The Joys of Adulthood

Yesterday, as we sat waiting for the doctor so Spencer could have his yearly physical, we realized the walls in the office were rather thin. We could hear our doctor discussing a girl's ADD through the walls and her need to become physically active.
Embarrassed to overhear, Spencer and I decided to have a conversation. Spence lounged on the plastic doctor's table, the white paper covering it crinkled when he moved. "So what can I do when I'm 18 that I can't do at 17?"
He turns 18 soon.
"Well, you can vote," I said, excited that we've already registered him and he gets to vote in the November election.
"You could get a tattoo," I said, knowing he hasn't expressed an interest in tattoos thus far.
"You get to come to the doctor by yourself," I said. "Oh, and you have to register so you can be drafted if the United States ever starts drafting men again."
Hmmm. None of these options seemed to be thrilling him as the bottom half of his legs hung off the table, his clunky black shoes resting on the step he'd pulled out.
Still waiting for the doctor, I texted our friend Bethany who turned 18 about six months ago and was determined to make the most of her new adulthood. Bethany is now in Los Angeles modeling.

Here's a test shot of her by Lotus Josephine.
I remember that Bethany went to buy a lottery ticket on her 18th birthday. I wondered what else she'd gotten up to. So I asked.
"What can Spencer do when he's 18 that he can't do now?"
Then I waited for her response.
"Cigarettes and porn," she replied.
Actually, she texted "Cigarettes and pron" but then followed it up with a correction, "porn."
Great. My 18-year-old can buy cigarettes, porn, get a tattoo and seek medical advice without me.
I'm hoping he decides to ignore his 18th birthday and look ahead to his 21st.

The Trauma of Turning 18

It's official. My eldest child is now 18 -- an adult.
This is how fast it has gone: One minute she is a two week old with colic, crying and crying, inconsolable - the next she is a 5-foot, 10-inch young woman slicing through the water like an arrow, bobbing up with a smile.
She's been in tears for nearly a week now imagining the horror of this birthday and the responsibility of becoming an adult.
To her turning 18 means she has ended that blissful state of childhood. And I have to admit, Grace has taken advantage of childhood. She has squeezed every drop of imaginary play and kicking tantrum that she can from childhood. Even without the birthday numbers though, she became responsible and inched her way into adulthood before 18.
"I can be arrested now!" she bemoaned.
"Don't do anything illegal," Tucker advised.
"If I hit Tucker, it's illegal instead of just a brother and sister fighting," she cried.
Tucker and I listed all of the benefits of being 18. She can get a tattoo. She can get piercings. She could gauge her ears.
Of course, we're cracking up at the thought because Grace hates pain -- hates it and would never do any of those things.
"You can sign yourself out of school," I suggested. That one quieted her down a bit.
"Will they still call you?" she asked.
Having one child reach adulthood doesn't feel like the relief I might have imagined. It doesn't seem like the burden has left my shoulders. I haven't brushed off my hands and said, "That one finished."
I can't protect her forever, but I have brought her to this place, to this adult line and helped her cross over fairly intact. Now I'll have to watch while she inches forward trying to decide if she wants to try her wings.
Are you sure this is the same kid? Grace in the Luxembourg Gardens at 14 and then at 17 in her senior picture