Grown-UppitynessPosted: September 1, 2011
I am a relative late comer to grown-uphood. I’ve always been a late bloomer (I didn’t get boobs until I was seventeen). And I was no different when it came to becoming an adult.
“But, Hipster Hausfrau,” you say, “You bought a condo when you were twenty-six. You got married when you were twenty-eight. You taught high school English for six years.”
In response, I offer exhibits
But having a baby, especially a medically needy baby, kind of turns you into a grown up, like it or not. The secret is, most days I like it. In fact, whereas acting like a grown up used to alternately bore or terrify me, now I find it rather soothing.
I think we can all agree that I’ve had lots to be anxious about recently. (Das Baby’s early arrival, feeding problems, and impending surgery, for starters.) And what have I turned to (other than Das Baby and Herr Husband, and my other longtime love, literature) to settle my jingle-jangle brain?
Grown up behavior.
That’s right. Not booze, not hiding in bed, not even 90210 reruns.
Instead, I registered our car in Massachusetts and switched our auto insurance accordingly. I made appointments for Das Baby to see the audiologist and the ophthalmologist, and reminded his pulmonologist to schedule Das Baby’s echocardiogram for while he’s sedated for the G-Tube (so he doesn’t have to be sedated twice). I selected a doctor for myself, and went to see her to get referrals for: an OB/GYN (to see if I should ever try to get pregnant again, or if it’s a crazy idea), my old endocrinologist (whom I love and secretly wish would be my friend), and an ophthalmologist (because I have this weird but apparently not uncommon thing called lattice degeneration which I’m supposed to have monitored every year, but haven’t because, well, I’ve been a little busy with other medical problems).
Boring as hell? Abso-fucking-lutely. But getting things settled is a wonderful thing. Controlling the things I can control functions as a balm (not a potent one, but still) for some of the many things I can’t.
The very thing which I spent far too long trying to avoid actually makes me feel better. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t see my generation’s prolonged adolescence as the harbinger of social decay that some old fuddy-duddies might. But it turns out acting like an adult can help you feel more in charge of your life. You know, like a grown up should be.
I know, I know. A world of duh. What did I tell you? I’m a late bloomer.
And because you don’t pay to see pictures of my former questionable decision making: