Adulting

I’m closing in on thirty-seven years. And thirty-seven is closing in on forty. Forty is closing in on middle aged. I have no fear of thirty-seven or forty or middle aged. As my grandma says, it’s better than the alternative. The issue is that I keep forgetting I’m not in my twenties anymore. I have an eight-year-old kid and a husband and a mortgage and insurance and bills…. I have adult things. I am constantly adulting. And it’s hard work. It’s hard when on a Thursday night you just want to order pizza, veg on the couch, and do a bunch of nothing, but you have to go over 30 spelling words and word problems and you’re looking up what a “range” means on a graph. It’s hard when it’s not all about you. It’s hard when you are torn between laying in your kid’s bed at bedtime to ensure he actually goes to sleep on time and doesn’t sneak the laptop under the covers, when really you want to race to bed before you hear your husband’s snoring. The constant pull of need and want should and shouldn’t. The see-saw of life…