Recently, while wandering through a department store, a purse caught my attention. I casually picked it up and swung it over my shoulder, only to catch my reflection in the mirror. A wave of embarrassment washed over me: It was definitely a bag that belonged to an elderly woman.
In a moment of panic, I nearly tossed it back onto the shelf as if a spider had scurried onto my arm. This is how it starts, I thought. Not with a dramatic revelation, but gradually, one purse purchase at a time. Before I knew it, I’d be filling candy dishes with Caramel Nips and stashing crumpled tissues in my pockets. I could already picture myself buying “slacks” and insisting on taking home leftover bread from my early dinners.
Having just celebrated my 46th birthday, I find myself firmly entrenched in middle age. I’ve embraced the responsibilities that come with adulthood: I own a house, pay taxes, and even remember to floss (most of the time) and schedule my annual mammogram. I’ve recently been prescribed progressive lenses, and I’ve accepted that winning a Nobel Prize or an Olympic medal is likely out of reach. It dawned on me that I’m no longer contemporaneous with the contestants on shows like American Idol; instead, I’m more like their parents, those people who hover in the background. And so it goes—quietly, with whispers instead of bangs.
Despite the graying strands of hair that seem to multiply overnight, I can’t shake the feeling of disbelief: THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING! I’m still just a kid at heart!
“I still keep expecting the parents to come home,” I confessed to a friend recently.
The Beginning of It All
I remember the moment it all began. In my late twenties, still single and living in a cozy apartment in Dupont Circle, my close friend and her husband had just moved into their first home—a charming Colonial in a leafy suburb, complete with adult furniture and a lawn mower. One evening, over coffee in their kitchen, I burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” they asked.
“I keep waiting for the parents to come home,” I admitted.
As the youngest of five, being the “baby” has always been part of my identity. It came with a certain weight and perspective, as I watched my older brothers navigate adulthood while I remained behind, yearning to catch up. The eldest had his bar mitzvah when I was in diapers; he was off to college just as I started second grade. I became convinced that age was the key to privilege and credibility. I longed to be older, to shed my youth and embrace adulthood, hoping to finally unlock the secrets I saw my brothers enjoying.
Growing up with older parents added to this feeling. Their high school yearbooks from the 1940s felt antiquated, and their taste in music never quite evolved past the Big Band era. This only solidified their status as Grownups™ in my eyes. They were seasoned, wise, and knew the ropes.
Feeling Like an Impostor
Now, as a parent myself, I still grapple with feelings of being an impostor, uncertain of when I’ll truly feel like a grown-up. I’m not even sure where that destination is. My kids surely can’t believe I’m a real adult—I still don’t know how to change a tire or fully understand how the Federal Reserve operates. The boiler in our house remains a mystery, and my grasp of world history is shaky at best.
Yet, there’s my high school yearbook from the ’80s, which looks comically outdated. The ’80s music I love is as distant to my children as the Big Band tunes were to me. My pre-Internet childhood seems as unfathomable to them as my parents’ lives without television were to me. I feel out of touch with what teenagers consider cool nowadays. More whispers, no bangs; it just unfolds gradually.
But then, when my son looks up from his book and asks, “Mom, what does ‘mum’s the word’ mean?” I realize I can respond with complete certainty. I know how to drive a car, order books online, and conjure dinner from thin air. I’ve experienced life. I know the ropes.
Not long ago, when my younger son was home sick, I gently mopped his feverish brow and rubbed his back. Then I instinctively said something my own mother used to say, words that always comforted me as a child: “Don’t worry. Mama’s going to take care of you.” I noticed how he relaxed at my words. He doesn’t need to know that I often feel like I’m winging it. Probably, my mother felt the same way, and her mother before her. Perhaps that realization is the truest sign of adulthood.
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Conclusion
In summary, navigating adulthood is a gradual process filled with unexpected realizations and moments of reflection. As I embrace my role as a parent, I find comfort in the knowledge that we’re all figuring it out together, one step at a time.