I am an adult; 36 years old, mother of 2, a High School teacher, although not one now, and yet, there are certain areas of life where I just curl up in a fetal position, with the blankie over my head going “no, no, no, no, no…”
It mostly has to do with money, with forms, with official grown up things like health insurance or the government. Of course I also go into hiding when I think of getting my writing published.
But I don’t really have the luxury of being a flake or a child about these things. I am an adult with the responsibilities of an adult. What I do does not affect just me any more, it affects my children.
I may have a hard time believing that I am the mother of two kids sometimes, but I am. And I have to take care of them. And I have to take care of me, too, if not for my own sake, simply because I’m worth it, then for my kids’ sake, because they need to have a healthy, strong, successful mom who is there for them.
Sometimes, when I get small and scared, I remind myself to be an adult. I don’t always want to step up to the plate, so sometimes I have to goad myself, like a bully. “Do it, you wuss, be an adult.”
It’s worked a couple of times, maybe I can keep doing it and I’ll get in the habit of acting like an adult when I need to.
Just to be clear, being an adult does not mean being boring or narrow minded or unadventurous or unhappy or any of that. I truly believe that grown ups can be just as full of wonder as children, just as spontaneous, they just also take care of what needs to be done.
Maybe I should also give myself a goal about childlike wonder to balance out the adultifying.
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