Milestones
I was young for ages. My teens stretched well into my twenties, then my twenties lurked, whistling nonchalantly and pulling up their collar in a largely successful bid not to be noticed, rather longer into my thirties than is really decent for a man of my age.
And then I got married, took on shared responsibility for two children, and started ageing like a mofo.
Not long ago, I took H to her first day at primary school. By some quirk of temporal physics, this morning we took her to her first day at high school, while The Dude started his new life as a Primary Four kid.
Anyone looking to unlock the secret of time travel need look no further than the young generation. Kids'll age you. And then, with that done, they'll propel you, head first and mumbling, into the future faster than you can say 'TURN DOWN THAT RACKET! CALL THAT MUSIC?! IN MY DAY.... etc etc.'
I was young. Then all of a sudden I had a daughter in high school, a son slap-bang in the middle of primary education, a wife, three cats, a dog, a home in the country, more guitars than any sane human actually needs and no idea whatsoever which part of my brain actually had the foresight to organise all of it.
David Niven said that, throughout his career, he always expected someone to come along, tap him on the shoulder and say 'all right, that's enough. We're on to you now. The game's up.' That's exactly how I feel about adulthood in general.
I'm coasting, somehow fooling people that I'm as mature and grown up as everyone else; responsible enough to be trusted with all the grown-up stuff.
Then a day like today comes along, when our suddenly grown-up daughter goes off, happily and with confidence, to start high school, and it's impossible not to feel a bit of grown-up pride. B, of course, is the driving force behind any child-rearing success in our house, but at the end of it all I can at least say 'I helped,' and feel like I'm not doing such a bad job after all.
And then I got married, took on shared responsibility for two children, and started ageing like a mofo.
Not long ago, I took H to her first day at primary school. By some quirk of temporal physics, this morning we took her to her first day at high school, while The Dude started his new life as a Primary Four kid.
Anyone looking to unlock the secret of time travel need look no further than the young generation. Kids'll age you. And then, with that done, they'll propel you, head first and mumbling, into the future faster than you can say 'TURN DOWN THAT RACKET! CALL THAT MUSIC?! IN MY DAY.... etc etc.'
I was young. Then all of a sudden I had a daughter in high school, a son slap-bang in the middle of primary education, a wife, three cats, a dog, a home in the country, more guitars than any sane human actually needs and no idea whatsoever which part of my brain actually had the foresight to organise all of it.
David Niven said that, throughout his career, he always expected someone to come along, tap him on the shoulder and say 'all right, that's enough. We're on to you now. The game's up.' That's exactly how I feel about adulthood in general.
I'm coasting, somehow fooling people that I'm as mature and grown up as everyone else; responsible enough to be trusted with all the grown-up stuff.
Then a day like today comes along, when our suddenly grown-up daughter goes off, happily and with confidence, to start high school, and it's impossible not to feel a bit of grown-up pride. B, of course, is the driving force behind any child-rearing success in our house, but at the end of it all I can at least say 'I helped,' and feel like I'm not doing such a bad job after all.