When do we lose that childhood sense of wonder and magic?
There is that invisible boundary between believing in fairies and leprechauns, and only seeing bills and piles of laundry.
I told my son recently that I miss those days when he and his sister were little, and we would build elaborate couch cushion forts in the living room. We’d hide under blankets and picnic on Cheez-its and Hawaiian punch, watching hours of cartoons.
Then we all sort of out grew that. They weren’t little kids anymore, they wanted to do more big kid things, mostly with their friends and not mom. I became immune to silliness, almost allergic to it. My funny bone was replaced by a bone of contention.
Fart and poop jokes no longer made me laugh… it was intellectual humor that evoked a chuckle. The days of mud pies and water fights were gone, replaced by more grown up endeavors. I miss more than my kids being young, I miss me being young at heart.
I need to ride a ferris wheel. To be lifted high in the air, where I can see my future on the horizon. A future that includes balloons and bubbles, cushion forts, coloring books and playing in dirt.