I know children have to grow up. It’s a fact and will happen no matter how much I protest. Just when you think they will be toddlers forever and never grasp the art of understandable speech or the ability to walk in a straight line, whoosh they are at that awkward stage of not yet a teenager but not a young child stage or even worse, young teenagers. Not that the speech or straight lines improve, instead they have replaced the toddler babble with so called ‘cool’ words that don’t make sense and cannot be used by adults successfully, no matter how cool the said adult thinks they are. The toddler waddle is replaced with a mixture of slouched posture and flailing limbs. Baby giraffes come to mind as you watch them learning how to control their growing limbs whilst mastering important lessons of life like walking around town endlessly and walking in high heels (mainly the girls).
So I accept this is all happening but what I am not prepared for or expected was the rollercoaster of ages it seems to be taking me, the so called adult, through with it. I mean I am supposed to be the one who can string two words together and walk in high heels and occasionally at the same time. So why am I swinging from old age to teenager at a moment’s notice? I have pangs of jealously at their younger fitter bodies. This was amplified when in a recent post clothes washing sort, I mixed up my daughter’s jeans with mine. She thought she had lost weight and skipped around the room and I was a crumpled heap on the floor trying to get into jeans that were no way going to budge above my thighs wondering how on earth I had put on so much weight over night.
My growing children don’t actually help matters either. They roll their eyes and mutter to me to grow up and then moments later complain that I am too old and just not with it.
I guess all there is to do, is to help and guide them through their ever changing hormones, hoping my hormones are adult enough to sort themselves out.