Child Again

I have this theory.

At some point in our lives, we start living the way we think we ought to live.

We start believing things we think we ought to believe.

For some, it strikes right after college; for some, right when they launch into high school. And it happens under the guise of growing up.

You ought to keep yourself composed.
You ought to do the responsible thing.
You ought to take the class that will help you get into the best college.
You ought to focus on academics, because good grades = good GPA = good resume. And really, you’re quite good at this school thing — you’re smart, aren’t you?

And it all becomes a lot to do, to maintain, both mentally and physically. So you grow quite serious. A bit boring, frankly. Sure, you laugh and can have fun. But a bit of you has been snuffed out.

And you didn’t even catch it happening.

You see, you’ve forsaken and forgotten part of you in the name of maturity and adulthood. Some of the brightest, zaniest, most core parts of you.

Like how you used to stand on your bike pedals as you flew down your
cul-de-sac hill.
Or how you’d follow your mom as she gardened, plucking worms and naming every wiggly one.
How you’d grow your own butterflies, ladybugs, and ants.
How you named every stuffed animal, and line them all up like Noah’s Ark.
How you’d scream LA-LA-LA-LA and put your fingers in your ears when a movie moment got awkward.
How you’d cheer louder than anyone else on the softball fields.
How you always dreamed about being a volunteer librarian.
How you wrote poems and half-finished novels in your butterfly, spiral-bound notebook.
How you collected quotes like one might collect stamps, and taped them all over your bedroom window on Post-It notes. (Bless your mother — she must have been worried about the trim paint coming off).
How you once emailed your favorite children’s author asking him to put your dad in his next book. (That author did respond, but alas, your dad never made it into one of his stories.)
How you’d slide in socks across your hardwood floors.
How you’d talk to the stars, your back on the grass, feet on the ground.

You see, you thought growing up meant there was no room for the child You.

Or maybe you didn’t think that at all. Just with all the hustle and bustle, the ought-tos and to-dos, you forgot.

Until one day, maybe when you’re riding a bike, or reading a book, or playing a game — you remember.

Oh.

I used to love this.

This used to be me.

So here’s my theory.

We spend a lot of time trying to grow up. And once we do, we live a pretty successful life as grown-ups. But at some point, we remember that child in us. And if we’re brave enough, we spend the rest of our lives trying to remember and hold on to those pieces of us.

Because when I remember who I am to the core, I’m much freer. I’m quicker to laugh. I’m reading all the time. I’m quick to jot down a thought, to delve into free verse (because goodness knows it’s the only poetry I can write). I come alive.

It’s never too late to become a child again.