Who is that scary old lady in the mirror?

You'd think that with His Nibs and me both working full time, the teenagers who live in our house would step up and handle a few household obligations.

Yeah, you'd think that, wouldn't you?

It's a never-ending problem. By the time I get home from work, I'm too tired to sleep, let alone cook dinner, clean up afterward, do laundry, pick up around the house . . . you get the idea. I put in ten hours of overtime this weekend, and tonight I have a board meeting to attend. Seems that there's always something going on in my little world.

Is it asking too much that the kids help out? It didn't seem to be when my folks expected it of my sisters and me. Or maybe we thought it was then. I don't know; I seem to remember just doing stuff to help out. Of course, I'm a lot older now and my memory is a little fuzzy sometimes. But how do you forget being the Perfect Child? Surely I'm not making that up!

There was a time when I could work 40 hours at my day job, take a class a couple of nights a week, plus stay on top of all those uber-important tasks at home, and not even break a sweat. That was before (a) my thirties and (b) my kids. Suddenly I don't have the energy to pour milk over a bowl of cereal; I'm too weak to lift a gallon jug. When did that happen?

And that's not all. Lately--like for the past ten years--I've been noticing other changes. Like little wrinkles around my eyes. Dark spots on my hands. More white in my hair than brown. My voice is weakening and I can't sing like I used to (although I bet if you asked Drama Princess and Daredevil, they'd tell you my yelling hasn't slacked off any). My grip isn't as strong as it once was, and I can't lift as much as I used to. Long walks get shorter and shorter. Or do short walks get longer and longer? Hard to tell. My temper is getting shorter and shorter, too. I'm afraid I'm going to turn into that mean old lady down the street, the one whose house kids are afraid to approach on Halloween night. One day I'll catch myself mumbling under my breath, carrying on a conversation with the person in my head, as I trip over one of my 37 cats. That scary old lady.

I keep thinking that I don't really feel any different from the way I did when I was in high school, or when I was in college, or when I first got married almost 23 years ago, but I know I'm kidding myself. My tummy bothers me now, meaning I can't eat like I used to and I have to take a little pill every day. Sheesh. My feet ache at the end of the day (His Nibs is a master of the foot massage, which is just one more reason to keep him around). I crave naps even while fighting fatigue like a little kid. I wear reading glasses most of the time now. I'm sure a hearing aid is in my future, too. Hopefully, I won't be replacing my teeth any time soon.

I guess I can still hold my own in the household chore department, but really, I think it's time Daredevil and Drama Princess noticed when the trash needs to be taken out, preferably before the dog scatters it all over the kitchen. Back problems are keeping me off all the fun rides at Worlds of Fun; maybe it's time to use that to my advantage, and announce my retirement from mopping floors and running the vacuum as well.

And when I gaze fondly back over the years to my youth, boring my kids as I drone on and on about being the Perfect Child (never underestimate the power of a good guilt trip), I'll be able to dredge up from my faulty memory a moment when I really did jump, unasked, to my mom's assistance. And if I can't draw one from memory, I'll just make one up. I'm pretty sure that's something scary old ladies do, too. And when the kids are gone, I'll just tell my cats how wonderful I was.