I don’t remember being a child. I’m assuming I was one once and wasn’t beamed down here to planet earth to hatch out fully formed and ready to rock. I’ve seen photos too, aged 3 standing naked in an inflatable paddling pool drinking the water out of it with a spoon! Others wax lyrical about childhood being the best time of their lives filled with carefree days and endearing stories, climbing trees, learning to ride a bike, giggling over silly things until tummies ached. I’ve no recollection, just a longing to experience some of this innocent wonderment.
Being ‘grown up’ seemed to slip silently in somewhere, unlike turning 18 it didn’t appear announced in a Hallmark birthday card – “now that you are a Grown Up, Happy Birthday!”. It’s not a celebration or a chance to get all excited, it came with it’s two ugly sisters Responsibility and Maturity. Being a Grown Up is vastly overrated..
It’s not that I want to go back to paddling naked in an inflatable pool – that’s now likely to get me arrested or at the very least give the neighbours a nasty turn. I’m tired of being a grown up, it’s too damned serious. Where’d all the fun go?!
I was once the Wendy to a Peter Pan manchild and it was the best of times and the worst of times. He was a great playmate and there was never a dull moment, it was the nearest to being a kid I’ve ever been. It eventually imploded when one of us had to become the grown up and pay bills etc and he delegated that role to me, took his toys back and went off to find Tinkerbell.
We may not be able to return to Neverland once we grow up, but if every now and then we can look at life with the eyes of a child there could be hope for us yet.
Have a lovely weekend and remember to look for the magic. I’m off to build a tent in the corner of the office ..