I’m the Oldest Mom at Drop Off.

There’s plenty to dislike about pushing 50 while dropping my eight-year-old off at grade school. Winding my way through a sea of bright-eyed, smooth-faced mommies with perky dispositions and perkier breasts makes me want to about-face and book it to the nearest time machine, just for a chance to live jowllessly once again. Even more difficult, I get a daily reminder that these other mamas will only be my age when their kiddos graduate college and, as a result, they have the opportunity to see their babies grow older for many more decades than I will. Gah.

But hey, in my perpetual quest to be all good(ish), I cannot deny that there are also positive things about being the grandma at drop-off. Let’s dig in.

Nobody needs to like me.

I’ve realized that post-forty brings with it vastly more self-assuredness than years past, and it feels good. That’s not to say those youthful parents aren’t self-assured. They are. Just as I was. But there’s an entirely new layer of “I am who I am and I’m good with it” that comes with each passing decade.

I don’t need to be in the popular mom clique. I don’t need my kid to be adored and approved by all. I don’t need him to get straight A’s or to be the shining-star pupil. I don’t need all of that because I know now that his actions and accolades are not a direct reflection of me.

Yep. I can see you poo-pooing this concept in your head right now. I would’ve once, too. I get it. But I liken creating a kid to creating a great brand (which I am more comfortable doing. Lol). You can only influence it and do your best to bring light to its strengths, but you cannot define it or force it to be what you think it should be.

Nash, like a great brand, is who he is. He’s his own self now and I can only influence him. What’s more, he’s human. He is going to fuck up. Many times over. And I am ok with that. (Even if you aren’t.)

I don’t sweat the little stuff.

The fact that my kid’s T-shirt on field day is forest green and not Kelly, as directed (and most definitely missed by me), is not going to send me heading for the nearest bridge. Frankly, of all the things to worry about in my life, this is not (and should not) be one of them!

Sending Nash to school in a uniform when it was free dress? Whoopsie Daisy! Didn’t get the memo about a pizza lunch being provided—do not pack a lunch? Nope. Sure didn’t. And so on and so forth.

I mess up something school-related at least once a week, if not multiple times. And you know what? It’s ok. Nash is going to be ok, too.

I cannot attend everything. And I know I needn’t.

I own two pretty good-sized companies and my husband has three restaurants one hour and 45 minutes from our Phoenix home base. Scheduling is hard. And we only have one kid! (Shout out to those of you with multiples, you’re all badass mamajamas.)

Anywho, whether I want to or not, I cannot attend every event, parents’ night, fundraiser restaurant night, fundraiser party, schoolmate birthday party, soccer practice, soccer game, auction night, mom’s happy hour, mom’s holiday party, PTO meeting—you get the drift.

It is simply a matter of fact. And a matter of sanity.

I choose to partake when I want to or if my schedule permits. And I don’t attend when it doesn’t.

And that’s ok.

I am learning that aging does have its merits. It’s made me a more comfortable mother because I understand that most mistakes don’t matter in the long run. It’s forced me to pay attention to the present and enjoy the little things—like how Nash greets me with a huge, running, jumping hug when I get home from work each day. And it’s made me wiser.

Now, would I trade all this wisdom for a tighter jawline and perkier breasts? On a bad day, abso-fucking-lutely!

But on a good(ish) one, I think I’ll take the hug.