Growing up

Do you remember those days back then in kindergarten, when life was easy and full of fun and innocent happiness? When the only thing you had to worry about was whether or not it would rain today, because in the rain you weren’t allowed to play in that great sandbox full of lovely dirt? The only networking you had to do was being nice to that awfully aggressive boy so you could borrow his shovel to build your sandcastle. The worst things in your day were those vegetables you had to eat for lunch but your mood lighted up immediately when you watched your four year old super-best-friend-forever try to feed those little green trees to the cat. It didn’t need money, cars or good marks to make you happy. All you needed were some soap bubbles you could blow or playing catch to make you smile.

When I was a little kid, I thought the world was good. I thought, everything would just be fine. I was deeply convinced that my parents could fix everything. If there’s a problem, whichever, they’d be able to solve it. Because, they were adults. And my parents as well. I thought, they’d have to know how the world works, how to make everything right again when something is wrong. That they would protect me, that nothing in this world could harm me.

And that was the best feeling, ever. To think, I am invincible, untouchable, protected and save.

It took me a while, to figure out, that grown-ups have problems too. Some of them, unsolvable. I remember exactly how it felt when I realised, that there where things in this world, even my superhero-parents couldn’t protect me from. Wars. Disease. Pain. Heartache. I felt so vulnerable, so afraid, so irritated. Why do awful things happen? To whom? What for? Why can’t anyone do something against them?  I just didn’t get it. Actually, in some cases, I still don’t.

I grew older and understood some more (partly because of that awesome skill I acquired, called reading) and I started worrying about a lot more than the weather. Some things just didn’t make sense to me. I knew more by then but I still was fascinated by older persons and what they’ve already experienced. When I was around ten, I was looking up to those sixteen year olds and thought, they’d have to know so much and seen so much. They’d have to be so self-confident, so strong, and so grown-up. They sure have had their first kisses. First boyfriends. First maybe. Eventually even other first times. Uuuugh. I was wondering, do people change after that? Do they look different? Do they feel different? I really was sure, things like this would have an immense impact on people’s lives. I mean, they kind of have. But in fact, you just stay the same afterwards. The only things that change, are your memories. For the better, ideally.

And then, some day, I was sixteen myself. But I didn’t feel much wiser by then and not very different. And I sure as hell didn’t feel strong or grown-up. I still felt like a kid, like one who can go out and even drink and party but still a kid which doesn’t know what life plans for it. But I was sure, I’d know, when I’d be 21. Because with 21, you really ARE a grown up. You’ve finished school, you live alone, you can do what you want, you have to take care of yourself and you have to know what’s right and wrong and what you want.

Well. I turned twenty-one last month. And, surprise, I still don’t feel grown-up. Life is harder now. Full of worries and to-dos, of tasks and responsibilities, of problems and regrets. I deal with them, we all do. We have to. But it’s not like it’s easy. I always thought it would be, when you’re an adult. You’d know it by then, you’d know how to handle everything. The good news are though, no one really does. No one ever feels ready and prepared for that. Everyone just has to do it, live life, the best he can.

We have the feeling that we have to act all mature and sensible, show how strong we are, don’t show too much emotion, don’t show we’re vulnerable. We try to convince everyone else, especially ourselves, that we can handle everything, that we don’t need help, that we are no kids anymore. We forget taking time outs for blowing soap bubbles. We rarely make a break from live for dancing in the rain, for just having fun.

We are so busy pretending that we are just fine, that we are old enough to do all these serious things we have to do. All the time we hide our weaknesses and emotions to not seem childish, not seem like a kid. But while we do that, we totally forget, how much being a kid was. We forget all these good times we had, how easy life was and how important it is, to recover our inner child, to remind ourselves that life doesn’t always have to be serious and we don’t always have to be tough.

I did some statistically sound research (asked some friends) and found out that even the strongest of us, those who seem so adult the whole time, feel like crawling into the cosy, safe bed of their mums sometimes. We move out, want to be independent, want to be free. And then we are. And next we realise how lonely it can be, to be all grown up, all independent, protected by only ourselves. Sure, we can handle it. When we are in a bad mood and just want to be hugged, sure we can stay home and occupy ourselves with work (because of course there always is enough) but why on earth should we force ourselves? Why shouldn’t we call home, ask our lovely parents if we couldn’t come over for that motherlicious food you only get in the safe house you’ve grown up at?

Because we are too proud. Don’t want to admit to our friends or parents and especially not to ourselves, that we could sometime need a break from adulthood. A place where everything is safe and sound. Where no one can harm us, where we don’t have to put on an act, where we are loved the way we are.

There are days I wish I just could go back to kindergarten, where the sky was so blue and free of the worries of the real life. Of the life of adults. Of the not-as-funny-as-I-thought-life of grown-ups. I want my parents to be able to solve all my problems. I want to feel that freedom I felt back then, because THAT really was freedom.

I’m glad that when life really is tough, I know I can go home. Where I don’t have to be strong, where I can be a kid again. My parents might aren’t able to solve my problems for me. But they can help me, solve them myself. Sometimes I just want to sit there with my mum cooking dinner for me and her listening to me whining about life and telling me that everything will be fine. I need that. It gives me strength for all the daily fights of the real world. Because honestly, I think deep down we all still are kids. Forever. And actually, I wouldn’t want to have it any other way. Peter Pan would be so proud of me. Of us.