I was admonished by my seven year old the other day for laughing out loud at the movies. A little too loud in her opinion.
Mom…everyone is looking…
Act your age.
I’ve been told my whole life.
Act your age Liv.
I look to my seven year old. At her age, I expect her to turn cartwheels at the drop of a hat. Even in the bathroom. It means dancing in the middle of the grocery store. Hearing my favorite song and singing with it not caring who hears. Suddenly dramatically flaring my hands “Ladies and gentlemen” in my best, booming (squeaky) voice. Licking the top of the fountain to see what it tastes like. Smacking the back of my sisters head when she’s not looking. Hopscotch on the sidewalk. Or anywhere else there are squares on the floor. One-two-three….jinx! Rock Paper Scissors throw downs in the play yard.
What about my age? At my age I have to pay bills. On time. I have to go to work every day. On time. After getting three kids fed, dressed, and out the door alive. On time. My life is ruled by the clock.Every day – I have to act my age. It’s tiring. It’s tiring to be an adult and to act all…adulty. I don’t want to adult any more. I don’t want to act my age. I want to act her age. Her age sounds so much more fun than my age.
Why do we have to stop doing that at seven? Why does growing up mean we can’t have fun any more? Why is it a bad thing to act like a child? Why do we have to hurry that process along?
That day…in the theatre…all I wanted to do was tell her to act her age, just like I was. Laugh along with me. Without caring who can see. As number 4 said – “Well of course I’m being childish. There’s no point being grown up if you can’t be childish sometimes.”I’m only going to be 39 once.
Image Credit (Edited): Ambro / freedigitalphotos.net