During a conversation with my newly employed, recently minted college graduate, she shared an office observation. “The 30-year olds seem impossibly mature and together. How will I ever get there?”
This was precisely the same thought my husband and I had the day she was born. I lay against the pillow in my hospital gown; my husband sat gingerly cuddling our newborn daughter in his arms.
Into the room ran my 3-year old niece, a cracker in each hand excited squealing, “I hold the baby!”
Our eyes darted to this capable 3-year old who could walk and talk and eat crackers. Then we gazed at our swaddled infant and thought, “how will our daughter ever get there?”
So when our younger daughter turned 21 and could walk, talk and eat crackers as well as drive a car, use a debit card and even mow the lawn, we said to one another, “well done on the parenting!” with the emphasis on done, our children were now capable, self-sufficient adults.
When I was in college I took a number of complex math courses. The classes always seemed to be late in the afternoon, and as the low sun angled in the windows, a room full of 20-year olds frantically attempted to follow the instructor as he scribbled out a proof on the blackboard. Invariably he would run out of room on the chalkboard or run out of time in class or both, and so would quickly scrawl, QED. To the lecturer this meant the rest is obvious, I have demonstrated the hard part.
And now, 30 years later, the roles were reversed. It was as if I were the lecturer, and the time in my classroom had drawn to a close as my youngest child turned 21. From there to 30? QED, or so it seemed to me.
I could see my daughter turning over in her head the concept of 21 to 30 being obvious. Like me and my fellow classmates gathering our notebooks in math class so long ago, QED only meant one thing to her, how in the hell do you get there from here?
