I just returned from a long weekend at home. (Home being where my friends and family are–back in WV). it’s always good to be there. I can relax in a way that’s nearly impossible when I am at my house–where work or household chores usually call to me from another room.
At the same time, a visit home brings it’s own stresses. I rarely see everyone I want to, I rarely feel like I’ve spent enough time with the ones I do see. I end up feeling like I’ve bruised someone’s feelings, and/or have to remind myself that just because I’m on vacation doesn’t mean everyone else is in order not to let my own get bruised. Such was the case this weekend. Mom was “sick” and didn’t feel like company. My grandmother was out and about with other visiting relatives, and our paths couldn’t seem to cross. One friend needed to use the weekend to catch up, another needed to pack–and then leave, for vacation.
But I did get to spend some time with two of my best buddies–the 6 and 9 year old sons of two of my closest friends. For some reason, maybe because I tend to let myself be a big kid whenever I can, kids usually love me. These two in particular view me as their personal entertainment. And this weekend, my time with them taught me a few things, namely:
1. It’s good to let yourself be a kid again. I’ve always known this, but it’s good to have a reminder.
2. Grown ups (me specifically)”look dumb” riding a Razor Scooter. At least that’s what the six year old told me when I tried.
3. Getting high on a swing and then jumping out is best left to the kids. I tried it, landed awkwardly, then went into a head first roll across the playground–it must have looked bad, because everyone just gasped until I started laughing at myself–at which point they broke down and doubled over laughing at me.
4. Likewise, rolling down a grassy hill is best left to kids. Adult stomachs are more easily upset by rapid rolling, and adult skin apparently is more easily irritated by grass, bugs, and whatever else lives on a lawn.
5. Kids take everything literally. The six year old was riding in the backseat of my car with a mutual friend of his mother and I. He was trying to blow a bubble with his gum, but instead shot it out of his mouth. “If you get that stuck on his car, Uncle Villager will flip his wig!” the friend chided. The six year old leaned forward, pulled my hair then stated matter-of-factly. “He’s not wearing a wig!”