Adulting

All week I've been anxiously waiting for an important phone call. Each afternoon, I come home from work, dropping my stuff at the door and racing through the house with my boots and coat still on calmly and nonchalantly checking to see if there is a message. They said they'd call possibly on Tuesday, but more likely, it would be Wednesday, so when Wednesday arrived, and there wasn't any message, I started losing my ever-loving mind to worry that something was wrong. I panicked and started freaking out assuming the worst case scenario calmly waited until the next day, and then finally asked my other half to call about it. He did, but was told they had nothing for him yet. Of course they didn't. Or else they would have called, right? I was starting to build some disappoint and sadness - I just wanted that damn phone call.

Then yesterday, as I was finishing my day at work and getting my coat on, my Other Half texts to tell me that there is a message. They had FINALLY called. It's good news....

My area rug for the dining room has arrived and is ready for pick up.

I was so excited, I'm sure that I floated to the car, and it took everything I had to go home (instead of driving straight there) and get my Other Half so we could race drive responsibly to the city to pick it up.

For real. I was all excited and worked up about a rug. An 11x9 foot rug we picked out to go under our dining room table (because the tile is chilly on my toes). I had a similar experience just before the holidays when we had a water softener installed, and a few months before when we had our wood fireplace removed and replaced with a gas insert. And of course, when we were moving into this house, I was beyond excited about moving into our new space, but was crazy elated over the beautiful appliances I was getting with my new kitchen, and was devastated somewhat disappointed and fretting over the washer and dryer (they were older, and seemingly not as good as what I was leaving behind at the old house). When did this happen? When did I become *THAT* person who gets excited over appliances, water softeners, fireplaces and area rugs? When did I start 'adulting'?

These thoughts hit me like tidal wave as I sat in the vehicle waiting for my Other Half and the rug guy to carry and load the rug in. In our van. Our practical, people-moving mini-van. The van that is equipped with wetnaps, kleenex, a first-aid kit, a GPS (gasp!), and any other possible thing a family might need while on the road. That's about as adult as you get, isn't it? There is a single spiderman ornament hanging from the mirror. It's my Other Half's (he is the primary driver of the van). When I drive it, that dangling toy annoys the ever-loving hell out of me. He loves it. See? Even he still holds some 'kid-like' attributes. I realize that a bit of maturing and such occurred when I had children, bought houses, got married, had jobs, etc, but I was still a fun-loving, kid, right?

Wrong. So very, very, VERY wrong. Suddenly, I'm sitting in the year 2016 facing my 43rd birthday down the barrel (How the hell did THAT happen?!). One of my kids is in her 2nd year of university; another is about to officially become a teenager; and my baby has become an independent, dance-loving 6th grader; I get excited about appliances, water softeners, fireplaces and area rugs; I love my job and like going to work; I take pride in maintaining my house; I pay my bills; I own a van; I buy crazy things like spinach, whole wheat bread, and broccoli (and I ask that my kids eat it!); We eat meals together as a family at the table; I remind my kids time and time again that donuts or Hallowe'en candy is NOT a meal; and I parent. I nag them; I help with homework; I buy them clothes when they outgrow them; I help them handle their medical problems (and balance their medications; I take them to appointments, clinics, I keep track of headaches, asthma attacks, foods and weights; I help them through their heartaches and school yard kafuffles; I host birthday parties, sleepovers, playdates and school projects; and I chauffeur them all over God's great creation. And I worry about them. And I worry about my parents. And I worry about my Other Half's parents. I'm very aware of my own mortality. I care about the future and take steps to ensure that my children aren't supporting me (well, maybe this is a bit of a lie...after paying for their education and activities, I think they should pay for at least part of my retirement, right?).

And that right there, my friends, is adulting.

By all intents and purposes, I'm an adult! I've trained my whole life preparing for this, and BAM - it's just here. It's happening. I guess it just kind of snuck up on me. I don't think it just 'happened' overnight, but I don't remember it happening as I've gone along - but regardless, it DID. I am not a care-free kid anymore, but rather a responsible, contributing adult. OK, I admit, that might be pushing the envelope just a wee bit. I suppose I should just embrace it, right?! Maybe I shouldn't get so many ruffled feathers when some young punk calls me "ma'am" when we're out and about, huh? So while you all now reflect on your own "adult" position, I'm going to admire my new area rug (which I might add, looks absolutely fantastic in my dining room) and contemplate what colours I we want to paint in there (and other rooms in this house), what we're going to have for dinner, and when I need to deliver Banshee to her dance practice; you know, adult things.