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Parenting
Embracing Adulthood (Or, The Day I Nearly Bought a Senior Citizen’s Handbag)
by Melissa Carter
Updated: November 19, 2020
Originally Published: March 2, 2015
Recently, while wandering through a department store, I stumbled upon a handbag that piqued my interest. I picked it up, tossed it over my shoulder, and caught a reflection of myself in the mirror.
I recoiled in shock: It was a purse that could only be described as belonging to an elderly woman. I nearly tossed it back onto the shelf as if it were a spider crawling on my arm.
So this is how it happens, I mused. Not with a bang, but rather with a whimper, one seemingly innocent purse purchase at a time. Before I know it, my candy dishes will be overflowing with Caramel Nips, and my pockets will be stuffed with wrinkled tissues. I’ll find myself buying “slacks” and insisting on taking home restaurant bread rolls from my early bird dinners.
Having just celebrated my 46th birthday, I am undeniably in the throes of middle age. I possess all the markers of a full-fledged adult: I own a house, pay taxes, and (mostly) remember to floss and schedule my annual mammograms. I’ve recently received a prescription for progressive lenses and have come to grips with the reality that I will likely never earn a Nobel Prize or an Olympic medal. I realized, not long ago, that I am no longer in the same age group as contestants on shows like American Idol; instead, I am now a contemporary of their parents—those very middle-aged individuals hovering in the background. And so it continues. Whimpers, not bangs.
Despite discovering an increasing number of gray strands in my hair, my primary reaction to this realization is one of incredulity: THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING! I’M STILL JUST A KID!
“I keep waiting for the parents to come home,” I admitted.
I can pinpoint when this feeling began. It was during my late twenties when I was still single and residing in a cozy apartment in Dupont Circle, Washington, D.C. A close friend and her new husband had just purchased a beautiful Colonial home in a leafy suburb. They had grown-up furniture, a spare bedroom, and even a lawn mower. One evening, after an inviting dinner at their new home, we lingered over coffee, and I burst into laughter.
“What’s so funny?” they asked.
“I keep waiting for the parents to come home,” I confessed.
As the youngest of five siblings, being the “baby” has always been central to my identity. “So you’re the youngest!” people would remark knowingly upon meeting me. Being the youngest carried weight; it influenced my perspective and position in life. I spent my childhood watching my four older brothers navigate life’s complexities, with the oldest reaching milestones like a bar mitzvah while I was still in diapers; he left for college just before I began second grade.
I began to believe that age alone granted privilege and credibility. I longed to be older, eager to shed my youth like an unwanted burden. I yearned to race through life and reach the next phase, the next milestone, just as I had watched my brothers do. But it never occurred to me that, like a dog chasing its tail, I would never catch up, and if I didn’t pause to enjoy life as it unfolded, I would miss out on it entirely.
Growing up with older parents only reinforced their status as “grown-ups” in my eyes. Their high school yearbooks from the 1940s appeared as quaintly dated as if they had lived in Colonial times. Their musical preferences were forever rooted in the Big Band era, which only solidified their adult credentials in my mind. They had lived through experiences that shaped their understanding of the world.
Even now that I have children of my own, I still grapple with that impostor syndrome, still longing for some definitive arrival point. Where exactly am I trying to go? Surely my children can’t see me as a grown-up? I still don’t know how to change a tire or fully grasp the workings of the Federal Reserve. The intricacies of the boiler remain a mystery, and my grasp of world history is shaky at best.
And yet, I have my 1980s high school yearbook, which may not be in black and white but looks unmistakably out of date. The ’80s music station I frequently listen to plays songs as old to my children as the tunes of Tommy Dorsey were to me in elementary school. My pre-Internet childhood seems as unfathomable to my kids as my parents’ pre-television experiences seemed to me. I am utterly out of touch with what teenage girls consider fashionable nowadays. More whimpers. No bangs. It just sort of happens.
But then, my son looks up from his book and asks, “Mom, what does ‘mum’s the word’ mean?” and in that moment, I realize I can answer with confidence. I know how to drive a car and order books online. I can whip up dinner and conjure clean clothes from the tangled mess in the hamper. I have been around; I know the ropes.
Recently, my younger son was unwell at home. I gently wiped his brow and rubbed his back. Then, words slipped out of my mouth that echoed my mother’s comforting phrases. “Don’t worry. Mama’s going to take care of you,” I found myself saying reassuringly.
I noticed how my son relaxed at my words. He doesn’t need to know that I often feel like I’m just winging it. I realized my mother probably felt that way, too, as did her mother before her. Perhaps that is the most significant realization of adulthood.
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In summary, the journey to adulthood often feels like a gradual process filled with subtle changes that sneak up on us. We may find ourselves grappling with feelings of inadequacy while simultaneously realizing that we have indeed grown into our roles. Embracing this evolution, we can acknowledge our capabilities, even when we don’t fully understand the complexities of life.