Mostly, because they don’t say things to me like, “blow me!” or “lick it,” when I am taking logical action aligned with policy*. (*Real “adult” reaction).
But also, because they do say things like, “I love peeing and pooing.” And, “You can’t be in Lego club if you don’t believe in God!” Or even, “[I barfed] because I saw the poo coming out.”
I miss working with kids because they make me laugh more than adults. Raw honesty can be HILARIOUS. You know how insecure you can feel talking to a group of adults? What about when four nine year olds compile what they call a “truth book” about you? Inside this book, they rate your dancing skills (awful!) they point out your flawed “hippopotamus thighs” and let you know (in an honest way, which is okay, right?) that you’re a “bad singer.”
I mean, I may not have known these personal qualities if those pre-teen boys hadn’t informed me. They were doing me a solid, really. That book wasn’t designed to make me feel insecure. That book was designed to make me laugh.
Once, I looked after my cousin’s kids while they stayed with my aunt. Driving somewhere one afternoon, the youngest kid fell asleep in the car seat. When we parked, he woke up disoriented.
“Where are we? What are we doing?” he asked as he adjusted to his surroundings.
I turned around from the front seat to tell him we were going to rent a DVD for him and his sister to watch later.
My aunt turned to me and stage-whispered. “Oh, GOD.” She said. “I can’t imagine what it would be like to never know where you were going or what you were doing. It would be DEVASTATING!”
She was legitimately horrified.
Devastating? No. It would be THE LIFE OF EVERY CHILD ON THE PLANET.
Kids never know what they’re doing or where they’re going. THAT’S WHAT BEING A KID IS LIKE.
Sometimes, being a kid totally sucks. Like when you have to wait behind the Bank of Montreal for twenty minutes in the car with your brother and best friend while your mum does whatever mums do at the bank for twenty minutes.
But even when you’re waiting, you make up a stupid jingle to the sign that reads: BANK OF MONTREAL CUSTOMER PARKING ONLY PLEASE. This jingle will stick in your head FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.
You didn’t know you were going to make that jingle up while your mum went into do some banking. You didn’t know you’d sing it for 14 minutes, repeatedly, laughing hysterically every time you rang out the lyrics as you waited. And you definitely didn’t know you’d remember it at age 27.
Being a kid is definitely not devastating. Being a kid is just learning to accept and be at peace with whatever your parents/teachers/out of school care staff/any figure of authority tells you you’re doing. You just roll with it until you realize you have the ability to decide on your own what your life may hold.
I miss working with kids because kids are as zen as you get until you a) develop a deep addiction to some form of narcotics b) you find your sanctuary in life or c) you realize that life isn’t controlled by you, as much as you will it to be.
The only part about being a kid that’s truly devastating is coming to the realization that you’re officially an adult.
Last night, I was thinking of my personal actions since the beginning of 2012. I’m having difficulty justifying some of them.
It’s hard to gain perspective when you’re inside your own head, isn’t it? We try to step outside of our own thoughts and patterns, but in the end, we’re a bit trapped.
I asked myself: do I approve of these actions? Are they best for me? Well, kind of. Yes. I mean, I don’t know really. No? Maybe?
Then I asked myself: would my grandparents approve of these actions if they were alive? Would they think they’re best for me?
No. (To some.)
and
Yes. (To another.)
I didn’t ask myself if my parents would approve, because they’re less removed from me than my grandparents would be.
It’s a silly technique, but it comforted me and made me think outside of my muddled head a bit. Something about the association of my grandparents with tradition, grace and propriety helped me look at myself from another angle.
*This may only work if you had/have a good relationship or positive memories/connotations of your grandparents.
Last year started off with a barrage of bad omens before the clock even struck midnight, and then continued well into the spring. 2011 was capricious. Does the word capricious relate to the word “Capricorn?” Because I am one, and there was something about last year that aligned my birth month with a fickle beginning.
The eve of New Year’s 2011 is wrought with visions of watering eyes, knees crashing onto pavement, an atmosphere composed of dark blacks and reds, and jittery conversations.
New Year’s day is a flip book of images of dead squirrels, flooded hardwood, credit card fraud, games of anxiety-reducing Angry Birds and a quiet resolution - a band-aid - to cure a fractured relationship. Of course, that didn’t last. I was sent into 2011 trying to walk ahead, while my nerves and my heart wanted to run backwards into the summer and fall of 2010.
The eve of New Year’s 2012 was hysterical, humble and convival. We started with aquiet and tasty supper of the Mexican variety. The warmth of our cabin was set onto the backdrop of a snowy lake. Huddled between two mountain ranges, my pals and I set out onto the vast expanse of the lake to cling to one another by a bonfire. We lit fireworks, we drank beer. We were in bed by 1am. Danced, played foosball, laughed, did headstands. I awoke with nothing but hilarious memories and a hang-over. The best part of the beginning of 2012 was that it could only get better after New Year’s day: I wouldn’t be hung-over past then.
January 2012 will be a month of relative sobriety. I say “relative” so that I give myself license to drink a small amount on my birthday. Entering the year with “clear eyes, full hearts… can’t lose!”*
2012 may be the end of the world, but we’ll take what we can get. And what we’ve got so far is pretty good. Albeit rainy.
As you may be able to tell, this medium (my blog) has degraded into a general mess of random, inconsistent, disjointed thoughts or prose. A steady influx of Instagram photos have also lessened the quality of what may have once been a great outlet.
My New Year’s resolutions involve - upping the quantity and quality of written pieces, standing on my head (worked on it and now my neck hurts), not buying clothing for myself for 6 months, and being active 3-5 days a week.
