When Did I Become the Grownup? 

by Alycia Calderin 

Somewhere between signing another field trip permission slip and googling whether chicken thighs are still good after four days in the fridge, it hit me: I am the grown up now. 

It wasn’t a dramatic realization. No spotlight. No theme music. Just me, standing in the kitchen holding a laundry basket, telling someone (possibly everyone) that no, they cannot have another snack because dinner is almost ready. That’s when the moment landed like a rogue LEGO underfoot. I am the adult. I’m the one making the dentist appointments. I’m the one who knows the insurance login. I am the emergency contact. Me. 

Who let this happen? 

It wasn’t always this way. I used to be the one asking to stay out late. Now I’m the one texting, “ETA??” at 9:03 PM like some kind of worried grandma. I used to think adults had it all figured out, knew how to handle money, plan vacations, and make small talk at cookouts. But now I’m out here Googling “how many times can you reheat pasta” and avoiding eye contact at drop off because I don’t have the energy to talk and smile. 

When I was little, I thought being an adult meant choosing your own bedtime, drinking coffee like it was glamorous, and never having to eat vegetables if you didn’t want to. Turns out, being an adult means drinking lukewarm coffee out of a travel mug you forgot in the car yesterday, and sneaking spinach into smoothies like a culinary ninja because someone in your house has decided green things are “suspicious.” 

It means going to bed early because you’re tired, not rebellious. It means calling your own parents to ask how they survived this season, and getting misty eyed when your mom says, “We didn’t. We just got through it.” 

I’ve been a mom since I was 19. That’s all of my twenties and nearly all of my thirties spent raising humans. I was just out of High School when I was knee deep in diapers and sleep deprivation. And somehow, I blinked and now I’m 37 with a 16-year-old, a 13-year-old, and an 11-year-old. I’ve spent more time cutting sandwiches into triangles than I ever did being carefree. 

And let’s talk about being the one with the purse snacks. I used to carry lip gloss and an ID. Now I carry tissues, bandaids, a rogue Capri Sun, and three broken crayons that have melted into a zippered pocket. I used to go out and be the fun. Now, if I’m out past 9 PM, it better involve a drive thru and stretchy pants. 

What’s wild is that I still don’t feel like a grown up on the inside. I feel like a kid wearing adult responsibilities like an ill fitting Halloween costume. I’m winging it, making grocery lists, budgeting, and pretending to understand my kid’s math homework (which, let’s be honest, I absolutely do not). I’m trying to teach my kids life lessons while also hiding in the pantry eating chocolate chips straight from the bag. 

But somehow, in the chaos, I am the grown up. I’m the one shaping the tone of the home. I’m the one who sets the rules, breaks up the fights, and decides whether we’re eating frozen pizza or scrambled eggs for dinner when the day’s been long. I’m the one showing my kids what it looks like to be responsible, messy, loving, flawed, present, and real. 

My husband and I met in high school, and we’ve spent the last 17 years growing up with each other. There are days we still feel like teenagers pretending to be adults, until we look around and realize we’re raising four actual people who depend on us for everything from moral guidance to laundry detergent. 

And even though he’s the social butterfly and I’m the one hiding behind oversized sunglasses at the school carnival, we’re doing it. We’re grown ups. Weird, unqualified, slightly chaotic grown ups. But grown ups nonetheless. 

So, if you’re like me, feeling mildly shocked every time someone calls you “ma’am” or hands you a clipboard assuming you know what you’re doing, just know you’re not alone. We’re all out here just trying to figure it out. With dry shampoo, expired coupons, and a dream. 

We may not always feel like we’re doing it right. But somehow, we’re doing it. The meals get made. The kids get hugged. The appointments get scheduled. (Eventually.) And when your child grabs your hand and calls you “Mom,” it hits you. 

You are the grown up. And you’re doing a better job than you think. ■ 

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