To be a kid again...

Do you ever wish you were a kid again? … The time in life when nothing else mattered except what mattered to you?

Stereotypes didn’t exist. Elation and joy were defined by running around the house in the buff. Fruit Snacks were a completely appropriate option for breakfast. Your mom and dad were hilarious. And working outdoors was fun, because that’s what grownups did.

I miss being a kid.

While I have found my adult life to be wonderfully rewarding, there are times I wish I could go back in time and just be a kid. Not younger. Not smaller. Just childish. You know, the time in life when you are expected to act like an emotional, erratic, control freak.

Like this one time I was headed to the checkout lane at Target and this crank of an old lady totally cut me off in line. She knew it. I knew it. It took all I had not to stomp my feet and throw my Yoplait yogurts to the ground as I shouted, “She just cut me in line. Mr. Checkout Guy! Did you see that? She cut me!”

Or the time that I tried to return a large frame to Hobby Lobby because the glass broke when I tried to put the backing in. The store manager asked me if I was sure I hadn’t done something to break it. I insisted that I hadn’t, so he went and got another one of the same frames to test it out. And you know what? The glass broke for him too. Again, I wanted to channel my inner two year old and stick my thumbs in my ears and shake my hiney as I sang, “Nanny nanny boo boo, I told youuuuuuu.”

But that would be totally inappropriate, wouldn’t it? I mean, what sort of an adult has a meltdown mid shopping? Not me. I would never.

Moving on…

Since being a kid again is not an option, I suppose I will enjoy one of the obvious blessings of adulthood: A kiddo of my own. I sometimes live my life vicariously through Pearce and I must say, it is a wonderful life. His orneriness is still cute. He doesn’t have to get up and do his hair in the morning…in fact, his bed head is quite glorious. His pot belly is precious, not a recipe for diabetes. His temper tantrums in public are met with the sympathetic stares of strangers as they try to analyze what I must have done to him to cause such an uproar. And frankly, I love his ability to throw caution to the wind.

One time when I really wish I was a kid again, is at Christmas. I have always loved Christmastime. I am often guilty of enjoying Christmas music in June. And again in October. And finally in December.

As I mentioned in previous posts, I am a bit of an idealist so you can imagine the wild thoughts that run through my head as the picture perfect season of Christmas rolls around. I shop early. My gifts are usually perfectly packaged weeks before Christmas. I daydream about baking homemade fudge and wrapping it in candy cane cellophane, tied up with a red ribbon. I imagine a round of Christmas carols with the family, all gathered around the old family piano. I scour my cookbooks and magazines for unique spins on Christmas dinner classics: the kinds of recipes that cause one to say, “This is how my aunt Brooke makes it. She always adds her own touch.” Dishes such as Roasted Garlic and Sausage Stuffing, and Roasted Brussels Sprouts with Grapes are recent discoveries I have come to love. And I always love my Christmas tree…one that exudes a sense of “welcome home” to all who enter.

Yes, these are the Christmas expectations I truly enjoy. But not Mr. Pearce.

No, his ideal Christmas consists of candycanes and hot chocolate. Glimpses of inflatable Santas leave him baffled as he wonders why Santa is outside. Christmas lights equal glee. And Christmas presents are synonymous with the old adage “the sky’s the limit”.

For example, Pearce could’ve had it all this Christmas. First of all, his daddy is a total sucker and wants Pearce to experience all things wonderful in the world. Second, his mother happens to have a black belt in shopping and gets an unhealthy high from finding the perfect gift for someone else. Pearce was poised for present perfection. He should have been raking in the big gifts: A real pony. A circus. A Porsche four-wheeler. But no, Pearce knew what he wanted this year and that was all that mattered to him.

Ahem, Pearce wanted a car. Okay, a Barbie car to be exact. And a Barbie to go with it.

He didn’t care that Barbies are ‘girl toys’. He wasn’t aware of the fact that I am totally putting this in his baby book. And he certainly didn’t know that pink cars are reserved for Mary Kay superstars. Nope. Pearce simply wanted a Barbie and a car she could drive in.

Christmas Eve I started to feel guilty that we did not get the one gift sweet Pearce really wanted. So like any other black belt shopper would have, I braved Toys R Us early Christmas Eve. We compromised and found the Playskool Loving Family and minivan for him. Jimmy felt this was more gender appropriate since there was at least a dad doll and they all stayed fully clothed at all times. The problem? Well, Toys R Us was a little picked over and only had one African American dad and daughter set left. After leaving Toys R Us with only the minivan in hand, I high-tailed it to Target. Would you believe I found the last mom and baby and dad and daughter set? It was meant to be...

Having said that, our neighbor felt so badly that we mean parents weren’t getting Pearce his exact beloved Barbie that he took matters into his own hands. On Christmas morning we found a mystery package for Pearce. One crackle of the plastic and I knew we had a Barbie on our hands.

She is a brunette and he named her Mommy.

You will be happy to know that the first thing Pearce did once she was out of the box was slam her down to the ground and holler “Touchdown!”

I feel so loved.