Fullgrown

For most of my adult life, I haven't felt very adult. I've often wondered aloud if I'll ever truly feel like an adult, if there will ever be a defining moment that will truly mark me in that way. My dad says that at 53, even with three grown children and a grandson, he still doesn't feel all that adult. I suppose that will be true for me as well. But there are tiny little shifts in the way I view myself and the passing of time, and those, I suppose, are my markers of adulthood.

My son, who is not yet 2, has the beginnings of calluses on the soles of his feet. I noticed this about 2 weeks ago, and it kicked me right in the heart. The world is toughening up my baby. I have no wish for him to stay a baby forever, but the proof of his boyhood made me all too aware of how fleeting the time is, and how soon the day will come when I send him out into the world for it to do with him what it will. I suddenly felt older, and truly like a mother. Every night since he was an infant, I've kissed those little feet as I've dressed him for bed. Those feet, clean and soft and unblemished and still warm from the bath, have been a sign of his vulnerability. Now, they are a measure of his autonomy. He's getting older, and more capable. So am I.

I suppose all this might seem a bit maudlin, especially for bits of thickened skin. All of us watch and mark the inevitable march of time in our own ways. This has become one of mine.

Sure, I am and still will be the same woman who giggles at her own horrible puns when no one else is around, who dances in her car, who too often forgets to brush her teeth, who constantly has overdue items from the library, who has the sense of humor of a 12-year-old boy. I will probably always feel a bit like my awkward 16-year-old self. But at least I can recognize and appreciate now that I truly am an adult, and that no one is going to knock on my door and enact some sort of penalty for Impersonation of a Grown Person. All because of a little boy's feet.