My parents are old. This isn’t necessarily a negative thing, it’s not like they don’t know they’re old. It’s just that they had me very late in life. My mother was in her late 30’s and my father was over 40 when I was born. By the time I was in elementary school people thought they looked more like my grandparents than my parents. I remember in kindergarten the parents used to have to line up outside of the class room for the end of day pickup and the teachers would call out our names. One day when my mom picked me up a teacher yelled out, “Becky, your grandmother is here!” A lot of kids laughed and I remember how shocked my mom looked and how embarrassed I was. But, like with all things, we got used to it. We even laugh about that day in kindergarten now.

It was tough being young with older parents. While other kid’s parents took them out for fun I grew up understanding the complexities of my mother’s arthritis in her thumbs and knees. I watched so much “Days Of Our Lives” in elementary school that Jensen Ackles will forever be Eric Brady before he was ever the heartthrob Winchester (on "Supernatural") that we know and love today.

I still remember what fish oil smells like on my fingertips from the nights spent counting tablets with my mother and fishing out the burst capsule while my friends remember what it felt like to roughhouse with their parents or do anything physically active.

Looking back on it, I don’t feel like I missed out on anything. I was lucky enough to have several friends whose younger parents invited me along to the types of events and outings I missed at home: vacations, camping trips, walks, playing at the park, swimming at the pool, trick or treating, etc. It’s not that my parents didn’t want to do these things with me. It was just that they had already done it with my older siblings. My oldest sister is 21 years older than me. She is old enough that I literally have no memory of ever living in the same house as her or any time where she wasn't a mother herself. The siblings I have that are closest to me in age are 11 years older. By the time I came around my parents were (understandably) tired. My sisters experienced dinner parties, camping trips, barbecues and fun times while I experienced a lot of naps and crossword puzzles.

Jokes aside, my sisters may have had more fun but I had something much, much more valuable. I got to actually know my parents and their passions which helped me develop my own. This is not a feat that can be achieved while out having fun, or so I tell myself.

Because of my parent’s age I grew up around some of the coolest and most vintage things a present day semi-hipster could ever ask for. I grew up staying up all night watching what my mom grew up with, “The Twilight Zone” and the “Alfred Hitchcock Hour.” I'd seen “Psycho” by the time I was five years old. At four years old I recognized Shirley Temple before Barney and at 10 could recognize the techniques of Poe, O. Henry, and H.G. Wells before Dr. Seuss. All of which were my main inspirations to be a writer in adulthood.

Having a dad who only listens to Motown and the blues resulted in me having pretty eclectic music tastes for a twenty something. I could listen to the Ramones or Muse just as easily as Muddy Waters, Billie Holiday, Al Green, Robert Johnson, or the Temptations. Thanks to my old parents I am who I am today, and thanks to them I appreciate a lot of things that are often forgotten.

While I’m appreciative to my parents for many things (more than I will list on here), there is one reason why I would give it all back to have my parents be 10 or 15 years younger than they are. The burden of a child of older parents is to live a life haunted by death. If my parents were old when they had me then they are much older now, twenty something years later. They’re old enough that talks of life insurance policies and burial plans are more the norm than not. There’s nothing wrong with them health wise, I think we’re all just a bit morbid and comfortable with talking about the inevitable. Although as easily as we may talk about it, having parents closer to the end of their lives than most makes death a lot more present and real in my mind than in others my age.

I constantly worry and think about my parent’s death. If my mom doesn’t respond to a text immediately I call someone to go and check on her. She’s prone to coughing fits and when she has a spell, I find my heart racing and hold my breath. My dad is one of those people who never calls you; you always have to call him. In the rare event he does call me, I panic — certain it’s my stepmother calling with the news. One time my sister sent me a text that read, “We need to talk about Mom. Give me a call when you have a minute.” After a complete breakdown of crying for the better part of 10 minutes I called prepared to here the worst. Turns out, mom’s birthday was coming up and she wanted to talk gifts. Thanks, Sis.

This is my life. This is the thought that holds me hostage day in and day out. But, this is why it’s the worst thing about having older parents. I’m too young to know how to handle the inevitable. I’m not old enough to know how to process the thought of it and all of its idiosyncrasies. These are thoughts left to older people. This is why on a Sunday morning while warming up a chicken fritter for breakfast I wonder who is going to clean out my mother’s underwear drawer. On the other hand, this could have nothing to do with my parent’s age. This could entirely be what happens in adulthood after a small child watches “The Alfred Hitchcock Hour.” Either way, it’s their fault — I suppose I’ll always blame them for everything despite their age.