When I first moved out of my house and went away to college, I still felt like a kid. Or at least, an angsty teenager. I had to pay for my own food and pay the housing department on campus for room and board but it was still my parents’ money.

When I got my first apartment and my second apartment, the money still all came from the parents; I was just responsible for getting it to the appropriate payee on time.

In the rented house I lived in, I had a job. A real job where making money to pay the bills was all me, for the first time. I still felt like I was young though, still relatively low on the responsibility scale. We partied all weekend and slept late and there were no consequences for our behaviour.

When Ash and I bought a house, I started to feel more grown-up. We got a mortgage and planned a wedding, flew across the world for our honeymoon. Then we got a car loan, a home equity loan, had to take care of household things like servicing the lawn mower, replacing the roof, repairing various things. These all made me feel more like an adult. And yet, even with gaining a higher education, holding down a good job with great benefits, I still didn’t feel like an adult.

As I carried Elliot in his car seat through the wooded path between parking lot and pediatrician’s office this morning, I had a sudden realization that for the very first time, I truly felt like a grown, responsible adult. Maybe somewhere subconsciously, I associate caring for your small child as being the adult marker. It just felt like I had reached a different level then, as I did something for someone who relies entirely on me.  ME! The gods must be crazy!