“It’s not faaaaaiiiirrrrrrr,” my 9-year-old complained to me the other day. “You get to do all that cool stuff because you’re a grown-up and we don’t because we’re kids.”
Yeah. No shit, Sherlock.
I mean duh. Kinda how it works there, kid.
Me: adult. You: child. Clearly, I am #winning here.
I like being a grown-up. It’s cool. Always. Errrr, usually? OK fine, most of the time, unless, like, my bills are due. Or I have to go to work. Or… you know, real life stuff happens.
However, I will say, as I watch the torturous tween years my daughter is entering play out, that being an adult is so much better than being a kid. Just think of all the fun shit we get to do:
Eat whatever we want.
Even if that means broccoli, but especially if that means chocolate. Before dinner. Or after. Or, FOR dinner. Also — deal with the repercussions of eating whatever we want. Such as, um, strategically avoiding wearing pants with less than 25% lycra content.
Stay up late and have parties and watch things on television.
Because clearly that’s what I do every night when my kids go to bed. It’s all quiet and boring until they go to sleep, and then you know, it’s a party in tha’ house. Obviously. As evidenced by me regularly falling asleep on the couch with my laptop in my, er, lap.
Speaking of laptops, we have no screentime limitations.
Just stress about what my cell phone is doing to my brain. And what I should be doing instead of procrastapintresting. And obsession with how we are becoming tethered to our devices and I really ought to be setting a better example for my kids. But hey, I’m an educated consumer, and that makes some kind of difference.
Go to work.
Like all the time. Over, and over and over again. Or not. Or stay home and work. But not. But really.
Make real money.
Lots. So we can pay bills. Make more money, so we can pay more bills. Also, though, so we can play. Often. And then pay some more bills.
Drop it like it’s hot.
You know, at nightclubs, where we regularly hang out during our mass quantities of free time. Also at yearly concerts. And country club parties. No wait. No, not there. Especially NOT THERE.
Usually carloads full of noisy small humans. And also, follow the rules. All of them. Especially the speed limit. And find parking. And pay for tickets when we don’t. And buy insurance. And make car payments. And sit in traffic. And remember to get oil changes. And tires. Probably brakes too, what with all the stopping and shit.
Wear whatever we want.
As long as it’s not too short, too long, too young, too old, too low, too high, too expensive, too cheap, too worn, too stiff, too tight, too small, too big, or — the worst — too uncomfortable.
Say bad words.
Whenever and however we want. Just not in front of Grandma. Or within earshot of the kids. Or around our own parents. Or when the kids just won’t fucking shut up. So, you know, basically whenever we are around only adults our own age, because that happens all the fucking time …
Drink grown-up drinks.
To celebrate. Or to compensate. Or honor. Or because it’s Monday. Or Wednesday. Or a day that ends in “y.” Also, learn about the importance of B vitamins, Bloody Marys and the one-for-one rule.
Go on vacation and make all the decisions.
Learn to appreciate participant feedback in regard to those decisions. Be grateful for the temporary sponsorship visa generously offered so you might enjoy this experience most fully. Document the experience as evidence of all.the.fun. Return home with zero pictures with you in it that are not selfies and/or missing critical body parts, such as a head or feet.
Be in charge.
No one can tell us what to do. Except bosses. And our mothers (why do you think I became one?). And politicians. And society. OK. So, actually, everyone can tell us what to do. We are actually all mostly still a bunch of preschoolers fighting to be in charge.
Because really, there is nothing in the world that I’ll ever love more than this. There is no other job that I’ll be more honored to hold and no other thing I’ll ever do more important than being someone’s mother.
I guess, then, what I’m saying, sigh, is that this adult gig isn’t all that bad, after all. Crap. I think maybe I owe my kid an apology or twenty.
Related post: 10 Ways Being a Kid Sucks