Bethinking Boyhood

When I was young, I often daydreamed about coming of age and partaking in all of the corresponding activities that being a fully fledged "big boy" implied. Now that I think back, though, I find that my old reveries were never very representative of anything that even resembled adult life. I used to think that being a "grown up" equated to exploring the heavens in a space ship, righting man's greatest injustices with the use of my personally construced time machine, and defeating Draco the Dragon King with the help of Captain America's shield and Inigo Montoya's six fingered sword. All of this, of course, was done without mother's permission and in the span of one weekend, which, only in my wildest fantasies ever included Sunday, since Sundays were always reserved for the double whammy of little boy blight: homework and baths. If you're thinking, "Jesse... that's ridiculous... there's nothing grown up about those daydreams," I now redirect you back to two important points: the fact that I was acting without my mother's accord, and the fact that I was playing on a Sunday. That, I was certain at the time, was what being an adult meant.

It turns out, however, that the real adulthood is extremely dissimilar from the one I had crafted in my mind's eye those many years ago. I have reluctantly come to find that adulthood encapsulates much more than simply being the leader of the free Sunday world and enjoying autonomy from mommy-dearest. Instead of timeline conquests and dragon slayings, growing up has entailed the likes of finding summer jobs, doing taxes, and rotating the whites. Because of reality's failure to live up to my childhood standards, something I never considered possible is taking place quite often. Now, instead of fully focusing on my condensed calculus class and washing my car, I find myself daydreaming of being a little boy again. It doesn't take much to throw my mind into a rampant flashback of old adventures with my trusty wooden sword and shield. Interesting cloud formations, the smell of dirt and pine, and even the simple sound of the ice cream truck approaching... all of these things send me back.

I have recently considered the irony of the situation: a boy daydreaming of the freedoms of being a young man... a young man daydreaming of the unburdened life that used to be his. Of course, I would much rather be 23 than 8, and I'd never give up my wife and all of the other countless blessings and responsibilities that I've been fortunate enough to ascertain, but I can't deny how much my childhood memories mean to me. I think I'm pretty lucky to be able to dig to the bottom of my mind's toy box, pick up an old memory, dust it off, and smile with fondness in my heart and soul. I think I'm even luckier because these nostalgic happy-hauntings seem to occur rather frequently. Becca just says I might have A.D.D. She's probably right, too; she's a genius. Anyway- whatever the case may be, I've made one life or death decision as of the late: I need another wooden sword.