Becoming an Adult

We are currently looking at houses. Consequently, my thoughts consumed with houses. I go to MLS listings more times a day then I care to admit because you never know what something new might come up.

The other day as I lay in bed enjoying the feel of my down comforter and the quietness of the house, I was (of course) thinking about houses. One house in particular. I found that it was impossible for me to envision a wiffle ball game in this yard. I saw older versions of my children repeatedly climbing the fence to retrieve lost balls and in my half awake state I found myself wondering if the neighbors were friendly. Was not being able to play wiffle ball reason enough to not buy a house? This sleepy train of thoughts took me back to a memory of playing this game with my family when I was a young child.

We lived in a little peach house. It was my parents first house and the last year we lived there was my kindergarton year. It was an old house with two bedrooms and an unfinished attic area upstairs. It had a big backyard that backed to an alley with a little gate. Our neighbor, Mrs. Arrington, was a widower who must have been at least 100 years old (or so she seemed to my brother and I). We used to peek out our bedroom window and watch her water her plants in the summer time after we were supposed to be asleep. She told me I worried too much (I was a very consencious child) and that I was going to give myself an ulcer. I had no idea what an ulcer was. The backyard had a huge plum tree and I remember ripe plumbs falling off of the tree and onto the cool shaded grass below it.

This particular memory was on a sunny day. My mom, dad, brother, and I were outside playing wiffle ball with one of those hollow, fat, red plastic bats. I remember my mom running the "bases" we had set up. I remember feeling content, safe, and so happy that my parents were playing with us. I thought they knew everything. I still think they know most things.

As this memory covered me like a warm fleece blanket and carried me into dreamland I was struck awake with a realization. The mother is this memory of mine was either twenty six or twenty seven. MY AGE. This mother of three who owned this little peach house, ran the bases laughing, and knew everything was as old as I am now.

My children look at me as I look at my mother. I never thought of my mom as young or not knowing what she was doing, she was always an adult, always knew what was best. So did she really know or was she just figuring it out one day at a time like I am? Or I am supposed to know more and feel more like an adult then I do? Either answer makes me a little uneasy.