Grown

I, like most adolescents, spent my youth thinking I was “grown.” I lived for dressing up, thinking for myself and being as independent as possible (under the guise of my Mommy, of course). As I matriculated through life, endless opportunities encouraged my independence and and led me to feel as if there was nothing that I could not achieve.

Throughout every season and experience that cultivated my life, my parents provided support and nourishment.  Yet, no matter how high my heels or numerous and titles, my parents had a way of releasing the little girl inside of me. Grocery shopping in their kitchen (their food tasted better), sitting on my mom’s lap (“Girl, you are going to break my legs” Mommy would say), and dreaming in the den with Mom, my world just made sense with my parents. With them, I didn’t have to be a day older than their “baby.”
 
Upon my parents’ death, all of that changed. Something as simple as being able to call Mom to discuss a challenging situation or having Dad fix something, went away. I’d lived my entire life with the excitement of being independent, just to come to a place where all I wanted was to depend on my parents. I wanted to have Dad tell me about the weather for the next 5 days and Mom to ask me if I’d been eating in the midst of my busy schedule; I wanted to hear my Dad ask if I was still “making A’s” and for Mom to tell me how proud she was of my newest blog project; I wanted Dad to tell me my heels were too high and for Mom to ask if I wanted to run with her to DSW because they were having a sale. For once in my life, I didn’t want to be "grown"... all I wanted was to be their “baby” again.