I AM still a child. I cannot talk to you about childhood when I’m still living it. Sure, I’m old enough to say I am old but you cannot tell me to speak of my childhood when I’m not done with it yet. Well, if you don’t believe me, ask my mom. She still refers to me as, “ her littlest one”.
Okay, so here’s what I do, but this is not about my childhood. This is just any other day-
I still love playing with my nephew’s toys and helping him build the blocks and then break them with much pride and joy. I even poke at him when he’s not watching and make a dash for it, before my sister can come out and see what made him shed his little ‘innocent’ tears. [Well, technically he isn’t all that innocent. Just yesterday he broke my entire G.I.Joe set.]
I love getting dirty. “Okay, you perverts, I meant getting dirty in the mud. Mud- dirt - dirty, get it Einstein! Sheesh.” So I love playing in the mud and getting back home to see my mom’s expression on her face and then hear her shriek, “ Go in for your bath right now or you don’t get your food!”
Food, that’s another thing that still makes me a child; and I am not your regular kid with an allergy towards vegetables. I will eat anything that should be eaten. But you have to give me my dose of vanilla ice cream with hot chocolate sauce after every meal and in-between, otherwise I don’t do chores and I don’t do homework.
Have I told you that I love cacophony? I make my own sounds and they usually churn out to be really good, but you should excuse the time I sang, ‘The Thong Song’ with the pressure cooker whistle. That was just nasty.
Yes, this is what I like to do. If you still don’t believe what I have to say, then we’ll just have to settle the matter over a game of darts. If I win, you get lost, and if I lose, you get lost with a black eye and fat lip.
Then come back again fifty years from now, I’d like for you to believe that this is my childhood.