My son, Leo, just turned 18. My youngest. My baby. Even though he will always be my baby, to the world he is a legal adult. I have two legal adult children. Old people have adult children, and I’m not the same age as old people, am I? Technically I’m old enough to compete in the Jewish Community Center’s St. Louis Senior Olympics next month. They have cornhole and a poker tournament this year, so I actually have a shot at winning a medal. You find silver linings wherever you can.
Next stop — my “kid’s” high school graduation, packing him for college and marinating in my newfound empty-nester-ness complete with sadness and clinical sadness. I’ve already got a weekender bag packed for my trip to the psych ward, no sharp objects included. Just planning ahead.
I watched Leo become a man for the first time at his bar mitzvah. As a teenager he seemed so old but looking at pictures he had a baby face and chubby cheeks, braces and a sweet innocence that was soon stripped away by his older brother’s growing knowledge of off-color topics and four-letter words. Happily, they were used in proper context. Reframing helps you to find those silver linings.
Friends who have kids 18 years or older report their young adults acting like they know it all. One such legal human told her parents she was going on a road trip, during a snowstorm, that was a seven-hour drive.
“No, you’re not,” said the parents.
“Yes, I am,” said the legal human. “I’m 18 now,” she continued. “I can do whatever I want.”
Calmly, the parents reminded her of all the reasons that wasn’t true…you don’t own the car. You don’t have a job to pay for gas, insurance or the car. Seems like you’re not going anywhere, young lady.
It’s time to straddle the line of letting our adult children figure things out on their own and wanting to tell our adult children all of the things we learned along the way. Some of it is important, but a lot of it makes as much sense as the “g” in lasagna.
Healthy aging info seems important to share. One tip from experts is to never eat ingredients you cannot pronounce. That’s why I never use Worcestershire sauce.
Patience often grows as we age. It either comes naturally the older you get, or it’s induced by the pills you’re taking. Patience is like a gift card at the bottom of your purse. It started out full. Now you have no idea how much is actually left on it, but your kids and husband always want to give it a try and see.
As an adult you always need to be prepared for ice breakers. Work meetings, board meetings, social situations… there’s always a group leader running an ice breaker, and you need to be ready and armed with a fun fact about yourself at all times. Most people loathe the ice breaker. They would rather hear nails on a chalkboard than share two truths and a lie with the group. Not Amy Fenster Brown. I live for it. Few things make me happier than watching people uncomfortably anticipate their turn in the sharing circle. It’s pure, sweet schadenfreude.
How do I know all of this? Because I live in the hood. Adulthood. I moved here from a way better and more fun hood. Childhood. I never should have left.
The gold crown of adulthood is senior citizen status. I’ve got big plans for that. We all know assisted living is more like high school than high school. You’ve got characters, cliques and classic tropes in the dining room such as, “You can’t sit here, that seat is saved.” When I’m a resident I’m going to attend every art class and do a terrible job on my projects, sign the names of the mean girls on them and insist they are displayed in a very public place.
No matter how old I get, I can always flex my immaturity for entertainment. Put that category in the Senior Olympics and I’ll surely walk away with the gold. That’ll be my silver haired silver lining.
