This weekend we are off to the olds, which is quite a strange thing to say considering I am an ‘old’ myself.
I am quite torn about going away this weekend as hubster isn’t with me and I will be fending all 3 children myself, which wouldn’t normally be a problem if we weren’t going to a house that you have to treat like glass.
If you are old enough to remember ‘Keeping up appearances’ then you will understand me when I say, my mother could give Mrs Bucket a run for her money. Maintaining the perfect environment that is my mothers house, with 3 children whom she has whipped into a sugar frenzy with sweets and juice, is not an easy task. Add to the mix that child 3 is currently asleep (at 4.45pm) and therefore will not sleep again until sometime in the early hours of tomorrow morning and you’ll get some sense of the intrepidation that I feel.
To say that I am old is, I guess, relative. In terms of compared to how long the dinosaurs lived then yes, I am not even a twinkle in my father’s eye but in my own children’s eyes I am a grown up. A responsible, dependable and sensible person whom they can rely. But do I feel that way?
I distinctly remember my 6th birthday and a sense of disappointment that I did not feel any different, any older. I presume that this means on previous birthdays I did. That feeling has stayed. I wouldn’t say I was still, mentally, a 5 year old but certainly more like a late teen. I almost, at times, feel I need to pinch myself.
This does not mean I act immaturely but I certainly don’t feel the well rounded and font of all knowledge type of person that my parents gave the impression of when they were my age, for that is something I distinctly remember too – my dads 40th birthday (which is not *cough* too *cough* far off from how old I am).
I wonder if I will ever fell ‘grown up’?