The Child Inside

I have a question for you. Do you remember the child you once were? Because in these days of staying home, I have thought more often of her than I normally would. Perhaps it is because adults are not used to having rules—stand there, wear that, keep your hands to yourself. But the child knew them.

My folks had many rules. I thought the world was held together by their rules; that the sun might fall and the moon drop from heaven if I didn’t Learn. The. Rules.

Sit back. Be quiet. Put your skirt down. Wash your hands. Don’t bother that. What did you do!?! Why are your hands so cold? Let me look at you. Close the door. Don’t get too close to the fan. Don’t get too close to the stove. Put that down. Put on the yellow dress. Don’t ask questions. Where are your socks!?! Or my favorite, my dad’s “Do not dispute my word.”

And the child, blonde, fair, and stubborn, resisted them all. Exploration is our nature. And the child who wore yellow or blue wondered what it would be like to dress in red. I’m sure there were children in red wondering why I seemed to always wear blue. Our mothers had reasons. Mostly, we just wondered about the reasons. How do you take in that blue, at least, brings out the color of your eyes? The mirror sees you and that is your only point of reference!

Now, of course, as adults, we remember in part. Events come in patches, like a living quilt. I lived a crazy quilt. The first patch was when I was two weeks old. We moved in a blizzard. If I had been paying attention that might have told me something about what was to come. Who moves in a blizzard with a baby and two and a half year old!?!

Other patches tell their story, also. Like Salem when I found matches and carried them open handed to my mother. I did not understand striking and thought they might suddenly spark and burn. Or Daisy Lane where the furnace went out on a bitter cold day. Or Graybrooke Lane with the horrible baby sitter who put me in a room and said a monster was coming to get me, then stomped her feet to give him movement. There was also Conner Street where I saw the shadow of a man looking in our windows, or Olive Avenue where we had the claw foot tub. There were lots of patches, over twenty houses in all.

Like all children, I often felt quarantined. Stay in the tub until you’ve scrubbed. Stay in your room until your attitude is improved. Sit on that chair until I say you can get up. Don’t go out of the yard.

Now, adults are quarantined. The Commonwealth of Kentucky has only four reasons you can come or go. Most states are in lockdown. Mine is. Governor Holcomb is “reviewing.” He’s been reviewing for a month now, but statistics aren’t complete and answers are hard to come by. Adults have forgotten the child who learned to sit on a chair until their mother nodded them free. We are learning anew the grit it takes to subject yourself. I wear a mask to go to the grocery store. At that, I look guiltily over my shoulder like I should not be out. I was not expecting to hear, “Stay home!” at my age.

Maybe this is good for us. Revisiting the child reminds us that life can be good if we want it to. We can stay inside the fence and still find ways to have fun. Puzzle sales are up 800%. We are more creative than we remembered. We are tougher than we thought. We have learned that “to discipline” is “to teach,” though we acted like it was “to punish.” This isn’t punishment. We are all just doing the best we can. It is a lesson so simple even a child can figure it out.