“Don’t blink,” is the common refrain from strangers at the grocery store or coffee shops as they glance at my cart filled with children. “It goes so fast.”
“Just wait,” others caution, noticing my stress levels have peaked.
After nearly 13 years of parenthood, I’ve grown accustomed to these remarks, almost desensitized to the reminders of how swiftly my kids are maturing, how quickly I’ll face the onset of their teenage years, and how I’ll eventually long for the days of toys and training wheels. Indeed, those strangers are correct. The years are surprisingly fleeting, even though they are filled with seemingly endless days. I’ve already experienced the bittersweet nature of looking back at photos of my cherubic toddlers and marveling at how they’ve transformed into young adults who require adult-sized meals, trendy sneakers, and who, most startlingly, can grasp the innuendo in television shows. I’ve shed tears over elementary graduations and the arrival of adult teeth that irrevocably change their little smiles. Yet, watching my children grow is a natural progression I anticipated. It feels logical. When I am caught off guard by my 12-year-old standing at eye level with me, I feel a mix of astonishment and joy, as this is part of the journey, a sign that I am on the right path.
However, what profoundly affects me now is the realization of my own rapid aging.
I feel grossly unprepared for it. No one in the checkout line at Target has ever touched my arm and said, “It goes so fast,” referring to my own life. I wish someone had, back when I was in my 20s, when adulthood felt like a blank canvas I could never fill. Somehow, amidst work, marriage, and raising tiny humans, I’ve penned a larger portion of my narrative in a shorter span than I ever imagined possible. While there’s still much left unwritten, the edges of my story are beginning to feel defined.
I’m now 40, with a prescription for a mammogram tucked in my purse as proof. The films I grew up with—the ones that shaped my understanding of life—are celebrating their 30th anniversaries. The music of my youth has found its way to the oldies station. I recognize that I’m supposed to embrace the wonderful aspects of being 40, to celebrate the journey of self-discovery, and to appreciate that I no longer concern myself with others’ opinions. While all of this rings true, there are undeniable perks to having navigated the tumult of adolescence, the chaos of my 20s—marked by 9/11 and subsequent wars—and the harsh realities of my 30s (marriage, parenthood, economic downturns).
But there are moments, often mundane—like driving through my suburban neighborhood in my minivan with a couple of kids safely buckled in the backseat—when I am struck by the speed of it all. How have I become the middle-aged mom in this scenario? I know how it happened; I experienced it all firsthand. Yet, I still feel like a teenager pretending to be an adult, despite the tangible markers of adulthood I possess, such as that mammogram prescription and the weight of our mortgage. I thought I would have gained more wisdom by now. I expected to have a deeper understanding of life. Most days, I still feel like the girl who wore braces and rocked a chambray prairie skirt in seventh grade, who made mixtapes off the radio on her lavender boom box. How can I be this old already?
“I’m not ready,” I whisper to myself. “I’m not ready.”
I don’t want to revisit those years. I was awkward enough the first time around. It’s not that I was necessarily happier back then or that I’m dissatisfied with my current life. It’s just that time is slipping away so quickly. While I’ve been focused on watching my children evolve into young adults, I’ve neglected to pay attention to my own transformation. I haven’t taken the time to appreciate how those days have accumulated so rapidly.
Before anyone suggests it, I’m aware that 40 isn’t considered old in today’s world. I recognize there’s much ahead if luck is on my side, and I anticipate it will be wonderful. I’ve experienced loss due to accidents and illness already, and I feel immense gratitude for the aging process. I’m excited about what’s to come: the growth in my life, parenting, career, and marriage.
Yet, for the record, I’m still not ready. Perhaps we never truly are.
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