I was at the BlogHer conference in New York when one of the panelists commented that “even” her own mother blogs. She called her mother “one of those elder bloggers.” Meaning, she said, “anyone over 50 who blogs.”

I pried my gnarled fingers off my Underwood, slammed down my Ensure and quaked, “Say, what, girlie?” That’s a joke. I would never say anything so ageist, but I did gulp and turned to my daughter to ask, “Might she be talking about moi?”

I am well over 50 and my daughter is well under and yet, blogging wise, she is the senior one. Someone might call her a hottie blogger. She probably wouldn’t object.

But elder blogger really pushed my buttons. Is Maya Angelou an elder poet? Is Annie Leibovitz an elder photographer. Is Madonna an elder rock star?

Not surprisingly, the blogging world is dominated by youngish people. A story in the New York Times said that 53 percent of bloggers are between the ages of 21 to 35. Only about 7 percent of bloggers are over 51. In the world of blogging the young are old hands, the old are newbies.

At the BlogHer conference there were more than 2,400 women bloggers and certainly the under-50 demo outnumbered the over-50. And over 60, like me.

It could be worse, I guess. They might have called us “geezer geeks.”

I asked Beth Blakely from the website Vibrant Nation, which is for women age 50 and over and has a number of regular bloggers ,what she thinks of the term. Beth says it can be helpful to identify a blogger by her subject just as you would any writer with a particular focus. But the general tag of elder blogger doesn’t work for her.

My friend and contemporary Michele blogs about food and wine and some might call her a foodie blogger. But elder blogger? Never. She colors her hair egglplant and hula dances. I can’t imagine she will ever be an elder anything.

The problem is the word. In some cultures “elder” is a sign of respect, as it was once in our own and might some day be again. But in our mainstream youth-happy world it creaks.

I will embrace my gray hair, my funky sore back and that I know most Beatles lyrics. But elder is a description I am not ready or brave enough to own. It makes me feel old. Blogging makes me feel like a player.

Pattie Heiser has the website 50 Fabulous and doesn’t consider herself an elder blogger. “It gives me hives to think of it.” She has the same problem with the word. “Our culture does not revere our elderly and to be so means that you will be disregarded and discarded.”

On the other side, Joan Price is fine with elder. Joan writes books about sex after 60 and blogs about it at NakedAtOurAge.com In her mid-60s, Joan calls herself a senior and considers her audience boomers, seniors and, yes, elders. She credits her late husband with putting the right spin on elder, as someone who had “the wisdom of a lifetime of experiences.”

Were elder to deliver such a strong, respectful vibe it would be something to aspire to. It would be a designation that you earned, not something automatically granted when you become a certain age, like Medicare and movie discounts.

Then, if someone called me an elder, meaning that I was experienced, wise and worldly, I would flaunt it like a new Pashmina.

But elder as in elder blogger? No, in the blogging world I’m pretty much a juvenile.

There was a tender moment when the bride started to tear up and the groom pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. The groom’s mother turned around and whispered, “The hankie is Eloise’s.”

I whispered the same to my daughter and she whispered to her sister and she whispered to the next sister. And on it went through the rows of relatives sitting on the groom’s side of the church.

Eloise was the groom’s late grandmother. Many of us had to be thinking how much Eloise would have loved being there. And then her hankie appeared. And then we all needed hankies.

Actually, mine had been in use since the violinist lead off with “Ave Maria.” “There goes Mom” said a daughter, who I might add, didn’t take long to wreck her own mascara.

I guess people cry at weddings because even though each couple’s ceremony is different, according to style and form and sweet surprises like a hankie passing, their pledge to love each other forever is a personal reminder to everyone in the room who ever said the same thing or thought about it.

You think about the sweetness of young love and the challenge of lasting love and then you look up at the couple grinning at each other and down the aisles at your own family with the littlest baby, and there’s all that wonderful continuation. And then you think that it’s a good thing that weddings are often performed in a house of worship because marriage is so much about faith transcending experience.

As Wendell Berry said, “Be joyful, though you have considered all the facts.”

