Last Friday, I was asked to visit my sister’s 3rd grade classroom as their Mystery Reader. I labored over my book choices, spending almost an hour in the children’s section of Barnes & Noble with my poor husband waiting patiently as I lingered over every book. I was afraid that I would seem totally uncool with a picture book, so I tried to find a more age-appropriate option for her class. Little did I know, reading in front of a giggling pile of unimpressed little people wouldn’t be the most stressful part of my afternoon.

When my husband and I were led to my sister’s classroom, we were expecting to be welcomed by a warm mom-like teacher who would remind the children to pay attention and sit quietly while I read. Instead, we were met by a fresh-faced 20-something who was definitely not the Mrs. Doubtfire we were anticipating. Actually, she may have looked even younger than us, yet she was the one in charge of this giggling pile of children.

I realized that the biological clock I had never heard in my entire life started to tick. Not because I’m worried about my ability to have children, but because I realized that I have now become the teacher, school nurse, librarian or bus driver that seemed ancient to my own 9-year-old self. It’s like the first time I heard Nelly or Eminem during JAM’N 94.5’s “Back in the Day Buffett” playlist. Horrible.

I certainly don’t feel old, but I guess it’s a bit harder to recover from a night of drinking, I don’t usually make it to midnight more than once or twice per week, and my most recent blog post was almost entirely about playing Monopoly. After meeting my sister’s insanely young teacher, I first felt a pang of insecurity. Then, I thought a little harder and realized that this means we are finally the adults we dreamed of becoming when we were those 9-year-old kids sitting in class listening to the Mystery Reader.