A few months back "Real Simple" magazine (the one magazine to which I hold a subscription, although I am guilty of grabbing a "People" off of the rack every now and again) asked its readers to write an essay on when they realized they were officially a grown-up. I've been pondering this question at odd moments ever since, as by most people's standards I am, indeed, an adult at this point, even if I somehow still find this surprising to myself.
But unlike, apparently, the thousands of people who wrote of specific humorous, poignant, monumental, or at the very least, telling moments, for me, nothing comes to mind as the so-called "light bulb" millisecond where I thought, "ah- ha!" I truly must be a grown-up now. The truth is somewhere in getting married and gaining a mortgage, raking the leaves and carting the groceries in from the garage, it might have happened. Or perhaps it was saying no to the door-to-door salesman, being called ma'am for the first time, scrubbing my own toilets, or cooking dinners for more then just myself. I might have grown-up during the thousandth load of laundry, in the middle of wrapping presents for an entire family Christmas after being personally responsible for all of the holiday shopping, or learning that when I am sick I am still required to be fully functional for my husband and daughter. I even suppose I could say I officially grew up when I figured out my husband and I will quite possibly never see eye to eye on certain issues, and at times we will not be each others favorite people but that this does not mean our marriage is headed for the proverbial "crap heap." I KNOW when I am old and gray he will be the one beside me, sitting on the porch of OUR camp, so I guess I must be in a grown-up relationship, right?
Honestly though I suppose the "I must be a grown-up moment" most likely occurred somewhere in the countless hours I have thus far logged being a mother. Maybe in the labor that would not end, in one of the early a.m. feedings when I somehow found myself in the glider rocker nursing Isabelle with no memory of having actually gotten out of bed to feed her. Or perhaps during, say the 12th hour of pacing the floor with a crying, screaming, will not be comforted no matter what, baby. And now I find myself in the last days of her preschool, and registering her for Kindergarten, with my nerves in knots and my heart in my throat at the thought of all that will face her in the big, scary albeit wonderful world that is school. I want her days to forever be candy and light, safe and secure with never a bad hour, a mean kid or a hurtful word said, even while recognizing the need for all experiences, including the not so great ones to become a well-rounded person. Does this make me a grown-up or just a parent?
So, no single defining moment. Life happens and I grew up. It goes on everyday. Real Simple.
