Wednesday, June 18, 2008


Not now, I’m playing with my inner child!

Years ago, I knew a woman who was seeking a degree in Self Help. She devoured books on all types of behavioral studies, self-help books filled with probable causes for every type of psychological affliction. She experienced many of them, searching for an answer to all of life’s problems that appeared to be so unfair to her, so beyond her ability to handle. She was in therapy (shocker there huh?) and spent a year or so delving into “inner child work”. Now that intrigued me.

Inner child, is that what it’s called when I don’t eat my veggies, and skip right to the desert? Or when I stomp my foot and angrily accuse my husband of not helping in the kitchen, how I ALWAYS have to do it myself. It’s my inner child coming out. Yeah, that’s what they call that. Or when I lie on a raft in my pool figuring out what the clouds look like? (I sometimes see really pornographic cumulous clouds, that my inner child shouldn’t be seeing!) Ewwwww.

Many years ago, and to some it may seem like bazillions of years ago, there was a Disney movie called Pollyanna, anyone as old as me out there? Hello? Can you remember it? It starred Haley Mills when she was about 10 or 13, or hey, it’s Hollywood, she was probably 34 and they made her look like 13, but anyway, Pollyanna. She was an orphan who had to go live with her maiden rich aunt who was strict and kinda mean. But she was eternally adventurous, curious and optimistic. I prefer that to be my inner child work, to be a Pollyanna, without the braids and bloomers. Although my chronic logical age is nearing 50 (3 months away for those of you who are eager to send birthday cards to me) I still like to believe that there is a Santa, that there is simple fun in playing games with other kids, some that are age 5 and some are more like my age (my husband, who is really only about 10) It works for me. I never dare not to be silly, to make fun of myself, to try to find the fun and excitement in every day things.

A few weeks ago, I played with my granddaughter in our yard. We have matching brooms, mine is adult size and hers is just the right size for her, she’s five. (I am a self proclaimed seven year old) We swept the garage, which she found ever so fun, me, not so much. Then I straddled the broom, and hopped ever so ungracefully around the front lawn proclaiming the magical powers of my witch’s broomstick. She followed, giggling and laughing and hopping along. I don’t know who the better witch was! I heard the neighbor exclaim shockingly as he laughed at me, “Grandma!”, but do I care? NOT! In fact, I would rather pretend to ride a broomstick than say, balance my checkbook, go to stuffy Biz-ness meetings, wrangle with the staff at work or just BE in the adult world of not-so-fun.

I don’t know where I’m going with this, I’m rattling on, but I desperately need to find my inner kid tonight. After the evening dishes are done, I think I’ll entice my husband into playing some hide and seek.

1 comment:

Carbon Based said...

Growing old is mandatory; growing up is optional.