When I was 13, I started baby-sitting for the children who lived next to door to me back in New York.

James was 2, Andrew was 5 months, and, in retrospect, I was barely responsible enough to not microwave tin foil. Still, their parents needed a sitter, and I was available.

I ended up watching the boys — and when she came along, their sister too — a couple nights a week all through my high school years. I fed them bottles, helped teach them to walk and did flash cards when they started to read. We watched countless hours of giant purple dinosaurs (I still contend the creators of which were on mind-altering substances) and animated vegetables explaining Bible stories (Draw your own conclusion here).

They became like my siblings, and I was heartbroken that the family moved away while I was in college.

Flash forward to the age of Facebook, where on a whim, I searched for these children.

I almost had a heart attack when I found out James is a senior in high school, making him about 18.

That would make me — I’m a writer, so I’m terrible at math — about 693 years old. How is that kid graduating already?!

That kid came over and took pictures of me when I went to the prom. To me, he’s sort of eternally been 6 years old, scribbling pictures at the kitchen table while I made him a Hot Pocket.

Not wanting to seem like a creepy pedophile, but wanting to get back in touch with his family, I sent a message to James. We chatted some and I heard about his life and college choices. He asked what I was doing, and I told him I was still sort of hovering between feeling like a college kid and a truly productive member of society.

“Wow.” he said. “I guess I didn’t realize you were that old.”

Old? Yeah, come to think of it, neither did I.

On Monday, I turn 28. I’ve always thought turning 30 would signal the end of my life as I knew it, but after that comment, I’m pretty sure 28 is my official “panicking age.”

I’ve been out of high school for 10 years and at the Tribune for more than 5. And don’t get me wrong. While I realize I’m a far cry from glaucoma and hip replacements, I somehow thought 28 would feel more “official.”

As it stands now, I still fix things with duct tape when they break, eat cookie dough out of the tube and have to remind myself not to put tin foil in the microwave.



— Erin Shultz

[friday] editor / If it’s this bad, what is 29 like?