Puppy monster

This is how I was woken up this morning… with a tiny dog lying on me seeking hugs and tummy rubs.  He’s now sitting on my lap in a “guard” position, while he waits for Don to come back into the room.  He’s protective of me and insists that I sit and rest, so things are somewhat less painful today than yesterday.  Today it’s suddenly summer — it was 30C and sunny, lovely on the balcony for a while.  I very much enjoyed the warmth, although I am sure that there were people who were complaining about it.  Even Don, who suffers from COPD and has difficulty breathing in hot, humid weather, enjoyed today, and had no complaints.  He also sat out on the balcony, reading the papers and occasionally negotiating with Jerry for some peace.

How old were you when you admitted to yourself that you were no longer “young”?  Whatever “young” meant?  Did you, as a teenager or so, resolve that you’d always remember what it was like to be young no matter how old you got?  I did, and so did most people that I know.  We thought that adults were dreadful for not remembering what it was like to be a child, and they seemed to forget how children thought.  It was well-described in The Little Prince, where the pilot, as a child, developed a test for adults that consisted of a simple drawing. Now, we have more detailed, more elaborate drawings, but not one as simple as that little test.  But every one of us, despite swearing that we would be different, that we would remember what it was like to be a child, have all turned into the adults who have forgotten what it was like as a child… or at least, we’ve all become an adult who wants other adults to respect us and not dismiss us as being “childish,” “immature,” or “foolish.”  When and how does that happen?  Is there any way for us to retain some of our childhood innocence and curiosity even as we become more settled?  But I have to admit there’s some satisfaction that comes from yelling at people to shut up, go away or leave me alone and just generally be a cranky curmudgeonly old woman. And for being able to say that I know more because I’m older and have more experience.  But there are moments when I can play with my nieces and nephews, and it’s a running joke that it’s impossible to know which of us is supposed to be the adult… (the downside is that when I assert that I am the adult, they laugh scornfully and go in search of their grandparents and their other aunts and uncles!). There must be a way to retain our childlike sense of wonder and imagination, while being the sensible adult, carrying a rolled umbrella, wearing uncomfortable shoes and earning a salary.  Isn’t there?  Can we find it, without turning into Peter Pan?

OK, I’m clearly loopy, so I’m off to bed now.  Before you guys call the men with the nets and the self-hugging jackets… good night, all.  Dream well!