Not long ago, I found myself wandering through a department store when an eye-catching purse drew my attention. I picked it up, tossed it over my shoulder, and then caught my reflection in the mirror. A wave of horror washed over me: it was undeniably a granny purse! I practically hurled it back onto the shelf as if it were a creepy bug that had crawled onto my arm.
Is this how it all begins? I pondered. Not with a dramatic revelation, but rather through subtle shifts—one purse at a time. Before I knew it, I’d be filling candy dishes with Caramel Nips and stuffing my pockets with crinkled tissues. Soon, I’d be purchasing “slacks” and insisting on taking home leftover bread from my early bird dinners.
I recently marked my 46th birthday, and by all reasonable standards, I am firmly entrenched in middle age. I have embraced many of the hallmarks of adulthood: I own a home, pay taxes, and (mostly) remember to floss and schedule my annual mammogram. I even received a prescription for progressive lenses and have reconciled myself to the fact that I will probably never win a Nobel Prize or an Olympic medal. It dawned on me that I’m no longer part of the contemporary crowd on shows like American Idol; I’ve become one of the parents of those contestants—those middle-aged folks hovering in the background. And just like that, it’s whimpers instead of bangs.
Despite occasionally spotting gray hairs, my overwhelming reaction to this reality is one of incredulous disbelief: THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING! I still feel like a kid! “I’m just waiting for the parents to come home,” I admitted during a conversation with friends.
I know precisely when this feeling began. Back in my late 20s, single and residing in an apartment in D.C.’s Dupont Circle, a dear friend and her new husband had just purchased their first home—a beautiful Colonial in a tree-lined suburb. They had grown-up furniture, a spare bedroom, and even a lawn mower! One evening, as we sipped coffee post-dinner, I burst out laughing. “What’s so funny?” they asked. “I keep waiting for the parents to come home,” I admitted.
Being the youngest of five kids has always shaped my identity. “So you’re the baby!” people would exclaim when meeting me. Being the youngest carried weight, influencing my perspective on life. I watched my older brothers navigate adulthood while I remained in the background, eager to grow up, believing that age alone granted privilege and wisdom. I couldn’t wait to shed my youth, racing toward milestones, just like my brothers had before me. Yet, I failed to realize that I would never catch up to them and that enjoying the moments as they unfolded was crucial.
Having older parents didn’t help; their high school yearbooks from the 1940s felt as ancient as the Colonial era to me. Their musical tastes, stuck in the Big Band phase, further solidified their status as “grown-ups.” They had experience, they understood life.
Now, as a parent myself, that imposter syndrome lingers. I can’t help but wonder if my kids truly see me as an adult. I still struggle with basic tasks like changing a tire or understanding the intricacies of the Federal Reserve. The boiler in our home remains a mystery, and I’m a bit fuzzy on world history.
Yet, I have my high school yearbook from the 1980s. It’s not in black and white, but it’s definitely dated. The ’80s music I listen to in the car is as old to my children as Tommy Dorsey was to me in elementary school. My pre-Internet childhood seems as unimaginable to my kids as my parents’ pre-television era was to me. I have no clue what teenage girls consider fashionable these days. Just more whimpers, no bangs. It simply happens.
But then my son looks up from his book and asks, “Mom, what does ‘mum’s the word’ mean?” and I realize I can answer him confidently. I know how to drive, order books online, create dinner from thin air, and retrieve clean clothes from the laundry. I’ve gained experience; I know the ropes.
Recently, when my younger son was home sick, I comforted him by mopping his fevered brow and rubbing his back. Then I found myself saying something I remembered my own mother saying to me—the words that always made me feel better because grown-ups knew how to handle these things. “Don’t worry. Mama’s going to take care of you,” I murmured reassuringly.
I saw him relax in response. He doesn’t need to know that I sometimes feel like I’m just winging it. I realized my mother likely felt the same way, as did her mother before her. Perhaps that’s the most profound realization of adulthood—recognizing that we’re all just doing our best.
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In summary, the journey to adulthood often feels like a series of quiet realizations rather than loud awakenings. Embracing the responsibilities and roles of adulthood can be daunting, yet it also offers moments of profound connection and understanding.
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