My almost 5-year-old often asks me, when he’d be an “adult.” Apparently, he can’t wait to be one, and I really don’t understand why 🙂 In any case, my answer is usually, “When you’re 18.”
It’s only this morning that I revised my definition of “being an adult.”
Having had a late night yesterday (Yes! I confess, we had gone out with friends. Something that happens literally twice a year maybe!!), I was completely out of it, and lacked any physical strength or mental drive to wake up and get started. But, my son, was up at 6am, as usual.
I gave him a ‘lying down hug,’ and blearily pointed to a drawer with some toys and was off to slumber land again. Very soon, I was woken up by a “I am hungry!” Once again, I struggled to speak, but managed to communicate to him where the apples and cheerios were kept in the kitchen.
While still in the ‘zone,’ I heard a flurry of quiet activity. Like a busy pixie working his stuff. He opened up the pantry, pulled out the step stool, washed and ate an apple to the ‘core’, threw it, served himself some cheerios, and came back rather content.
“How independent I am! I just fixed and ate my own breakfast!” He announced. By now, I was awake, of course. I hugged him, and said, “Now that’s like an adult, isn’t it?”
Whoever decided we’re “adults” when we’re 18?? That means nothing!