Yes, I wish I could have my Peter Pan peanut butter back. Alas, those two horrifying words keep me from it--PALM OIL. Just inject cholesterol into my arteries, thank you. But I digress even before I get started.
My daughter-in-law to-be posted today about being a child again, watching the children run and play. Sweetie, at thirty you still have a lot of child left in you. You can run and play with your daughter, my son, your nieces and nephews. With me. You're pretty and funny and smart. You have a lot of life to live. An eighty-year old might say the same about me.
Like Peter Pan, I don't want to grow up. Some people think I never did anyway.
Oh, but I did.
I tried the grown-up thing. I married, bought a house with Hubby. We worked, had kids, worked some more. We forgot how to be kids! We forgot how to have fun. We forgot how to play. We forgot how we liked to dance. We forgot about picnics at the last minute--throwing fruit and a sandwich, a drink or two in the cooler and taking off. We quit shooting baskets and tossing a ball. Is holding hands only for tweens? Is a snowball fight only for children? When was the last time you built a sand castle?
There was a time I wanted to play. My actions were met with a withering glare. Real mature, Marilyn. I didn't understand then, and I don't understand now. What is so mature about being stuffy? Why can't an adult act like an adolescent once in awhile? What is so special about acting old?
A little over a year ago, I suddenly remembered! Peter Pan was back! Tinkerbell was tickling me with her wings! I remembered what I used to love. The adventure inside began to overshadow the grown-up me. The kid started to re-emerge. Yes, I need a nap some days. Yes, I have responsibilities. Give me a chance to have some fun, though, and I will take advantage of the moment. Some people are old at twenty. I got old at thirty. I got younger again in my fifties.
Maturity is a fancy word for taking responsibility for yourself. Yes, I see the wisdom of that.
It doesn't mean you have to stop loving. It doesn't mean you can't show affection. You needn't tsk-tsk-tsk because someone laughs in church or guffaws at a funny story. You don't have to spend Suday evening counting out the pills for the next week. Why shouldn't you snag an ice cube at the next picnic to drop down somebody's back? Give me a good reason why you can't play football with a loaf of Italian bread instead of a pigskin. Try parking with your spouse or special someone (remember those days?). I have a friend who, at eighty, went snowshoeing and tubing for the first time last year. He takes cruises. He studies. He is planning on skydiving. Bob knows the difference between maturity and growing up. His motto is "If not NOW, WHEN?" Indeed.
To my sons and daughters to be; to their friends, to my young friends--take this no-longer-grown-up woman's advice. Don't forget how to live. Don't forget how to be a child sometimes. Time will march by whether you are a perpetual child or not, but it will zip by faster and faster as you age.
Live it while you can. If not NOW, WHEN?
You know what? I think I'll keep a jar of Peter Pan in the house, just to remind me of where my heart lies.
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