One thing I enjoy most about being a Mom is that I get to watch people who are completely innocent of the world’s bull crappery enjoy life.
It also makes me wonder sometimes exactly what moment do we lose that and become cynical?
This week my six year old daughter endured what should be the most horrifying moment of childhood (to this point); she must wear glasses. At first she was upset, because she thought that meant she was going blind. Then, once I convinced her that she wasn’t going blind and all of the cool evil geniuses wear glasses, she was excited.
My mom started asking questions, such as “what if the other kids make fun of her?” to which she replied “I’ll lock them in the dungeon.” When I pointed out we actually have no dungeon, she replied “Then I don’t care. If people don’t like my super cool glasses, then why should I? I like my new glasses. They’re pink.” I remember when I got my first pair of reading glasses. I was older, but I was so afraid that people would make fun of me. In fact, it wasn’t until late last year that I started wearing them on a regular basis because my youngest told me I looked pretty with them on. Most people I know panicked at the idea of their first pair of glasses, but she didn’t care. She also didn’t care when she walked out the door for school in her neon orange skirt, purple shirt, army green leggings, her staple mismatched socks and a side ponytail. She thought she looked awesome, so she looked awesome.
It’s funny how we all claim we don’t care what people think, but we do secretly. We all (as adults) crave approval from our peers, whether it’s at work, amongst our friends, at school, etc. We dress according to what is “in” and we behave the way people tell us and we pretend that we’re comfortable in our own skin. My good friend and fellow blogger @ the Gleason Table & I were discussing how much nicer the world would be if we were like kids, who just picked whatever we wanted out of the drawer to wear, said what we were thinking as we thought it and solved every problem with a hug and a juice box. It would be much nicer than long and drawn out arguments, hurtful passive aggression or the feeling of not fitting in because we own the wrong pants.
Maybe we should all channel our six year old selves and own who we are, dress ridiculously, be honest about our mistakes, and offer hugs and juice boxes when things go badly. In a sense, we should all smile and learn to love the glasses.
One thought on “Time Marches On”
So beautifully written. You got me emotionally involved reading it and I could see flashbacks from when I was little. :’) Good days.
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