The teenage years in the rearview mirror...

The other day I was in the car with my kids and a friend. She was spending some of the weekend with us, hanging out and helping me with the kids. My husband was smack dab in the middle of time consuming house repairs, so the company and the help were quite welcome.

 This friend is one of very few in the category that she inhabits. She’s 15 years younger than me and a previous student. Actually, I was her middle school French teacher, about 10 years ago. We always got along well and when she moved on to high school, she remained at the same K-12 school, so she remained on the same campus. She would come back for the occasional visit. When she went to college, we stayed in touch. It’s a pleasure, for me, to see her come into her own. I can’t wait to see what she’ll do next, as she just graduated college and is already finding her footing in the “real” world.

The age difference, while noticeable, isn’t really a barrier. She’s mature enough to have a slight grasp of what my life looks like and I’m young enough in spirit to not be too old fogey for her. It’s a nice place in the middle, our common ground.  I sort of feel like an older cousin sometimes, if that makes any sense.

 But I digress.

So, we were in the car. I recently bought the kids a Disney Jr. CD that has all kind of Mickey Mouse songs. It’s cute; at least it was the first 10,000 times. The kids are addicted to it and I now know exactly which song is which track so I can go to whichever song they want on demand. I can only imagine how much useful brain space this knowledge is taking up. It terrifies me, to be totally honest. No wonder I can’t keep track of so many other details in my life.

My daughter objects if the music isn’t loud so I get the constant “Make it louder” from the backseat. In theory, I don’t mind. It is summer, however, and the AC makes a lot of noise so she is always asking for it to be so loud that I can’t hear myself think.  Funny how I can tolerate that volume with bass pumping dance music, but not Donald Duck’s squeaky quacking.

So, I’m in the car with my friend and my daughter requests the volume to be turned up. I turn to my friend and sigh. “There’s got to be a way to make this louder in the back than the front”. She looks at me sideways for a long moment and replies “There is. You want me to do it?” The level of joy I felt at that moment is embarrassing. I actually did a little dance. She laughed at me, openly. Then, she fixed it and showed me how so that I could do it on my own next time.

Is that how my parents feel when we show them how to do something on the computer that’s a no brainer for us but beyond solution for them? Hmmm… I must remember that and be more patient about it in the future. 

And so I find myself in a moment of self reflection. I am truly getting older. I’m not a kid anymore. I’m a grown woman with two little kids. “New” technology has to be explained to me. Sigh. Fortunately, this pleases me. I like where I am and who I am. My self- inflicted criticisms aren’t too harsh.  I really enjoy the freedom I have to make my own choices, that’s for sure.

 Maybe this getting older thing isn’t too bad after all. J