Sometimes when I’m watching Bubs waddle around, playing and what not, it hits me: I have a child. An actual child. Ergo, I am an actual parent.
Can that be right? Am I really grown-up enough to be a parent? Why haven’t the authorities been alerted?!
When I was 10 or 15 or whenever, I would imagine the things adult-me would do, like, waaaaaaaaaaay in the future. You know, getting married, having kids, living in a family home. Well, guess what? Those things have happened. That is my life now. I am basically living in the future. When did this occur and where’s my bloody hover car???
Okay, I’m 30-years-old, I can accept that this means I’m firmly in the ‘adult’ category. And I’m really okay with that. What’s the alternative? You couldn’t pay enough money to be a teenager again and the twenty-something ship has sailed. But when Hubs and I talk, we often still refer to our parents as ‘the grown-ups’. Because they the real adults, aren’t they? Unlike me, 79% of the sentences that leave their mouths don’t have the word ‘like’ needlessly injected into them. I mean I know all of the words to Fix Up, Look Sharp by Dizzee Rascal, for crusts sake!*
Okay, I just googled Fix up, Look Sharp. It came out in 2003. That’s TWELVE YEARS AGO. *sobs into keyboard*
To be fair, there is quite a bit of evidence mounting up to prove I am, in fact, ‘one of them’. I listen to Radio 2 in the mornings rather than Radio 1/1xtra/Galaxy (they just talk so much nonsense and they are SO LOUD). But it gets worse. I also listen The Archers. Whilst cooking the dinner. Or pottering around the kitchen. That’s right, I have become a potterer. Young adults don’t potter; they’re too busy drinking vodka, getting tattoos and discovering themselves.
Still, most of the time it feels like I’m just pretending. Yes we have a job, or a kid, or a mortgage, or all of the above, but we’re not really a grown-ups. We’re not like our parents (who have obviously always been grown-ups and didn’t exist before you were born any way!) It’s like playing house. A really long, arduous game of ‘house’, where you can’t storm off and sulk if it doesn’t go your way. Well, you can but that won’t stop the game. Because this game NEVER ENDS. *fade in creepy music*
And you know what freaks me out the most? You know our kids? Our little tiny ones? In a few years time they will call us grown-ups and, much much worse, we will start referring to ourselves as ‘the grown-ups’. *shudder* I can just hear myself saying stuff like “That juice is just for the grown-up” (#gin) and “You can stay up, but it’s grown-up time now so we need to be calm, no more running.” (‘Grown-up time’ was a classic move of my mum’s, cheers mama!) Then there will be no denying it; by my own admission I will have joined the ranks of people who are supposed to understand tax self-assessments and know how to mend things. When do they send you your grown-up manual?? I have so much to learn!
But take comfort, Dear Reader, I have great news for you. Everyone is pretending. Your Head Teacher, your GP, the Prime Minister (okay, that one’s a bit more obvious): we are all playing our roles, trying our best (again, this may not apply to the PM). Very few of us actually feel fully prepared for the task of ‘doing-life’. It all gets a bit daunting from time to time. I have my fair share of wobbles, as you may have surmised.
So maybe I happily announce: I am a grown-up! A ‘like’-saying, hip-hop grinding, Archers-listening grown-up. Whatever the f*ck that means!
Does your adulthood ever smack you in the face like an angry, walking panic attack? Or perhaps you quite like it? Whatever you think, let me know by commenting below. And get involved by subscribing above!