By Amy Keyes 
Today as I walked up my driveway with the daily stack of college flyers that never stop coming, I had a serious Talking Heads moment. You know that song, “Once In A Lifetime?” The one where they tell you that you might find yourself in all of these situations that build a life? Here’s a little refresher:
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife
And you may ask yourself, “Well, how did I get here?”
Well, that’s exactly what happened on that walk up the driveway. I literally stopped in my tracks. Stared at the front lawn we make our son mow each week. Eyed the weathered bronze rooster statue we wrote into the purchase agreement when we bought our house almost a decade ago when our kids were still elementary school age. Waved to my neighbors across the street, who are in the early stages of their journey of parenthood. And I’m not going to lie . . . I choked back a few tears.
It gave me more than a moment of pause as I assessed my current situation. Rocking my last few months in my 40s. Married for 21 years to my college sweetheart. Two teenagers: one entering his last year before leaving home as an adult. Homeowner. Dog mom. In the throes of perimenopausal chaos. A beautiful tapestry of milestones and moments already collected along the road of life. And I wondered how it is that I am here. Already.
It feels like it was just yesterday that I fell in love. Spotting my husband from across a crowded party. Not a clue in the world that our first conversation would lead us to this very driveway on which I stand, contemplating all of the choices, big and small, that led me to this point.
The years of just the two of us seem like a lifetime ago, and yet they are right around the corner again for us. I marvel at the fact that we have a senior in high school. Just a year away from starting whatever path he will follow to lead him to his own driveway that someday he will likely stand on wondering where all the days went.
Sometimes I feel like I’m playing dress up. Living a life I have no clue how I arrived in, not to mention have no business being an adult in. Looking at our dented garage, the broken dishwasher, the garden that needs weeding, the tree that needs removal. An endless cycle of remembering and forgetting that I’m the one who is supposed to know how to do the things. Fix the things. Teach the things to my boys so that they can head off into the world feeling like semi-competent humans.
A few weeks ago, my son told me he’s feeling unprepared to be an adult, which is to be expected, since he’s not one yet. But honestly, I sometimes feel unprepared to be an adult, and I’ve been one for a very long time. How do you explain that one to a kid who is looking to you to have the answers?
I am thinking about all of the ways I still feel like a teenager myself. Things I know I should be doing or at least have knowledge of at this stage. But things I don’t do or know much about because I often forget how many days have gone by, and that I’m that person who should be leading by that example.
Little things like how to cut the fat off of chicken, which I never touch because it grosses me out. Or, how to shake out your clothes before putting them in the dryer so your shirt doesn’t look like an accordion. Or, big things, like investing and stock markets and meeting with my planner since I’m now closer to retirement than not.
It’s really very crazy to think about. How days turn into months and months turn into years more quickly as we get older. How it seems like just yesterday I was leaving for college, and now my son is. How my life has evolved from an individual to a couple to a family. And now, to somehow being the middle-aged parents of teenagers on the verge of an empty nest in just a few short years.
And when I ask myself, “How did I get here?” I honestly don’t know. But at the end of the day, there’s nowhere I’d rather be.
by Jennifer Thompson 
by Whitney Fleming 
by Kelsey Scism 
