I'm sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor, right there on the linoleum, eating an apple, when my oldest daughter walks by.
"Why are you on the floor?" she asks.
I point to the slant of sunshine streaming through the sliding glass door. "Because I want to get some sun." (Vitamin D deficiency, I raise my fist against you, even in the midst of winter in central Pennsylvania.)
She nods, says okay happily, and continues on her way.
I take another bite of my apple and wonder whether she'll retain a memory of me eating lunch on the floor, whether this image will resurface years from now when she's an adult who feels a bit trapped inside of a house on a bitterly cold winter day.
Then another question, one not foreign to me, settles into my consciousness: How did I become the adult in this scenario?
The brunt of this question hits me several times each year. A moment comes when I look at my children like I've never seen them before, like they just sprang up, and I wonder how it came to pass that I'm the one in charge.
On occasion, this also happens in my professional life, like one moment last semester when I was writing on the chalkboard and turned to face my college students with the crazy realization that I wasn't one of them. For a bizarre minute, I found myself talking and engaging with the class, but as if having an out-of-body-experience, my internal dialogue only could process how I was the person in front of the room, not just in one of the seats, and how, oh how, did this happen?
Yes, I'm still surprised that I'm an adult some days, which makes me wonder when -- if ever -- will I feel as if I've grown up?
Until I feel like an adult, I'll keep eating my lunch while sitting cross-legged on the floor when the sun shines and the mood strikes. And hopefully when that realization of adulthood settles firmly, I'll keep doing so, too.