This week my daughter turned 21. There is a part of me that is amazed that this has occurred. There is the sense that it has come much too soon. I had been warned that this beautiful baby would be a lovely young woman before I knew it. In the “wink of an eye,” they said. It was true.
Perhaps having her late in the game made it seem so much faster, compressing time in a way only those of us with some years under our belts can understand. Just imagine what it must be like for that woman from Hackensack who gave birth to twins at 60.
In the beginning, I spent a lot of time calculating the future in terms of her milestones and my age in relationship to them. When Ani graduates high school, I will be, mmmmm… let’s see. When she has her first child, say at 33, I will be… oh dear. When she hits 50… Oh, my God. I can’t imagine having a child aged 50. What must that be like? I may never know.
For now, now that she’s made it to 21, at least I can breathe a sigh of relief knowing that evolution has been served. A decent human being has been added to the planetary roster. I take no credit for it except for the loose managerial role I played. And trust me, it was loose
So now my baby has arrived at that much anticipated milestone we call adulthood. She can drink (legally) and does so much more responsibly than I ever did. (Who would have ever dreamed of a designated driver?) She is calmer than I, more accepting, less judgmental. A lot saner. When I find myself flailing about, caught up in the throes of an emotional meltdown, she will sit me down and gently put me on notice. “Get a grip,” says she. “Is it really worth crying about?” Steadier and more sensible than I, my daughter seems to lack the angst that drove me all the way through my twenties straight into middle age. She seems to know who she is. At least much more than I did at that age.
Of course, she has her stuff. She’s got the same difficulty with decisions as I do and can be as stubborn as they come but, on the whole, the genetic line seems to be evolving. This is a good thing. It is how it should be. From the time when our distant ancestors spent much of their day in trees, some six or seven million years ago, haven’t we humans always hoped for a new and improved model with each generation? Haven’t we always prayed they’d survive more fit than we at our fittest? I’m glad I could do my part. I’m glad my offspring stands upright and, for the most part, on her own two feet. Darwin would be proud.
Tags: Becoming 21, Darwin, Evolution, offspring
Sixties Chick 
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