You may have noticed fewer posts here recently. Sorry. I’ve been writing elsewhere, both online and off, and have had fewer words left in the tank for this space.
I’ve also been tidying this space, working away behind the scenes. And while doing that, I stumbled across this post in drafts.
I wrote it a year ago. I’m not sure why I didn’t post it then. Perhaps I thought it needed more. A lesson to share, perhaps.
But here it is. And I wonder how many of you with decision-making responsibility for little people have ever felt the same.
I’ve had lots of moments of the grown-up variety in my life.
First full-time job. First rental. First home. Getting engaged. Getting married. Having kids.
But I have never felt like a true grown-up. Like an adult. None of these moments made me go, “WHOA. Back the truck up just a minute. I am not ready for this. This is something grown-up people do.”
They were just things. They happened. And I was ready for them. Without feeling like a grown-up.
But I have never felt less like a grown-up adult of the mature person variety than when I handed in the enrolment forms for my daughter’s primary school.
I stood there at the desk, waiting for the registrar to return from the photocopier with her birth certificate and immunisation record. And waiting for someone – ANYONE – to come along and ask me just WHAT exactly I thought I was doing there.
Who is this impostor claiming to know what the best interests of her daughter are? How can we entrust important decisions to her?
Who am I to make as big a decision as which school my daughter will go to? Who am I to complete the enrolment forms and hand them in?
Who am I to decide where she will spend the majority of her days for the next seven years?
WHO AM I?
I am her mother. I know that. I believe that.
I am a grown-up. I am a fully-fledged adult. I know that, too.
I just wish I could believe it.
Do you ever feel like you’re play-acting at this whole adulting thing? And can you think of a word for it? Fauxdulting? A-dolt-ing?