Cutting Out The Middle Man

With underscore and exclamation point, I wish to announce that all of my children are now teenagers. On a personal note, this dubious distinction for a parent my age has caused me introspection.

I have nine years remaining before I can retire and owe eight small years on a dwindling mortgage. I obsess over health matters that I took for granted earlier in my life. Whereas before I thought only about wanting to leave a legacy on this planet, my ideas are now selfishly consumed by my mortality. The proverbial bottle of life is dastardly both half empty and full.

This benchmark arrived for me this week like a snake pit with no vacancies. The snakes wriggled around my ankles and up my pant legs until one wrapped around my neck to constrict my breathing until I said its full name: Middle age has arrived. Middle age with all the rights, privileges, and responsibilities appertaining thereto.

My youngest daughter shared her birthday remorse. “I want to be five. I want to just play house and watch cartoons.”

My seventeen-year-old disagreed with her sister . “I want to be your age. Yeah, thirteen. Seventeen sucks. I got to go to work at my age.”

My children’s candidacy prompted this reflected state of mind. When I was younger with my whole life ahead of me, middle age seemed a distant star on the horizon. My children have only begun to realize that life gets harder as you go along. I convinced myself right there and then that I just want to be seventeen again with all the rights, privileges, and responsibilities appertaining thereto.