Forever Young

At 31 weeks pregnant I found myself climbing aboard a giant swing with my Daughter and have my partner push and spin us, round and round. I was giggling and carrying on like I was no older than Evelyn, I was truly enjoying myself. Up until the moment my tummy was too large to allow me to do so, I would still take a run up and lift myself up on to the handle of my trolley and let my feet dangle and have the trolley take me away. I dig holes and build sandcastles. I cheer and scream in the ocean and run away from the waves. I play corners in the back of the car and lose my tummy in the big dipper hills, always wanting to go back for more. I eat icecream and let it dribble down my chin. I put Evelyn in one swing and I play on the one next to her. At 31 weeks pregnant, I saw a giant rocket ship slide and as I began the steep climb to the top I was gently reminded by Anthony that perhaps while being pregnant and in pain that this wasnt such a good idea. So I sat back and I watched, with great jealousy, Anthony climb Evelyn to the top and weeeee their way down to the bottom. I settled for the normal sized slide, over and over, giggling, laughing and having a very child like moment of pure joy.

I often find myself in these moments and I wonder to myself, at what point will I ever grow up? At what point will I find my adulthood? When will I become responsible, organised and mature? When is it that physical age takes a hold of your inner child and you leave those moments behind you? It is very rare that I am ever to find another woman who does these things and in the moments that I do I am always a little aware of the onlookers. I sometimes feel embarrassed. Like I should pull myself into line and act my age but then I feel that joy, that pure childlike joy and I decide, my age is boring and I would rather be getting down and dirty and giggly with my Daughter. I would rather enjoy these moments of fun while my body allows me to.

I see women with such poise and eloquence and at times I find myself envious of those traits. I am not poised nor am I eloquent. I am a dag, I have no fashion sense, I have no style. I am just a girl, trying to be a woman, because enough years have gone by that tell me I should be. I am clumsy, always the one to fall over my own feet, to drop my plate, to drink too much, to break the glass. I am opinionated and lack the ability to hold my tongue. I am fiery and passionate and those two things bubble up within me and I just cannot contain my excitement. I am obsessive, never quite willing to let things go if I do not feel like I have made my point. I do not feel like a lady, or a woman. I feel like a girl, wearing high heels 2 sizes too big for me, wearing my Mums clothes and experimenting with makeup. 

I am just a girl, living a life with the same zest as 16 year old me. I am just a girl who struggles to juggle the responsibilities of adulthood. I am just a girl, who plays too much and cleans too little. I am just a girl who falls in love too deeply, who fights too hard and who is full of dreams and aspirations. I am just a girl, who feels guilty about not being a woman, because somewhere along the line I have let myself believe that I need to be more. That I need to stand up straight, I need to cross my legs, I need to write lists and tick them. Somewhere, I decided that I need to be an older, more mature, more organised more eloquent version of myself and when I fall short of being that person, I feel like a child. I feel like I am disappointing society. A Mother, a pregnant Mother, does not swing on the giant swing, or fly the rocket ship. A woman does not ride her trolley through the car park. A woman should not be playing in the dirt or letting icecream drip down her chin. Should she?

Yesterday as I was walking towards the shop I saw a man leaving. He was on his own. He was old. And he was swinging on his trolley. He took the biggest run up he could and he jumped, holding on to the handle, letting his feet hang and he rode that trolley for the next 300 metres. And he was smiling, laughing almost. And so I smiled. Then I felt relieved.

We don't ever grow up, not if we don't want to. And why would we? Aren't our best memories of those with dirt beneath our nails and grubby faces? With scraped knees and bandaids? Aren't our most favourite memories filled with that feeling, that joy, that loud and carefree laugh and that moment when the entire world melts away and it is just you and the thing that makes you the most happiest? Aren't they the memories we want to keep on creating? 

I saw that 70-ish man, acting like a 16 year old and I suddenly felt relieved. Our bodies may age and our minds may weary but our hearts will never fade. We are forever young, if we want to be. And I for one, want to be!