothers take photos, they adopt the stance of a human tripod, leaning forward with legs apart and saying “cheese.”

I feel the generation gap opening like a fault line.

When a woman is in her 50s – and has children who are teenagers and young adults – she finds herself transitioning into a strange new land. I feel more or less the same age I was when my kids were little – say, 38ish – but the shift comes in how others see me. Or don’t.

I have reached the age where I am invisible to young men. For all those years, since when I was a teenager, I was aware of the attention of men. It’s not that I dressed or presented myself in order to attract it (for example, I’ve never worn really high heels), but you just know. Now, the young man who bags my groceries says Thanks, Ma’am. Soon, he will ask if I need help carrying them out to the car.

Nowhere is the gap more pronounced than on a shopping trip with my teenage daughter. Yesterday, the mall was filled with mother-daughter duos. At every turn, I was reminded of the contrast, and the conflict, of that pairing.

It made me feel out of touch. Even after 16 years of buying, laundering and ironing her clothing, I still cannot accurately select something my girl will like.

My personal taste was again clobbered when we went into a store with clothing more suited to youthful women my age. I pointed out a soft linen dress with subtle navy and gray stripes.

“Hobo lady dress,” my daughter said.

It is relevant that the $240 we spent on clothing that day was all for my daughter. That’s another part of this aging gap – resources move from the mom to the child. While our daughters are just getting started, filling up with ideas and plans, embarking on their big life journeys, we moms are beginning to plateau.

It’s OK, though; part of my excitement comes in watching my children as their blossoms open. And what blossoms they are. Walk through a mall, or stroll around a university campus, and you will be struck by how physically beautiful these young women are.

Every one of them.

Driving home from the mall, my daughter asked how old I’ll be on my birthday next weekend.

“Fifty-seven,” I said. “I’m getting up there.”

She’s too sweet to call me old, but she was thinking it. I reminded her of the one hard fact of life. In order for her to grow up as much as she has, I’ve had to get that much older, too.

“Think of it as my gift to you,” I said.

She patted me on the head. It’s what she always does when she thinks I’m out of touch.

Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.