My parents just celebrated the birth of their ninth grandchild.
Nine children, all in the span of five years, and they’ve only just begun.
I am so happy for my sister, and thrilled for my parents who have evolved into this role so beautifully.
And yet…gulp…they have evolved into this role…without a thought, a word or, seemingly, a care.
I always knew I would get older, even have children of my own. I was never fearful of aging, and looked forward to adulthood.
Well, here I am now; a woman, a Mrs., and, horrifyingly enough, a lady. (My mother recently referred to women my age as ‘ladies’. When I pointed that out to her, she paused and thought about what it meant to have a lady as a daughter. The end result was that we shrugged and went with it, as awkward as it was for both of us.)
I love it, this freedom of living life on my own. Growing up wasn’t too fun, but boy was it worth it.
And then I take a look at those who were the adults in my life, and the reality sets in.
I want to be a big girl so very badly. I have so much to offer the world now. It’s my time.
But…that means it’s no longer theirs. They will sit back happily and enjoy the fruits of their labor. They will smile and laugh and tell me stories of when they were my age, or when I was my child’s age, and I will…
…what will I do?
How will I relate to them?
Truth be told, I didn’t want to grow up to stand on my own. I wanted to catch up to them, to stand next to them, so I could be a part of their world.
Now that world is their age, and I am still here, still trying to be what time will never allow me to be.