To Be a Kid Again
I have two sweet daughters, ages 9 and 7, whom I publicly refer to as Biggest and Littlest. Here’s a picture I like, because of its carefree perspective. In it they’re throwing pennies at the mall of my youth. (And quite possibly wishing to be grown up.)
A few weekends ago Biggest and I had some time together, just the two of us. While running errands, we stopped by a local park. The air was comfortably cool, the sun bright. From my creaky swing I watched her flop around on some rubberized elliptical machine-type thing, no inhibitions, no self-consciousness. It took half-a-second and one good bounce to realize how removed I am from moments like that. And another half-second to wish I could reverse the years, shed some experiences, and live in that unrestrained place again, just for a bit.
I’d play without feeling silly, get dirty without caring, just get lost in being me and not pay so much attention to the outer world, which can be pretty darn oppressive. I would do more of what I feel, and certainly feel what I do. Kids are good at that, right? I’d be released from adult-size worry and responsibility. Tell me that wouldn’t make for a great day.
Because I wouldn’t have to think about money or regret or car maintenance (the worst thing about being a single woman), or what my body is and isn’t, what I can and can’t do. Big decisions wouldn’t be mine to make, work wouldn’t take significant chunks of my time. Dinner wouldn’t be mine to cook. Oh, that would be a great day.
I’d be nine years old, playing in the park, with things like flopping about and awesome snacks and Disney Channel shows on my mind, that’s it.
Does anyone have a penny? I think I’d like to make a wish.
(photo credit: post author)