Granting permission

by , on
September 27, 2017

I remember turning 18 when I was in high school (because I went to high school in Ontario when you did that) and suddenly having the power to sign for myself.

If I felt sick, I signed myself out, if I got my report card, I handed the slip right back with the signature I was still practicing. That was the most obvious sign that I was suddenly an adult.

(Also the time I signed myself in late because I had gone to vote).

And here we are almost two decades later and I find myself, inconceivably, signing school forms for my own child.

It was another sign of how very fast time flies that dawned on me when she handed over a form I had forgotten to sign last week.

One would think that having a 7-year-old, the grey hairs on my head, or even celebrating my 10th wedding anniversary would suggest to me that I am an adult (not to mention the fact that it has been almost two decades since high school – class of 2000 y’all). And I’ve voted many, many times since them. Oh, and owning a house in the suburbs with two cars and a dog.

12-year-old dog who has been with us since he was a puppy.

But still, mentally, I feel about 17 years old. Not quite ready to sign my own permission slips.

I mean, my sense of style hasn’t changed much and my confidence still lacks – possibly because I regularly forget all the things I have done between then and now.

And, of course, this leads me to think back to when I was 7, which doesn’t seem like 30 years ago, and my own 7-year-old, who will be 17 before we know it, and then 36. Only then will she believe me when I tell her how fast time moves. Hopefully I will feel like a grown up by then.

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