I have been giving a lot of thought to my childhood lately, or maybe it is more the adult me. As thirty approaches I am starting to feel like the kid in me is gone. And then something crazy happened. A storm. It hit our house ripping into our roof, smashing through our windows and knocking down all of the wooden walls in our backyard. So I did the adult thing and went to work and called all of the insurance companies and even received a claim number. Adulthood, I have arrived.
And then I came home. All of the kids were enjoying the newly adjusted giant backyard. (That is what happens when eight fences go down, you have one giant backyard!) I watched the kids run and climb, after removing all of the nails. They were screaming in glee and jumping over crushed brick. The disaster looked beautiful. Light was even shinning through the broken glass.
If an adult’s disaster is a child’s playground then maybe I am not all grown up just yet. I found beauty in the ruble and it hasn’t been as big of a headache as I had anticipated. Honestly I am more relived that everyone is OK and we have a roof over our head still, a damaged roof but a roof non the less.
So maybe being an adult won’t be so bad, maybe I haven’t been consumed with adult skepticism just yet. Maybe age isn’t so much just a number but more of a state of mind. And my mind isn’t quite ready to be an adult yet just my number.
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