Playing grown-ups

WHEN my husband and I were setting up a nursery for the first time, I was a little incredulous at the whole concept.

This was not a new housemate coming into our lives, this was a little person who literally had nothing and would rely on us for everything.

When he came home, we stared for the longest time and giggled like we were playing at being adult.

And that’s the weird part. No matter what accomplishments pepper my life, no matter mortgages, careers and even a baby, I’ve always felt I was mimicking an adult, not actually becoming one.

And now I have two kids, am a landlord, have a career (albeit on hold) and am even a playgroup treasurer, but I still feel like I’m just playing at adulthood.

You see, I don’t “carry” myself as an adult would. I write my columns in a ratty notepad, while I lie belly-down on my bed; I stuff lollies into my mouth when I go to the pantry so I won’t have to share them with the kids (though I can argue that’s for their own good too!); I often sit on the floor to play; and I burst into ridiculous dance moves when the mood takes me (music optional).

Sure, I also B-pay my bills, make up meal plans and do weekly shopping, I ask for tax receipts and complain about teenagers, but those things don’t make me feel like an adult.

I got to wondering what it would take to finally feel I’d reached adulthood. I looked back through my journals to see if I had thought about what kind of adult I would become.

Amidst the dark ramblings of God and vampires (you kids can have Robert Pattinson, we had Brad Pitt!), of X-File excerpts and lyrics from Alanis Morisette, I hadn’t so much mused on myself as a future adult as I did about myself as a future celebrity.

But I did find one interesting tidbit in amongst the lovehearts and spectres of Death. I said that things such as careers, mortgages, marriage and babies was, and I quote, “over-rated”.

How lame my life must seem to fifteen-year old me. Though I imagine she’d love my kids who know most of the Top 40 and can dance, even though one can’t yet walk.

Since teenage-me offered disgust but no real answer, I figured that I could redefine what adulthood means now. Thirty-one surely isn’t too old to admit that I haven’t grown up, is it?

Perhaps adulthood, under the premise that I have indeed reached it, is recognising what you have got as well as what you’re still trying to achieve.

Because, much like Peta circa 1995, I still believe if you’re not out there “trying” for something, you might as well be pushing up daisies.

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2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Sorelle
    Jul 02, 2010 @ 08:45:51

    Ahhh Peta I am so glad someone else feels the same at 40 I still have to remind my self as creep around the corner to give C-Jay a fright which ends up with both of us belly laughing or annoy him for my own pleasure to the comment “now Mum behave yourself I am trying to concentrate.”that I am actually nearly middle aged.LOL..So I loved this piece it really rings true for me.
    Love ya work
    Sorelle

    Reply

  2. Trackback: Motherhood blogging up your life? « PetaJo

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