Yesterday my little gal J turned 6 years old. I’ve been her nanny for 5 1/2 years! (That would make me…23? Yes.) I gave her a pretty green amber pendant of a shamrock on a sterling chain- J and I are really into good luck charms and she knows about different stones and what sort of mystical things they do. (Also, if you ever want to be impressed, ask her about fairies. She’ll tell you about details like shoes and houses and elements and their creation…way more than any Disney-esque story. Also, ask her about long division.)
She loved the necklace and wore it to school this morning, but she seemed a little sad on her way out the door. I asked her what was wrong and she told me that she didn’t like this whole ‘growing older’ thing. I reminded her that being a big girl was cool because she could do stuff her baby sis couldn’t. She replied that she never wanted to drive and didn’t need her own computer (honest to God) so why couldn’t she have just stayed five? Six was the oldest number ever, she said.
I felt badly lying to her about how wonderful being an adult was- some days I wish I could have stayed five as well- but wanted her to be excited about growing up. I wracked my brain.
“J!” I said. “You know why I love hanging out with you?”
“Why?”
“Because even though I’m older I get to pretend that I’m five or six and we have a great time! Why worry about the number? Just enjoy how young you feel.”
Her reply?
“I like to be true to myself, Kiki.”
Ow.
Signed, Kiki the disillusioned old person.
Speak Your Mind