The whole idea of growing up is really getting to me in a way I never really thought it would.
I used to think that growing up would be great. Responsibilities weren’t burdens. They were privileges entrusted to those who had earned the right to take control of their lives and live as they wished.
So I’m surprised that I miss being five years old so much. Sometimes when I’m sitting at my dining room table, paying bills, all I can think about is building the perfect cushion fort.
When I’m at work, I wish that my files were “play files” filled with pictures I had drawn of unicorns and plans for making big bucks at a lemonade stand.
I wish that instead of worrying about the next big project, I was worried about how I could best make my Legos into a castle.
I miss being carefree. I miss being cared for. I miss peanut butter and jelly sandwiches being the best part of my day. I miss the way that ice cream made a bad day better (Wait…it still does!)I miss slaying dragons and imaginary friends that never judged you, no matter what.
But most of all, I think I miss the way I knew how to play. I miss the days when my biggest worries were about how to make my mud pies better than the girl next door’s.
Sure, there are a few moments when I remember–times when I choose to run through the sprinklers (metaphorically or literally) rather than sit on the lawn chair. There are times when someone tags me and I run like I’m being chased by a dragon.
But I have to question…why has it become so hard for me to remember how to play?