44

“be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves. Live the questions now. Perhaps over all there is a great motherhood, as common longing.” -Rilke

When I hit 40, a strange anomaly took place. I began to measure my age in relation to where my mom was at my age in relation to me. If that is as confusing as I think it is, I’ll try to clarify.

The day I turned 40, I found myself thinking, “I am the same age as my mom was when she gave birth to me!” I imagined myself as her. I imagined the vitality of a life within me. Somehow this made me feel younger.

Today, as I near 44, (it’s just two days away) I am thinking, “I am the same age as my mom was when I was four years old.” Again, I imagine myself as her. I imagine dealing with a four year old. I imagine going insane. Somehow this makes me feel older.

My friend Bryan recently handed me a memoir to read. It’s about a woman who gets pregnant at age 44. He thought I might enjoy it.  I am thinking he might enjoy a memoir for his birthday; the one about the man who loses his penis at age 36. It’s the least I can do for a friend.

However, I did read the book. Consumed it really. I imagined myself as her. I imagined myself pregnant at 44. I imagined not being able to go through with it. I imagined not being able to not go through with it. Somehow this makes me feel neither young nor old, but perhaps a bit wiser.

There’s something strangely paradoxical about putting myself in my mother’s shoes though. It’s both selfless and selfish. Aware and oblivious. Spiritual and temporal. It’s all about her, but it’s all about me. I am her. She is me.

But what of us?

We are not solely defined by our ability to procreate yet procreating is the definitive answer to our existence. The absolute. Without it, we are nothing. I am nothing. No “Happy Birthday to you!”, or even “Average Birthday to you!”

Everyone is born.

Everyone dies.

The question is… how will we choose to live?