I could only imagine what scenes from a marriage played in the heads of others in the church. I know that a few on our side could personally attest that not all marriages are made in heaven. People disappoint. Couples divorce. Parents go their separate ways and kids grow up in two houses.

And, hadn’t our group just the night before sat over margaritas and enchiladas and analyzed the Tipper-Al break-up? Who wanted out? Was it losing the election? Was it Al becoming a global warming god? What about the famous big fat kiss?

Other people’s marriages matter, even the celebrity ones we watch from the sidelines. When strong, reliable ones fail, like the Gores’, we all feel a little threatened. And yet, marriage is one of the few institutions we still believe in.

The minister made a point that these two smart, shining people had been friends for a long time before falling in love. The bride’s brother read a piece called “I Like You” which is actually a child’s poem about friendship. It doesn’t mention love and romance. It talks about two people amazed at how much they make each other laugh and how they trust each other. One part says, “And if we are in Grand Central Station and if I get lost then you are the one who is yelling for me.”

It was a fine event, the ritual honored with some creative deviations. Instead of wedding cake there was crème brulee. The bride’s attendants got to blessedly wear their own non-matching dresses. The bride nixed the garter toss.

The couple had two days of stardom and blessings and silly and sentimental toasts. Their adoring fans got to put on the rare suit and high heels and party into the night, even the old married ones boogieing in their herky-jerky way.

If there were any cynics in the crowd they still all stood and applauded as the groom kissed the bride and the bride kissed him back.

It can be a long stretch of time between having your own babies and grandbabies, which is why it’s a good idea to get a dog. Puppies are not only a reminder of how it is to have a vulnerable creature entirely dependent on you, they reintroduce you to sleep deprivation, mushy baby talk and crawling around on the floor on your hands and knees.

This is why I say everything I know about grandbabies I learned from my dog. They have so much in common in their formative stages. They learn fast but take orders only when they feel like it. They insist you be agile, mindful and forgiving, while turning you into willing servants and causing you to fall silly in love.

My husband and I have one dog in the house and two young grandchildren who live nearby. A three and a half year old and a five month old. The dog came first and like all new dog owners we were stunned at how freely we gave over our house, our social schedule and, yes, even our bed to the dog.

She is six years old but I still call her “puppy.” I also call the grandchildren “puppy.” It’s my favorite endearment.

We spoiled the dog. She eats at will, gets walked three times a day even in the rain and is allowed on the furniture. She’s a loveable inconvenience, demanding and often underfoot. So, it was not a big adjustment bringing grandbabies into our house which we do one day a week.

When the dog was tiny we kept elaborate notes on what she ate, when she slept, how much and where she eliminated. We did the same with the first grandbaby and now with her little brother. We are veteran poop reporters.

Everything I know about grandbabies I learned from my dog.

There are major differences, of course, between the two. Babies need to be carried about which makes them harder on your back. You can’t ignore a crying baby like you can a barking dog. On the other hand, a baby outgrows her crying when she starts talking. A dog never stops barking, at least not this one.

Dogs are more mobile. You open the car door and the dog jumps in and that’s it. Getting a child in a car seat requires a manual, two grandparents and a lot of practice. Going for a walk with a dog requires a mere leash and a plastic bag. With a baby, you have to figure out which button pops open the stroller and which straps go under his arms and which ones around his little legs and then what to pull to cinch it all tight. By which time the baby is howling and so is the dog.

Dogs and little kids do make great accessories. You can take them around town and people will smile and sometimes stop to talk. People get to know you by your little companions. But greet them on the street minus your dog or grandbaby and they act like “who, you?”

We made the house dog-proof before we made it baby-proof but it was kind of the same thing. The dog had a playpen, a special bed, gates to keep her from falling off the deck and her own shampoo, the no-more-tears kind. Same with the kids.

Both creatures are adoring and make you feel essential. But they’re fickle and will crawl into just about any lap. Plus they drool. For sure, the house would be a lot quieter and neater without them. But, pretty empty, too.