Sometimes I forget I’m an adult.
I spend most of my day surrounded by teenagers and invest myself in their lives, dreams, goals, and problems.
This weekend I watched my best friend get married to someone who is absolutely perfect for her and I was shocked the entire time. How did we even get here? How is she old enough to get married and be in that wedding dress?
I think it had more of an impact because she’s the last of my friends to say “I do” and my sweet husband was the officiate.
When did I grow up?
I expressed these feelings to my dad and he said he still doesn’t think he’s grown up and struggles with the idea that he’s old enough to be a grandfather.
The same day my friend said I do, I celebrated my 29th birthday. In my mind this basically means I’m like the crypt keeper.
In other people’s minds (like my editor’s) I’m still a baby she shakes her head at me and tells me to focus.
As I continued to struggle with my adultness well into the weekend, my sweet Nana taught me something, as all two-year-olds tend to do.
I was so frustrated with the housework not being done, the lack of food in the fridge, and the bills on the counter.
I wanted to go back to being carefree and living with my parents so I didn’t have to worry about these adult responsibilities.
I scrolled through my phone added up bills in my head when a pudgy sticky hand slapped me on the leg.
I looked up to be greeted with a strawberry popsicle covered face. Not only that, but this silly girl was totally naked, diaper and all, and she had the end of the hose in her hand requesting it be turned on.
Even though I had to fight myself to not worry about tracking grass into the kitchen when we were done, I turned on the hose and let her spray water all over the porch, herself, in the dog bowls, and on the porch furniture.
We drew with wet chalk and ate more popsicles and for a small moment I forgot the bills on the counter and the fact that I was 29.
The first line of Peter Pan is “all children except for one grow up.”
Maybe there’s a bit more truth to that than Barrie thought. Maybe we can all hold onto those sticky hands and not actually need pixie dust.
Courtney Warren is a contributing writer with The Bolivar Commercial. She may be contacted at email@example.com.