Earlier today I was sitting in a meeting with a woman named Susan. Susan and I are around the same age. Her children are a bit older than mine, but we are certainly generationally equivalent. She was disappointed to learn that her counterpart, who she had been looking forward to meeting, cancelled out on the meeting at the last minute.
“Do you think I’ll ever get to meet her?” she asked.
“I hope so,” I started. “She’s young and possibly a bit overcommitted.”
“How young?” Susan asked.
“In her early twenties.”
“Oh!” Susan swung her head back dramatically. “She’s not a woman. She’s a girl!”
I laughed at her response. It seemed a bit of an overreaction. “She’s got great perspective,” I assured her.
“I could be her mother!” Susan couldn’t seem to get beyond her age.
Again, I laughed believing she was overreacting just a tiny bit. But she continued on. “Really,” she was adamant now. “I could literally be her mother….” She rambled on for quite a bit but, with that last comment, I had already escaped to my own head and thoughts. I was counting backwards, wondering if she could possibly be right. Could Susan be her mother? And, if so, did that mean that I could be her mother?
I returned home with the realization that I was somehow old enough to be the mother of a 20 year old. A 20 year old. The thought lingered, taking up too much space in my brain. Looking to drown my new-found sorrows, I turned my attention to (what else?) Facebook. Something silly, ridiculous or hilarious had to be posted there. Surely that would help to distract me from this stunning discovery.
That’s when I saw it. A post from a childhood friend. A childhood friend that I started kindergarten with and eventually graduated high school with. I couldn’t believe what I was reading. I rubbed my eyes and read it again. ‘Happy 20th birthday to my son,’ it read.
I pouted for a bit after that, but then I remembered a conversation I had with my husband just the other night. He watched me curl up under a blanket with my fleece pajamas and he laughed. “You’re just happy to be getting old, aren’t you?”
I didn’t hesitate when shaking my head yes. I do like getting older. I do like feeling comfortable and cozy in my own world – my own life. I don’t want to be 20 again.
Oh good God, I definitely don’t want to be 20 again.
As it turns out, I’m pretty happy being mature enough to be the mother of a 20 year old. That must mean I’m entering the wise years. Yep, that’s right. The wise years.
**Happy, satisfied grin**