Old Enough

I'm back.
Sorry for being away so long. A whole year -- where did it go? I kept telling myself I was too busy to blog, but like I tell other people, we're only too busy for things we don't think are important. And that's not how I feel about Mulling It Over. It is important, at least to me. So, in spite of the fact that I am currently in the middle of a paying gig writing curriculum and that a busy season (Advent) is just over the horizon, I'm going to start blogging more often.
In order to do this, I realize I have to be less of a perfectionist. One of the reasons I haven't written in a year is that I had always been trying to craft essays that were perfect little gems, carefully worded and painstakingly revised. From now on, I am going to be a more typical blogger, trying to offer something of substance but without all the wordcraft and multiple drafts before posting. My hope is that what I offer, while it may be less polished and more raw, will be much less infrequent and more real.
What I find myself reflecting on today is the simple fact that I'm getting older. Of course, we all get older every day, until we die, at which point they chisel into your tombstone the year you stopped having birthdays. So there is nothing wrong with getting older. In fact, it is a good thing . . . at least that is what I keep telling myself.
I never had any trouble with getting older at the usual milestones. My thirtieth and fortieth birthdays were a lot of fun. My wife threw me a party each time, and I thoroughly enjoyed both. I didn't get all introspective or nosedive into a mid-life crisis. I just got presents, ate cake, and moved on. Day to day, I don't give much thought to being "optimistically" middle-aged (really, what are the chances I'm going to live till I am 94?).
But today was different.
Today I was waiting for a friend at a local restaurant, when a young woman passed by with a toddler in her arms. The boy she carried was a cutie, about 2 years old, give or take six months. And when the boy saw me, he pointed and said with excitement, "RaRa!" His grandmother, who was following behind, looked at me and replied, "Yes he does look like your RaRa!"
I took RaRa to be the child's name for his grandfather, baby talk that will probably stick, the same way my oldest daughter anointed my mother as "Geega" and my mother was Geega ever after. This means that a small child mistook me for his grandfather, and his grandmother confirmed the resemblance. I look old enough to be someone's grandfather!
Okay, so I am old enough to be someone's grandfather. I'm plenty old enough to be that toddler's grandfather. My oldest daughter turns 20 this month, and her cousin who is only a couple of months older than she is has a child who will be three before year's end. My parents had grandchildren in elementary school when they were my age. So I'm old enough.
Of course, being old enough to be a grandparent doesn't mean that I'm old. Years ago, I met a woman who became a grandmother at 28 -- she had a daughter at 14 who, in turn, had a daughter at fourteen. At that rate, I guess I could be just 9 years away from being old enough to be a great-great grandfather!
The odd thing to me is that being mistaken for being someone's grandfather made a much bigger impression on me than any birthday ever did. It is true what they say -- age is just a number. 30, 40, 45 -- they didn't change how I see myself. But a little boy calling me RaRa made me realize that others see me differently.
Time rolls on, but that's okay. I had a wonderful grandfather and always looked forward to being one myself. So it is kind of nice to be reminded that I'm old enough.