My baby girl just turned 18 and is soon heading off to college 1200 miles away, in Staten Island. She has been unusually moody, and may I say, a bit sassy. But one thing I have learned, both professionally and personally, well into early adulthood, 'kids' often have a hard time expressing what is truly going on in their world, in their heads, and in their hearts. But Shanon wrote this tonight and, for those who are facing the same transition accompanied by a slight change in personality, maybe this will shed some light. It's a little lengthy but worth the read.
The Little Girl
I
am a little girl. I am a little girl
trapped inside the body of an adult, with adult intelligence, adult control,
adult responsibilities, and adult crushes.
I
am a little girl who likes rain. The
smell of it. The way it looks in the
sun. Or in the midnight pitch
black. Lightly sprinkling down on me
when I can count each drop as it hits my skin.
Or soaking me during my three second dash from the car to the front
door. I like the way it hits my windows
and the way it looks as it travels down my windshield. The ripples it makes falling into water. The way it wakes me up gently and rocks me to
sleep sixteen hours later. The way that
muddy puddles feel on my bare feet as I’m dancing across hot pavement during
monsoon season. The lazy days when I run
through a downpour because I don’t feel like showering. But I’m an Adult and Adults don’t have time
for rain. And when you’re an Adult who
indulges in rain, your joy is lonely.
Adults know that rain is just that inconvenient thing that gets your hair
wet on the way to work and makes your car act up.
I
am a little girl who likes mugs. I have
a collection. New York City. Puppy Dog.
Pretty Pink with “I love you” written on the bottom. Snoopy.
Christmas colored paw prints.
“You asked for half a cuppa coffee” half mug. “The only Superman I know is my dad.” Each mug is a representation of something
about me. But I’m an Adult and Adults
don’t have time for mugs. Adults know that mugs are just a frivolous excuse to
spend money. Adults use paper coffee
cups. Grab & Go & Throw it out.
I
am a little girl who likes flowers.
They’re the only thing that is sure to bring happiness into my
room. I like the dark colors. Violet daises, scarlet mums. I like the contrast between them and the
light pink roses and white daises in the bouquet set next to them. I like looking at fields of flowers. Single roses.
Wild flowers. Paintings of
flowers. I like to get lost for hours
daydreaming about sleeping in a field of flowers and planning my future garden
that’ll run on for eternity. I like to
daydream about getting lost in that garden.
But I’m an Adult and Adults don’t have time for flowers. Adults know that flowers are expensive. Adults don’t get lost in gardens because Adults
don’t want dirt under their nails and pollen in their nose. Adults don’t dry dead bouquets, they throw
them out with the coffee cups.
I
am a little girl who likes chick flicks.
I have seen The 27 Dresses
twenty-seven times. I know every
word. I’ve even watched it in French. The leading man is dreamy. I know now that a girl in love has super
powers, such as jumping an incredible distance in heels from the pier to the
ship that the love of your life is on, though it defies the laws of
everything. I also know that everyone
has a soulmate out there who, of course, is going to coincidentally end up
stalking them for a completely unrelated reason, which will lead to their
life-long union. But I’m an adult and
adults don’t have time to watch their favorite movie twenty-seven times, maybe
not even once. Adults know that love is
rarely magical. Adults know that, even when you do find love, it rarely falls
into place as it should. Adults don’t
need a feel-good movie, because Adults have Adult control over their own
emotions.
I
am a little girl who likes hands and feet.
I like to hold hands and play footsie.
I like to inspect each finger; each joint, each crease. I like the soft part of the hand at the base
of the thumb. I like to rub it when I’m
stressed out to remind myself that there is still part of me that is still soft
even though I’ve had seven cups of coffee and the rest of me seems to be
deteriorating from mental burden. I like
when someone’s toes can fold over mine and when someone can fit my fist in
their fist. I like to feel the edge of
nails of the fingers entwined in mine and the nails of the toes I am battling. Feet have never grossed me out. I like to spend hours with these
details. But I’m an Adult and Adults
don’t have time for footsie. Adults don’t
sit around and giggle because of hand holding.
Adults go on real dates, with real money. Adults have held too many hands to understand
that hands are magical. Adults keep
their shoes on because Adults know that feet are stinky and gross.
I
am a little girl who likes exploring. I
go on adventures in my mind to places most only go to
online. I bike through France to eat through Italy,
straight into The Vatican, where I start my pilgrimage to Jerusalem, from where
I hitch hike with a caravan of camels to India, so I can wash myself in the
Ganges and am thus fit to climb the Alps, which lead me to Constantinople
(because that’s more fun to say than Istanbul), but I have to flee suddenly and
end up in Russia, where I take the Trans-Siberian railway back to the west,
working my way from Scandinavia to Switzerland (where I will ultimately always
return to because it’s just so peaceful), and then I head to Belgium
because I
want truffles and waffles and Brussel sprouts and fancy lace to match the fancy
red salsa dress I’ll buy while enjoying the architecture in Barcelona, but I
leave Spain because all the bull fighting is making me nauseous, and I go to
Andorra, which was a huge mistake because their national dish is pretty much
meat medley and I can hardly stomach one type of meat, so I go to Lichtenstein
and Luxembourg, hoping to meet a rich bachelor, but I speak English and I can’t
make them fall in love with me in broken French, so I go to the UK and then
Ireland to visit the Giant’s Causeway, which I’ve wanted to do since I first
saw a picture of it when I was 7, and I take off from there on a canoe to
travel through the Bermuda Triangle in hopes of seeing another dimension on my
way to Canada, where I spend a year backpacking with my best friend, a mousse. And that might not make any geographical
sense but you don’t need a map when you are traveling via imagination. But I’m an adult and Adults don’t have time
to globetrot. Adults have careers and
bills and commitments. Adults vacation,
Adults don’t wander. Adults take an
itinerary, not a backpack.
