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The Merits of Never Fully Growing Up
On approaching 40, my pretend rocket ship, and my 7 year-old self-improvement coach
Watching my kids grow up has been an experience truly unlike any other. And I’m not referring to how fast time flies, and how quickly they grow, and all those old clichés. That all happens, yes, but what’s really gotten me is how much of their growing up is bringing back my own memories of growing up.
And beyond that, I’m being reminded of all sorts of differences between child me and grown-up me. They’re sneaky differences — differences that seemed to have established themselves some time between when I was 8 and 38. I can’t pinpoint exactly when they happened, or how they happened. But somehow, I’m on the other side of some allegorical river. I’m a grown-up — somehow.
Nouns and Verbs
In many ways, I don’t feel different than I did when I was 8 years old. It’s as if the world just got bigger, but I didn’t change much.
But I know that’s not true. I know I’ve changed. I don’t like the toys and TV shows I used to like. I don’t get excited about playing Red Rover and Cops and Robbers with neighborhood kids. I don’t have trouble falling asleep on Christmas Eve — running through all the possible presents Santa might have left me. I don’t…
