Teens are so useful. For example, they provide proof that we are getting older.

Otherwise, we could deny the signs of aging.

I could think of my reading glasses as a chic addition to my wardrobe.

I could look at my reluctance to go out at night as wisdom.

I could view my afternoon naps as a quaint habit I acquired in Mexico.

But having kids shows us that we are getting older.

Teens remind us that we say words from the 60s -- like "I can get behind that."

They make fun of our 60s shawls,

our Beatles music.

That's because teens love what's new. That's what's cool.

And we're not new.

Recently my 12-year-old son told me: "Ma, you still have the spark

but it's dying."

What he doesn't know is that inside it's not a spark but a bonfire.

It may not show outside, but inside it's still burning strong.

My 81-year-old mother-in-law told me recently that even after her latest operation, inside she still feels that she is about 21.

Conversely, on the first day of the new millennium, a Korean baby was born and a malfunctioning computer labeled her age at birth as 100.

Maybe the computer was right.

Inside of us is a four-year- old

a 14-year-old

and a 95-year-old.

You've probably know certain kids with old souls:

The baby with the old man's face.

The five year old who wants his mother to write a journal of his feelings.

Still our teens don't get it. They remind us:

No matter how much aerobics and low fat and Atkins and swimming and working with weights and reading New Woman you d, you are not

the new woman or the new man.

No matter how much you travel and ride your bikes and read Zen Buddhism and meditate and walk on the beach and paint and write…
you are no longer young. We are.

They're not ready to see the child inside of the man.
The old man inside of the child.

They don't know that time is a spiral, a wheel, a tap into an eternity.

"Am I dying or is this my birthday?" asked Lady Nancy Astor on her death bed.

Maybe both.