I turned forty-nine recently. No, really…forty-nine. That’s not code for an age I don’t want to disclose. It’s my real age, for real. I don’t feel forty-nine, whatever that’s supposed to feel like. I feel young. And I have a teenage daughter who makes me feel that way.
Megan recently started dating, and while my husband professes it makes him feel old, it has had the opposite effect on me. I’ll leave the worry to him and Megan’s older brother Harrison, who says I should keep a careful eye on her. But of course he’s approaching it from the vantage point of a young man, as he rightly should of course. Me though, I’m seeing it through her eyes. The eyes of a young lady, and I remember what that feels like.
Oh don’t worry. I’m not trying to be her BFF. I’m still being a mom, saying all the right things, delivering words of wisdom and verbalizing cautious concern. But secretly, quietly, I feel her youthful joy, hopeful for the future and whatever that may hold.