My Kids Should be Terrified

I'm not sure how my kids hide their worry. They seem to be reasonably carefree, with just the average teenage to young adult dramas going on, but they should walk about with a look of sheer terror on their face. I mean, let's face it, based on discussions with them, they obviously believe that sometime between your twenties and forties your brain begins to atrophy. For me, it apparently began when I hit forty – coincidentally, the same year Number One Daughter hit thirteen. There had been some signs (again, based on discussions) that my problem was beginning around age thirty-seven, but by forty the onset was obvious. I couldn't understand simple things (per Number One Daughter) such as why she should be able to stay out past ten o'clock at night, or how there was no need for her to keep her room clean, or the obvious reasons she should be able to date prior to being sixteen years old. Believe me, from empirical evidence, it's gotten worse over the past seven years.

Don't get me wrong, I've got great kids, but it is obvious from the rolling eyes that I'm just being humored as my simple-mindedness grows worse and worse. Suggestions I make (saving money, dressing reasonably, pointing out that eight hours sleep can start at eleven at night and end at seven in the morning as well as start at four AM and end at noon) are apparently given without any comprehension of the complexities of the teen-to-early twenties life. Since I have to believe they don't think I somehow skipped right from six years old to thirty-six years old, they must think I can't relate to anything in that age range due to my rapidly diminishing capacity for intelligent thought. While I prefer to disagree with their assessment of a lack of understanding, what I mostly don't understand is how they can go through life not trying to figure out how to avoid this diminished capacity that strikes when your first child hits puberty. If I were them, I'd be terrified.