When we grow up, will I be a lady?

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Sometimes I ask myself, when did I grow up?

When I was younger, I was always thinking about what I would look like when I grew up. What my life would be like. Who I would marry. How many kids I would have. And of course, what my pantry would be stocked with (for the record, I was certain it would be Spaghetti-Os and macaroni & cheese).

I envisioned all of this as a specific day. Almost like a changing of the guard. One day, I’m just a kid. The next day, grownupsville. One day, I would carry a pocketbook and wear pantyhose. I would pay bills and talk about taxes and insurance. I would be a grown up.

If you’re in your twenties, you may still be waiting for that day to happen. You might still be renting an apartment and searching for the man/woman of your dreams. You may be enjoying pink wine and staying up too late every night. I lived this life. I was still a kid long into my twenties.

If you’re in your thirties, you’ve probably accepted the fact that you became a grown up in your twenties but just didn’t want to admit it. In your thirties, you actually appreciate being grown up. You like it. You embrace it. You watch the kids on The Real World and laugh at their ridiculosity (yes, it’s a real word. I looked it up).

While the idea of taxes and insurance still sounds boring, it becomes practical and sometimes informative to have a casual discussion about it over a glass of wine. Chardonnay, to be exact. Slightly oaky, preferably from South America. Oh yes, the thirties have arrived.

And then the forties come. Actually they already came. Last November. The confidence of my thirties only increases and the firmness of my skin only decreases. Just as I start to feel really confident in who I am, my body betrays me. It reminds me that not only have I reached adulthood, but I’m probably on my way down that hill. You know, THE hill.

When did this happen?

I’m not sure if having a child makes you more acutely aware of the passage of time. I know it certainly makes me acutely aware of the lack of sleep.  And yet, just as I start to get too interested in political elections and retirement funds, my little 4 year old insists I go outside to blow bubbles. Or ride bikes. Or play in the sprinkler.

When it gets too hot, I insist we stay inside and play video games. And eat cookies. And watch hours of bad TV. I think being a parent has helped me find that happy medium.

In my thirties, I had arrived. I was truly a grown-up and practically on the cusp of becoming a bit crusty. Then I went and threw a baby into the mix and was reminded, Oh yeah. It’s fun being young!

Just because we grow up doesn’t mean we’re grown up. We need maturity and responsibility. These are things that help us to guide and lead our kids and those lost causes on The Real World.

But staying young at heart and laughing at the silly things is important. It won’t rebuild our collagen (as far as I know) but it makes being a grown up a whole lot more fun.

* I borrowed the title of this post from one of the more memorable songs of my youth, When We Grow Up from the album Free to Be, You and Me