I watched my children so effortlessly just be. They were breathing in every moment, noticing the detail of what was in front of them. They were making the most of every minute, fully present and in awe of the constant beauty that surrounds them. They were finding magic in the mundane, things I usually gloss over.
I felt sad for the little girl I lost. She was robbed of all the little things that make life so special. The magical moments of “being” were replaced with exhaustive efforts at doing in order to keep herself from feeling. I felt sorry for myself. I didn’t know how to be a kid because I never really was one. Adult experiences at such a young age had taken my childhood from me.
As I sat and watched my kids play, I began to feel a glimmer of hope. I realized that although I will never get my childhood back, I’m smack dab in the middle of a childhood right now. Three childhoods. The little girl inside isn’t dead. She’s still there. And she’s screaming to be let out. She didn’t get to live her childhood but she can live theirs.
My day as a child didn’t go as planned, but I learned a lot a lot about myself. I learned that I need help figuring out how to be a kid. I need to practice being so I don’t miss out on living. I need to pause long enough to notice the details because that’s where the magic is. And I need to pay attention to my kids. I need to study them and learn from them. They are the ones that will teach me how. My kids will show me the way.
My three boys are knocking on my heart, asking that little girl to come play. They will find her, they know where to look. I just need to let them in.