when I'm big. OEL. 2016

When I was younger, I always imagined that one day I would be a Real Adult. I'd have perfect, glossy hair, like a Real Adult; I'd wear shoes that made clippy-cloppy sounds when I walked, like a Real Adult; and I'd just generally sip on wine and be fabulous while I discussed the days events and the stock market, just like all Real Adults do. 

Anyone who knows me, even remotely is laughing enthusiastically right now, wiping their eyes and holding their rib cages from all their laughter-induced weeping. 

By my own naive, childlike standards, I am not a Real Adult. My hair is an unruly mane that seems to want to arrange itself as it deems fit no matter what I do, my wardrobe is full of soft and flat shoes; and while I enjoy a healthy relationship with wine, my understanding of the stock market is that it's basically some kind of sorcery. 

I have Real Adult responsibilities: I have a job (the hardest one I've held, being a mom), I pay my bills on time and I'm generally capable of controlling and managing my own life. I feel a profound sense of accomplishment whenever I complete small tasks, like putting groceries away and driving a car without incident, and I enjoy praise for doing things like showing up on time or even early, because that's just how my brain works. 

I assumed one day, as though by some divine miracle, I would simply wake up and be a Real Adult. It would simply be something that happened to me. And, after it happened, with my perfect hair and pointy shoes, I would be forever changed as I entered the world anew as a straight-up, no-limitations, 100% Real Adult. 

This hasn't happened, obviously. But to be honest, I hope it never does. 

Hey, you may say. I thought this was a note for Oliver? It is. My deepest wish on your 6th birthday for you, Oliver my bubbly, sassy, extroverted wonder of a boy is that as you continue to grow and learn and become taller than your Mother is you, like me find ways to skirt around becoming a Real Adult. That you always keep a sense of childlike wonder, that you always love to travel, that your love of broccoli is always eclipsed by your love of mint chocolate chip ice cream. 

You keep me young. You keep me on my toes. Thank you for allowing me to continue to wear my hair messy and don flat shoes and t-shirts. Thank you for keeping me in the magic of childhood and away from becoming a Real Adult. 

Now let's whoop it up Aussie style. Hit the beach and eat ice cream at least twice today. I love you, my bug. 



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