I
am a little girl who likes music. I
listen to old music and pretend I’m a teenage flapper who
blossoms into a
graceful lady who swing dances in cupcake dresses. I listen to symphonies and operas and
dramatically act out the plot (which almost always involves a sword fight with
a kitchen spoon). I listen to Gershwin
and pretend I am Mrs. Gershwin, because nobody else sounds as desirable as my
George. I listen to Broadway and I am
that character, be it Lord Farquad, Mama Rose, or just a backwoods Barbie. I listen to rock and I suddenly know the
meaning of life – which is peace and protest and self-loathing and
self-righteousness all pressed into one epic air-guitar solo on the kitchen
counter. But I’m an Adult and Adults
don’t have time to give in to music.
Adults know that music does not change who you are. Adults know that music is not an answer. Adults know that there’s no point in
pretending to be the star you aren’t.
I
am a little girl who likes food. Carbs
don’t matter. Butter fixes
everything. Organic food is preferable
so that the government cannot brain wash me from the inside out. I like the simplicity of chocolate milk, I
like dipping my chocolate graham crackers in chocolate, and I like finding new
ways to accompany every meal with chocolate.
I like sparkling juice. I pretend
that I am drinking champagne, but I keep a mischievous smile on my face
because, though I blend in with the fancy bubbly drinkers, I know my carbonated
apple juice tastes much better. I like
the crunch of the burnt outside layer of a marshmallow. I like that Lays barbeque chips don’t have
MSG, allowing me to consume that heavenly flavor without any headache
following. I like that there are a
million ways to change up salad and I like that dried fruit tastes like candy
and I like that horseradish cheese makes grilled cheese even better than it
already was. I like to open the jar of
pesto just to smell it. I like the way
peanut butter slowly runs down the sides of a Presley sandwich. But I’m an Adult and Adults don’t have time
for comfort food. Adults know that
calories CAN add up. Adults know that
you can’t make a real meal out of appetizers alone. Adults know that, just because the chocolate
is dark, doesn’t mean you can eat three bags a week.
I
am a little girl who likes the way a ball point pen feels in my hand when I
write long passages late at
night. I
like my dog’s nose touching mine and her little body breathing next to me all
night, making me so aware of how alive the world is when it’s quiet. I like antiques, they’re always in
style. I like “Starry Night,” especially
with Snoopy laying on his dog house edited into it. I like the sparkle of Marilyn Monroe’s eyes
(and the stars Frank Sinatra puts in mine) more than the sparkle in her
diamonds. I like the way my mother feeds
off of my weirdness in the same way I feed off hers. I like my teddy bear, Mr. Purple, who I used
to think was sent by Jesus to watch me.
I like that I have sweeter dreams after listening to church choirs. I like how my best friend never ceases to
amaze me with her ability to juggle every responsibility imaginable and still
be a nice person. I like the foam on top
of my coffee more than I like the actual coffee. These are all things that make me very
simplistically happy, because little girls can always find a way to be
happy.
But
I’m an Adult. I’m barely an Adult but I
already know that time flies. And now
that I’m technically an Adult, I am living in fear. Fear for the day that the rain is just an
annoyance seeping into my new leather business shoes. Fear for the day that I start to drink my
coffee in disposable cups even though I made it at home. Fear for the day I don’t stop and smell the
roses. Fear for the day that The 27 Dresses starts to skip and I
don’t replace it. Fear for the day that
I have finally memorized all the lines and all the veins and all the joints in
my loved ones’ hands and the shapes of their toes. Fear for the day that I move to New York City
and the world begins to absorb me rather than me absorbing it. Fear for the day that Ella Fitzgerald doesn’t
bring tears to my eyes and Stevie Wonder doesn’t bring movement to my feet and
I wonder if music was the right career choice.
Fear for the day I decide to go on a diet because I’m a freaking size
six. Fear for the day that I am not once
stopped by a simple action or object or thought that I suddenly realize is much
more amazing than I ever gave it credit for being. Being an “Adult” is scary.
But,
when I’m a little girl, I am fearless (except for the fact that there are
definitely monsters under my bed AND in my closet). So, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll stay this
way a while more. Or maybe forever. I’ll
be the youngest person ever to live for an entire century.
I know that, when you’re eighteen, you’re expected to shape up. But the fact is that I can only mature in so
many ways in such a small amount of time.
Sometimes my emotions just aren’t there yet. And sometimes you just have to believe I am
trying my best to be my best. And
sometimes you just have to be okay with the fact that that best is still a
little girl sometimes.
