I always wondered when I would become an adult. Most kids do, I think. I'm not sure what exactly we think "becoming an adult" means, but we know it's bound to happen some time.
At first, I assumed that it would happen on a birthday. I'd wake up, 18 years old, and be an adult. When that didn't happen, I nudged it up to 21. No dice there, either.
So I pinned my hopes--so many hopes--on motherhood. And while the birth of my children changed me in ways I can't begin to enumerate, it only served--then as now--to make me feel even less capable, less grown up. I may act the part, but inside? I knew it was a sham.
And so I gave it up, that hope of adulthood.
Today, my mother called to ask me a cooking question. My mother. Called me. Asked ME.
Today, just shy of my 46th birthday, I am an adult.
It's everything I dreamed it would be.