There are many events in life that can define you as an adult – but being a “grown-up” is a kind of moving target. There is no one set experience that defines it. Some people would define it as moving out on your own, going to college, getting married, or having children. I’ve experienced all of these and then some, but it wasn’t until I was 37 years-old that I finally felt that I had achieved the status of grown-up.
My father passed away when I was eleven. I moved out of state when I was 18. I got married when I was 24, then I went to college and graduated at 29. Even after I had my first two children, I still didn’t feel like a grown-up. Yes, I had adult responsibilities, but some little piece of me kept waiting for some part of me to feel like a grown-up. Even when my 2nd child was diagnosed with Autism, I still didn’t feel like a grown-up. Was I an adult? Yes? Did I feel like a grown-up? No.
Most of my life I have had adult responsibilities. I have 3 other siblings, one of whom has Down’s syndrome and severe Mental Retardation. He requires constant attention and care. After my father died, my mother had to return to work full-time. At the age of 11, with my other two siblings living their own adult lives, I became my brother’s caretaker when my mother was at work. This meant all day during the summer and after-school during the rest of the year. I was the classic latch-key child.
At the age of 18, I moved out of state to start my own “adult” life. I thought that this would surely cement me in the world of grown-ups. But even then, I still felt like a teenager at best.
As time passed and I began to grow older, the feeling that I was somehow an adolescent never left me.
Despite marriage, college, and the birth of two children, I still felt too young to be the one “in-charge” all of the time. Even after my 2nd child was diagnosed with Autism, I was still waiting for that magical feeling to strike.
Things finally changed for me in the fall of 2007. It wasn’t a sudden event I can point to – a date on the calendar – rather it was a series of events that culminated in my realization that yes – I am officially a grown-up.
I got the call that my mother was gravely ill in October of that year. As I rushed to her bedside, I was terrified that I would lose her. Our relationship had been rocky most of my life, but things had finally begun to improve for us. I could have a conversation with her without being reduced to tears. For years, she was on a mix of medications that completely changed her personality. She could be mean, spiteful, hateful, and depressed. Talking with her was an effort to stay positive. One day, my cousin sat down with her and went over all of the medications. She was the one that found that they were interacting with each other in terrible ways. The medications changed her personality. Once the doctor straightened them all out, she became a new woman. We were finally finding the balance of mother and daughter after all of these yeasr.
I quickly settled into my adult role that month as I extended my stay to be at her bedside. As relatives came and went, I kept the vigil in the hospital waiting for the 15 minutes each hour that I could visit her in ICU. Multiple times a day, I updated my siblings on her status. It was a constant touch and go. While I was at her side, I missed my little boy’s 5th birthday. This broke my heart in a way that I can never explain, but I know I did the right thing by staying with her.
The day finally came when I had to leave. She still had a difficult time, but miraculously, my mother pulled through. Then began the process of working with my siblings to help plan what would come next for her. She needed to live near one of us. I was making grown-up plans. My brother found an apartment for her next-door to him, so in mid-November we all trekked back to Louisiana to pack her apartment up. She was still in a rehabilitative home, so I didn’t get to see her during that trip, but I did speak to her. It had been a long-time since she had been that happy.
I returned home and two weeks later and discovered I was pregnant with my third child. While it was not a total surprise, the suddenness of it was. It had taken me several months and fertility medications to get pregnant the other two times. We were thrilled. The next day I headed off to work to share our joy. I was planning to call my mom and share the news that night. Before I could, I received the phone call from my brother that mom had passed away suddenly in the middle of the night. I was stunned. This was the woman that had been at the brink of death multiple times and had beat the odds more times than most people can imagine. She was moving to start a new life in just a few days. Then it hit me – I was an orphan now.
That realization hit me terribly hard. Now I was faced with the grown-up tasks of helping sort through what was left of my mother’s life already packed into boxes, driven via U-Haul to Texas by my brother. I had to help plan a memorial for her. She would never know that I was pregnant again.
It took my mother’s death to make me realize I was a grown-up. This lesson just continued to be reinforced for me time and time again over the next year and a half. My pregnancy was difficult and ended early due to preeclampsia. I became overwhelmed with the act of raising 3 children. The baby had reflux and refused to be put down. My husband and I slept in shifts holding her all night. Through it all, I kept saying to myself that this is what it feels like to be a grown-up. With all of the joys and all of the heartaches that go with it.
I also found that things that bothered me in the past didn’t matter as much anymore. My mother-in-law always had the unique ability to make me feel like a scolded teenager. Maybe it’s because she was upset with me when she came home after living abroad to find her son with me (I was his first and only girlfriend). After a particular run-in with my mother-in-law recently, I found myself saying to my friend, “I have other responsibilities to deal with. I just don’t have time for this.” This statement itself proved to me that I was now a grown-up.
While adulthood comes with a magic number of 18 in our society, there is no defined age at which you say “I’m a grown-up”. That comes with time and experience. It just took me 37 years, the loss of both parents, and the pregnancy of my 3rd child to finally get there.
