That’s simple, because when you grow up, I am officially old.
Naw. That’s not going to happen in any case.
It may seem like I don’t want you to grow up because I get nervous when you are planning trips and concert outings or talking about using power tools and sharp things.
I’m most nervous about your driving, but you know that.
If I didn’t want you to make any progress, I could give into those fears and restrict your activities until I felt better about it. The trouble is, neither of us would get more comfortable that way.
My fears would get bigger; your fears would get bigger too. Our lives would get smaller and we’d end up like some Grey Gardens museum piece.
You’ll understand when you spend years of your life trying to keep a small human from dying in some unspeakably silly way.
It’s one thing to keep a toddler on the safe side of a sidewalk or to make sure their food is choke-proof, but there is always this horrible moment when you realize that this tiny person is far more interested in everything except safety. This creature is going to seek out novelty and danger with their relentless toddler energy and—I’ll stop there because I want to be a grandma someday.
Don’t be mad that I’m comparing you as a teenager to a toddler. It’s just my observation and not a law or anything, but those of you who were terrorist toddlers have been delightful teenagers and vice versa. This means I’m in a lot more trouble with your little sister, actually.
So, yes, I do want you to grow up. I’m thrilled to see every little sign of self-sufficiency.
It’s just that thrills and scares can be hard to tell apart.