Reality strikes

Sometimes, walking through the quiet house picking up toys or turning out lights after the children are gone to sleep, or when I'm racing around grabbing lunch boxes for school, or when I'm closing the door behind the babysitter as she leaves for the night, I have these ethereal moments where I realize that I'm a grown up. I'm responsible for children and a dog and a house. I have furniture! And kleenex in the pockets of all my jackets. (I remember that about all my mother's jackets growing up. Whenever I put one on and stuck my hand inside there would be a wadded up ball of tattered smelly tissue that she swore was clean as she unraveled it for our runny noses.) I guess I don't feel very grown up inside. I still feel like I'm 25, finding my way in the world. Maybe with Scott not around as often I am more keenly aware of my responsibility. I assume when I'm 80 and my body's failing me and my kids are grown up themselves, I'll still feel like I'm 35 and that my kids are still the babies reaching for me to hug, kiss their boo boos an wipe their runny noses with wadded up tissue resurrected from the depths of my pockets.