Mixed Moss

The funny thing about growing up is that the things that keep you up at night worrying are scarrier than the things that did as a little kid. I wish someone would come in and turn my light on and shine a flashlight under my bed and say, “See? There’s no utilities bill. It’s just your imagination. Now go back to sleep, Sweetheart.”

I remember the exact moment when I realized that life only got more difficult and confusing as you grew older. I must have been about thirteen, and we were riding in my mother’s old blue minivan, somewhere in Tri-County. My mother was apologising to us for something. She said something like, “I’m sorry, girls. I just don’t have this whole parenting thing figured out yet.” And suddenly, whatever she was apologising for (and I don’t even remember what it was) faded into insignificance under the reality that decisions and emotions and life itself are difficult and confusing, even to grown-ups. At that moment I had this dawning realization, and I said something like, “You mean it doesn’t get any easier?” And my mother, who was at a stoplight, turned around and looked at me, and I said “I mean, I thought this was just, like, adolesence or something, that it was just a stage, and that someday I’d grow out of it.” “Well, no,” she said. “The older you get the tougher and more confusing things are.” And strangely, I got the impression that the conversation made her feel a little bit better.

That was a terrible, terrible moment for me, though. The thought of my whole life, stretched out before me, getting harder and scarrier and hurting more each year. I had had enough of confusion and heartache. I wanted it to end sometime in the foreseeable future. But if I could, would I go back to that innocent age? I don’t know. What I didn’t realize then was that the good bits inbetween the scarry parts made up for it all.

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