Write Somewhere New

emily (u.s.a.)

[reflection] 

I've moved, I've walked, I've relocated and I've taken my journal with me everwhere this week. The ideas have flooded my pen while ink stains my hands, I can't keep up. Those stories will have to wait for another day. In the meantime, I've decided to bring back my inner child as I move forward with creativity. So, I wrote a little bit about her, my forgotten child.

[writing experiment]

Abandoned At Recess

Cells, zygote, embryo, baby, toddler, child, teenager. So many terms that explain anyone under the age of 18. But why only ‘adult’ past a certain age?
Recent studies have shown that the human brain doesn’t fully mature into adulthood until around 30. And I know from experience that this is indeed true. Existential instinct tells me that I’m ten years younger than Society allows or my birth certificate would reveal.
As soon as we reach the tender age of 18, give or take, we are forced into a made-up world full of fears, responsibilities, rules, and hardships. We’re no longer told to ‘go outside and play’ when that’s precisely what we need to do - go outside (or inside) and play.
As a child, I remember picking my dad up at the airport after one of his many month-long international work trips. Back in the 80s, people dressed more formally for travel, and at seeing this, my 9-year-old self dressed herself in her Sunday finest when picking up dad.
Arriving at the airport, we’d park and make our way to security. Oh, the excitement when walking through the metal detector, maybe I’ll get lucky, and it will alarm. Walking down the moving sidewalk and turning around to walk backward down the moving sidewalk made me giddy with joy.
But at seeing my father’s plane roll up to the gate, a shift happened, and I anxiously waited to embrace the exhausted man only because I knew he usually had souvenirs in his carry-on. My particular way of showing my dad I cared for him and his jet lag was my offering to carry his briefcase back through the airport to the car.
Oh, I relished carrying his briefcase. I’d put on my businesswoman attitude and walk ten paces ahead of my family, “they’re not my family; I’m a businesswoman and an adult,” I’d think. I believed if I, too, had shoulder pads, shiny shoes, and stockings, people would mistake me for a carefree adult who did as she pleased and had all of life’s problems figured out - especially which stuffed animals would guard the bed during the day - not some foolish little girl pretending.
I was in awe of the illusion of being an adult. Adults made decisions and told you yes or no. Oh, the power of control. The ability to drive, shop for groceries, stay up late; adults had it all.
I was intent on shoving my playful desires and needs down into the pit of my stomach and growing up. And so, I grew. I created a facade of experience, beauty, figured-outness, and decision-making ability. All the while, a little girl screamed inside. She sang about unhappiness when I made choices. She knew my choices were selected because they looked good ‘on paper.’
I choked my inner child while she shouted for decades.
And today, she’s watching the rain puddle while screaming, “Put your rain boots on and dance on the sidewalk! Splash around, lift your face to the sky, and smile through the raindrops as they quench your creative soul.” But no. Society has taught me that adults who do this are ‘a bit weird,’ and I can’t be creepy. I can’t be unique, I can’t be strange, I can’t play.
So, I suffer from the shelter of my beautifully curated adult house, staring at the squirrels frolicking and the birds dusting their feathers in the autumn rain.
Oh, the embarrassment I’d feel if I were to skip along and sing aloud. The shame I’d feel if I wore sweatpants and sneakers to work, even though that’s considered business casual these days - my child eye-rolls inside.
I don’t think it’s coincidental that my generation is feeling burnout. I think we were forced into adulthood, and we never really had the time to enjoy childhood. We were latchkey. Forced to babysit ourselves, trying not to burn the house down - some of us failed. I don’t doubt that the long-lost children inside us come out during mid-life, usually in the form of a crisis, slinging nonsense until we crack, forcing us to take up some new hobby.
Our crises are good, though; they force us to wake up.
Right now, at this exact moment, as I type this, I declare that ‘Bring your child to life (not work) day’ should be mandatory for anyone over 25. And I’m starting with some questions I’ll be asking my child:
How do you, dear child, feel about this _______ (insert choice)?
What soup would she like for dinner?
Should we lift weights or do cardio today?
Which paint color do you like best for the guest bathroom?
As I recall my child’s voice, I’m trying to remember what it sounds like. Does she hesitate? Ponder? Is she shy? Courageous? Assertive? Does she like to daydream? Color? Dance? Does she like to gaze up at the clouds or talk to animals? Oh, yes, she does!
I will read aloud to my child and make up compelling voices for each character in the book.
I will ask my child to please play with the cat. Poor fat cat never getting enough attention.
And I’ll ask my child if she’d like to forage for wild mushrooms or go on a bike ride this weekend.
I’m going to dust off the colored pencils and draw with her.
We’ll write poems together.
I’m not going to let myself embrace FOMO anymore. FOMO begins with fear; starting with fear is no way to live. I don’t want my child to be scared anymore. Fears turn into adult-onset anxiety, and my doctor said no more Xanax, unfortunately.
As part of our reintroduction, one of the playtime activities I’ve tasked my child with is redecorating my home office. To turn it into a happy, creative space instead of just a room for work. Since consenting to adult life, I’ve found being creative in this room extremely difficult. So, my child and I have decided to incorporate more plants, artwork, candles, color, and music into the space. It’s not costing me anything - said no adult, ever - because my child is hunting around the house, scavenging for treasures and riches that remind me that there’s joy and wonder even when you’re mid-life.
As I type this, my child is lacing up her shoes to feed squirrels, and the smile plastered on her face cannot be described with words. It’s sunshine, excitement, wonder, and joy all shoved into an effervescent tablet and plopped into a liter of cola. The geyser of life, sticky with laughter. She’ll eventually teach me not to focus on the mess.