how old am I?

I had an interesting conversation with Mr. Gatsby last night about chronological age versus biological, or emotional age. I try often to attempt to help others around me understand trauma and the changes it makes to the body. I feel like I’m always making excuses for behaviors, which isn’t at all my intention. It is my intention to help people to put trauma behaviors in perspective, you don’t have to understand it, but you gotta accept it for what it is.

Mr. Gatsby is always right. I have no idea where he gets that trait from. Ha ha… guilty! So conversations where he may have to adjust the way he thinks abut things are always a challenge. Evening knowing what I know, I set aside an hour last night to revisit a trauma assessment and psych evaluation for a kiddo here. As I looked back over the reports, I couldn’t help but get hung up on the testing that give results based on biological age. Social skills for example, could be at that of a 6 year old, trapped in the body of a traumatized, and likely very angry, 17 year old. Reading things like that in print helps me deal with the day to day frustrations, because it reminds me of what I am really dealing with. I mean would I really be as frustrated if these behaviors were coming from my 6 year old, and not a near adult? Probably not. Considering I am somewhere past my 29th birthday, (we don’t talk about that), and still learning to check myself with little doses of reality like that biological age thing, I can understand why Mr. Gatsby and some of the other household ducklings struggle to curb the frustration.

Sadly, we don’t all walk around with our biological age for each facet of our lives taped to our chest like some kind of public warning. Might actually be useful, kinda like the pronoun preferences that a lot of us use in our email signatures now. I mean, if you knew the person you were approaching for help at the checkout counter had the communication skills of an elementary student, you’d likely behave significantly differently. I know we should all approach each day with kindness, and you shouldn’t need a reminder to treat everyone as such. I also know that that just doesn’t always happen like it should, am I am just as guilt of it as everyone else. Heck, I am still working on making sure my facial expressions don’t out the thoughts I’m thinking in my head that aren’t really for public consumption. I am a work in progress.

Hubby and I have an important meeting today. We have known about this meeting for about a week. There has been collectively 5 minutes of chatter about the meeting and our individual positions over the course of the week of warning. Even after that conversation, I am still not sure I know his position or what will come out of his mouth today. I know my position. I have nearly always known my position, but I am very decisive. When I was a kid, life with my Father was only black and white. There was no in-between and saying I don’t know was considered, “and excuse and not a reason” so you didn’t dare say it. Maybe that is why I’m so decisive. It’s a skill that has served me well over the years. Maybe I should send my Father a fruit basket for his poorly executed but well meaning efforts. “Thank you for the childhood trauma. Have a fruit basket.” Or not.

Anyway, I thought it might help Hubby to remind him of some test results this morning ahead of the meeting about one kiddo in particular, who I am intentionally not mentioning. (If you know, you know. If you don’t, you probably don’t need to.) I know he got it. He did however not respond. I may have found better success if I just listed all of my communication in a local Facebook marketplace ad under the heading of “Barn Find – low miles.” He spends a ton of time there, likely comparable to the amount of time I waste scrolling Temu, so I suppose I can’t judge. He is going to come home today and I am going to ask if he read my text. He will say, “What text? I didn’t get a text.” Then he’s going to look at his phone, and say, “Oh, now I see it.” Biologically Hubby is about 12, you know the age where making as many noises with your body that you can is just hysterical. Yeah, that boy version of 12. He will openly tell anyone that, while he makes fart noises as he walks past.