I was reading a blog post called Why I’ll Never Be an Adult. I’m guessing the author is somewhere in her late twenties/early thirties. She speaks of physics classes, so she’s neither stupid nor incapable of thinking structurally.
It’s funny, because we all seem to have this idea that being a Grownup™ means perfect self-discipline, and if you don’t have it, you’re not a Grownup™. This particular blogger will try to be a Grownup™ by doing lots of housework, cooking perfect meals, and scheduling her life to hell and back. She’ll also find herself failing miserably because she’s set the bar too high. She’s trying to be more and more “perfect” in managing her life.
It’s not that I don’t get how it happens. I do and mostly because I do that.
It also has zip to do with being a grown-up.
I think we’re looking through out tween to teen goggles when we assess being a Grownup™. We see being a Grownup™ as being frenetically active and working all the time, never ever being slow, or late, or forgetful or…
You know, I’m older than one of my grandmothers was when I was born[1]. When my mother was my age, she had a married child. I think that gets to count in terms of age. In terms of where my life is and how I live daily? My life isn’t really like either of theirs. I made some radically different choices. Does that make me not a Grownup™?
Part of it might also be that we’re forgetting the help we were to our parents. Keeping the house neat is easier when you have the husky teenager doing some of the work. Do they do it as well as you want it done? Almost certainly not. I know for a fact I didn’t with my mom. But the laundry still got folded, she did not clean every bathroom in the house, and Dad certainly wasn’t wrangling all the wood to heat the house by himself[2]. Why? That’s more work than one person can do![3]
When we try to do it all ourselves, we’re actually setting the bar higher than our parents did for themselves. If you’re not feeling like a Grownup™ because you can’t get it all done to white glove perfection all by your lonesome, cut yourself some slack. Grownups™ have historically gotten help.
And if you have a kid, go make ‘em do a chore J
[1] Good lord, I actually have conscious memories of Nanny at my age. Scary.
[2] In fact, my brother and I have had a bit of a chuckle at the fact that they got a gas furnace after he and I moved out of town.
[3] And while I don’t know this for certain, I’m willing to bet that in my grandmother’s case, her home was neater when she had three girls at home v. when they moved out.