It is never too late to be who you might have been. (George Eliot)
In my little-kid mind, perfect was how everyone started out. Everything fit a neat category called a rule or commandment. Unfortunately, rules declared their boundaries after they were crossed.
“Be back in a minute. I have to pee,” I said one ordinary day after I learned the new word from a friend. We referred to the body function as tinkling. Mom’s screaming sounded as desperate as it had when I built a fire in the basement. I was five on that unfortunate day. My brothers and I had wanted to play campfire. I had found logs and planned to put the fire out. Eventually.
Everyday bathroom trips didn’t seem as awful as burning the house down.
As Mom yelled, I discovered her disdain centered around a crude difference in terminology. Nevertheless, I understood that both tinkle and pee had the same smell. I was wise enough not to argue the point.
Sure. Someday I would become an adult. The way a caterpillar morphs into a butterfly. As a six-or-seven-year-old kid, I suspected a rock could turn into a cloud before my heart and body had the slightest notion about adulthood.
Fortunately, I did grow up. But not in the straight-line, foolproof increments Mom expected. She did her best. I did too. Most of the time.
And I learned that growing up doesn’t need to be completed at a certain age. Finished adulthood sounds both static and boring. In fact, the longer I understand what it is like to be a child, the better I feel about every part of being alive.
Peace and happy growing to everyone, even if you are in the septuagenarian range like I am. Or older.
terrypetersen 