To Answer Your Question: Part 9

“Do You Like Being an Adult?”

How well I usually cope.

I guess I should’ve anticipated that your questions would only become more panic-inducing for me as you get older, but here I am: still surprised and a little offended by your audacity.

You’re 7 as I write this, and I can’t even spend too much time considering how that’s even possible when I could’ve sworn you were 3 yesterday and stomping around in your rain boots phase. That recognition of time passing slices through me silently like a knife, and I mean for that to be as dramatic as it sounds. Maybe one day you will have children of your own and you’ll feel this same pain that no one really has the nerve to talk about, other than a few cautious “You’ll miss these days” warnings. If you ever find yourself at 34, wondering how you’ll keep swallowing the pain of watching your child cycle through phases of life, just know your mom felt it, too. And, I survived.

You’ll survive anything I survived, and then some.

We were playing Spot It one night in the living room when you asked me how I got to be so good at it. I hardly let you win, but it’s for your own benefit to help you get better. This is a sucker-free household. If you’re no better at the game by the time you read this, you should just get out of my house immediately. Anyway, I explained that I used to play this game all the time with James, Lauren, and Micah during my planning at work when I was a teacher. You thought it was funny to imagine a bunch of adults sitting around playing a children’s game, and I told you even adults like to have fun.

Case in point.

Then you asked me, “Do you like being an adult?”

At the time, I said, “Yes.” I told you it was very cool to be able to make decisions for myself without needing someone’s permission. I said I really like to travel when I want because all of those trips are based on the fun I imagine having in my head. You spend a lot of time imagining things as a child. As an adult, you have the ability to imagine those things and then put them into action, if you play your cards right. I told you I also really enjoy going out to dinner with my friends and trying out new hobbies.

But, here’s the truth that I don’t believe you need to hear until you’re old enough to read these letters: the stress of being an adult can weigh on you like an anvil if you’re not mindful of it.

The most hellish thing about stress in your adult life is that there is a bevy of sources for it. You might end up with a career that is performance-based, so you live each year trying to top your previous performances. You might lose a loved one and have to find a way to live with constant grief as everyone else around you seemingly moves on. You might make one choice that changes the trajectory of your life in a way that makes you miserable, and it will require all of your courage to right that ship. The worst part is, it’s easy to fall into the trap of thinking it’s not worth sharing this stress out loud with someone else. People swallow it whole, trying to be a martyr for themselves when they don’t even end up playing it off anyway. Stress manifests itself physically. Your body, hair, personality, sleep, and appetite can all change from it. So, hear me now when I say you will fool no one if you try to manage your stress on your own. I do my best to manage it with therapy once a week with my girl, Alma, and I confide in my friends when they have space for it.

Right now, my overarching source of stress as an adult is the acknowledgement that my everyday life is the same life that is building your childhood. I live in these two worlds: one that is my life as Nora, the main character, and a second life that is a supporting role in the story of your childhood.

There are days when the first world drowns me. And, just in case you are currently petrified by your own adult life as you read this, here are some of my own stressful thoughts to prove to you that you’re not damaged or alone:

• I always worry about losing my parents and I put too much pressure on myself to make sure the time we have will be enough to hold me over if I’m ever without them.
• I sometimes filter how much venting I do to Auntie Stacie because she’s five years younger and I don’t want to cause her to dread getting to my age.
• I wonder if I’m a healthy example of a woman and adult for you, despite the regular crop tops and occasional cussing.
• Is it truly productive for you to see me living my life and being social, or am I excusing my own selfish behavior?
• I plan too many activities with my friends. At my best, I’m investing in them. At my worst, I’m distracting myself.
• I can’t see the future for us in this house. The control freak in me hates this, but the positive is that it forces me to be present.
• I don’t understand retirement plans or what mine needs to be. I’m furiously reading and trying to learn, but my ignorance feels too great.
• Am I a monster for making you an only child? Who will comfort you when I disappoint you? Who will share the responsibility with you of caring for me when I’m old?
• I don’t enjoy conversations on politics or religion at all anymore, and it genuinely hurts my feelings when people bring them up just for their own entertainment.
• I wish I could afford private school for you. You already experienced one shooting this year at your drum performance outside in Nashville. I’m not sure how else to protect you.
• I know that I give you my all, but I wonder if “my all” is on a sliding scale. Do other people have more in their “all”? If so, how do I get more so that I can pass it all along to you? This is why I have 7 books on my nightstand right now with 2 Coursera tabs constantly opened on my laptop. When I’m not with the people I love, I’m here alone wondering what areas of improvement I can uncover so that I’m not leaving you with nothing one day.

That’s just a glimpse into the noise of my head during any given day. I don’t talk to you about these things because boundaries matter. I want you to be a kid for as long as you can. It’s not your job to be my sounding board or manage my feelings. You are not my friend, though I hope we can be friends one day when that’s appropriate.

We do have a lot in common.

It doesn’t matter what I have going on in my head or my heart when you ask me to play Uno with your eyes all wide. I’m over here worrying about money or the future, and all you need from me is 10 minutes of Uno on the couch. I have to get over myself and give you those 10 minutes because I’m hoping that one day, when you’re my age, you’ll see a deck of Uno cards and you’ll remember when your mom played that game with you on the couch in front of our fake-candle fireplace.

Every time I take you to drum lessons, you beg to go to Chipotle across the street. I actually can’t stand Chipotle now, but you love it. So, I take you there and hope that I’m creating a memory that will make you smile in your adulthood when you think about drums or boring ass quesadillas.

You still make forts. Thankfully, you always ask for permission before you absolutely destroy the living room. It makes me tense to see the house in shambles, but one day I know you’ll ask about making a fort and it’ll be the last time you’ll ever ask me. The terrifying part is that I never know when it will be the last time so I treat every time like it could be the last time. I pause whatever bullshit stress is going on in my head, and I do my best to tune in and live in that moment with you.

There’s this viral trend I saw recently where moms create videos with their kids, and they start with a current picture and then go back through time with pictures together. For example, the audio for us right now would start with, “We may be 34 and 7, but once we were 31 and 4,” and then you’d see a picture of us from that year. I think about this a lot now. My mom has always told me not to wish my life away, and now most days I find myself wishing it would just stay still for a minute.

Most times, I’m in survival mode as an adult. I’m just doing what I can to survive my own life, while simultaneously trying to keep tabs on the magic I want to create for yours. James and I went to Target recently. I told him you wanted an Elf of the Shelf. You’ve never asked for one before, but you’ve been bugging the absolute hell out of me for one this year. I was surprised when James said his girls were the same way about getting one. I looked at him like, “Are we really going to do this?” and he said, “But, it’s for the kids.” Those damn elves were $40 each and I felt every bit of a fool as we carried them to the cash register. I don’t think either of us thought we’d ever be Elf on the Shelf parents, but here we are. I could easily spend $40 on drinks with friends, so why wouldn’t I spend it on you to make you laugh with your toothless grin a bit more at Christmas time? I can’t wait til you’re in high school so I can be my truly deviant self with this elf.

But, for right now, you are my little son. That trumps whether or not I like being an adult. Your childhood should be a privilege you get to enjoy, so I’m doing my best to protect that joy for you, despite being an average adult with questionable stress.

For me, it’s life. For you, it’s memories.