On Growing Up

What’s all that then?  Growing up?  Not heard of that one.

Nor sure I want to, either.  It sounds like something you catch from biting your nails after playing in the mud.  Oh, no.  That’s worms.  But close enough.  It still wraps around your insides and takes all your nourishment.

Why do people do it?  Lose their innocence.  Forget their sense of wonder.  For what?  You don’t need to be sensible to be sensible, if that makes sense.  Which it probably doesn’t…

Growing old is mandatory, growing up is optional, so they say.  They also say you don’t stop laughing when you grow old, you grow old when you stop laughing.

I agree.  I act the daft dad with my children, regardless of who might be watching.  Well, in context of where we are, of course.  If I ever meet the Queen (or King by then) for my MBE for services to British Literature, I won’t be cracking cheeky jokes.  Well, I wouldn’t think I would, anyway.  But grow up?

I want to believe in Santa and fairies and wonder if the sun really does go to sleep at night.  In my children’s book of poetry Zits’n’Bits, I ended the collection with a poem called I Want To Be Five.  How many people miss everything being magical or new or even scary?

I have a stressful job at an oil refinery.  I have children, a partner, bills and responsibilities.  I’m lucky in that my partner and my children share my view of keeping the dream, whichever dream that might be, alive.  My responsibilities don’t quite have the same outlook, though.  But I stick my tongue out behind their back.

For various reasons, I had to be ‘grown up’ when I was younger.  I was the first born.  I was the role model for my two younger brothers.  I was the <cough, splutter> ‘sensible’ one.  But now, I can let the facade drop.

I’m an adult, yes, but I want to find that second star on the left so I can fly straight on till morning.


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