Our oldest turned 21 a few weeks ago. Can you believe it? I know! Based on my photo, you probably put me at, what, 32? Maybe 33? Alas, I’m much closer to 50 than my still all-natural hair color might suggest. And though I thought I would feel old celebrating with the birthday boy down in Bloomington, or at the very least uncomfortable as I watched him legally throwback Jell-O shots, my concerns were entirely unfounded.
I quite enjoyed seeing him as an adult and not feeling the need to “mother him.” His life, his choices. Did I internally debate cleaning his apartment, getting him a jacket, or telling him to eat something to absorb the alcohol? Of course! Once a mommy, always a mommy. But I was able to suppress every maternal instinct I had and marvel at the decent job we did in parenting him. As an added bonus, I was carded not once, but twice, even as my husband Doo was waved through. I still got it, folks!
And in some respects, so does Doo. He summoned his college-boy spirit and dove headfirst into the fray, matching his young apprentices drink for drink and crashing on an “if-this-thing-could-talk” couch overnight. At least, I think, that’s what happened. Per my usual, I bailed on the bar scene fairly early, once an intense game of “Sink the Biz” started and a doable plan to get Doo back to Indy was proposed. He has yet to return, by the way. But what could possibly go wrong?
So, I guess I’m good with having older kids. And apparently, abandoning Doo at IU. Peace out.