I Admit It. I'm Jealous Of My Kids

I am the mother of three children, including two adult girls. Adult girls may seem like an oxymoron, but that’s how they seem to me: both young and mature at the same time. My oldest is 22, athletic, madly in love and, oh yeah, wrinkle-free. She recently embarked on a semester abroad, visited beaches by herself and spent her own money without a care in the world. She dresses in highlighter colors and leopard print, goes line dancing sober and joins random pond hockey teams with strangers for weekend tournaments in Vermont. She is the epitome of young, vibrant and living loud, and the world is such a beautiful place because she is in it.

My other daughter is 18 and doesn’t settle for anything less than what she desires and deserves. She went to college for a semester, didn’t love it and transferred immediately to a school that was a better fit without hesitation or regret. She trusts her own intuition, never complains and is a beautiful dreamer. Her skin is pale, smooth and perfectly freckled, and her sense of fashion is eclectic. She pairs neutral colors with fun earrings and can match a preppy sweater with vintage pants and platform sneakers like no one else. She doesn’t care what other people think (or don’t think) of her and she doesn’t take no for an answer, but she does it in the most ambitious, admirable way. She also makes the world a beautiful place and she captures it, too — in her paintings, sketches and photography.

Both of my girls are living their best lives and doing so in the space that exists between childhood and adulthood, where independence is freaking cool as hell, the canvas is blank and you can paint whatever you want on it. I am so happy for them and proud of them and proud that I played a part in raising these beautiful humans. But I have a secret. A secret I can only share with my girlfriends.

Here it is: I am jealous.

Sometimes I look at them in their cute clothes with their fit figures as they eat Crumbl cookies without gaining a pound while they plan their lives to be so much better than mine was — and I desperately wish I could be them. The thought pops into my head and I immediately shut it down, shame myself for feeling jealous of my own children and hope that the feeling never returns. But it has to be normal, right? I mean, come on! It isn’t easy to navigate midlife while your kids are in their prime.

Midlife crises are discussed often and freely, and most of us can relate to some or all aspects of the stereotypical awareness that overcomes us as we bid our 20s, 30s and then 40s adieu and struggle to accept that the process of aging can’t be stopped. What we don’t talk about, though, is that at the very time when we are going through this awkward midlife puberty, if you will, our children are often in their prime: looking and feeling their best, the world in front of them, a shiny, full-of-promise oyster. The juxtaposition is impossible to ignore. On a recent night, my daughters were both home from college, getting ready to go out, while I was looking in the mirror wondering if getting a facelift is really that bad of an idea. I struggled to reconcile (or accept) the fact that just yesterday, I was them and secretly dreamed of being a young, fun 20-something again.